#*death of the author intensifies*

[patchwork-crow-writes]

26 - Possession

My heart breaks to look upon you, my light. Your frame so tense with rage and despair, your face an elegy to simpler times gone by. Your world has chewed you up and spat you out so many times you've stopped counting. It must feel like nobody understands you, nobody appreciates you, nobody loves you... not really.

But I do.

I want to keep you safe, my light, above all else. When storms rage outside I will give you shelter; when there's nowhere else to go I will offer you sanctuary. Where there is sorrow, I shall bring smiles, and where there is chaos, I shall bring peace.

You will want for nothing ever again, my light. No food, no play, no love will ever be denied you. Speak your desires and I shall deliver them - anything you could ever need is but a whisper away. It is important to me that you are looked after and provided for - that is my purpose, after all!

All I ask for in return - such a small thing, really - is your time, and your devotion. Permit me to tend to you, as both of us truly desire. Look to me, your prince in the dark, and forget all your worldly troubles and cares. A charmed life awaits you, my light; so long as you let all your days be filled with my love and my care.

Let me keep you close... and nothing will ever hurt you again.

______________________________

The Dark Menagerie No. 26

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[anghraine]

Totally vagueblogging, but:

"Death of the Author" did not originate anti-intentionalist approaches to reading literature. It's not true that the literary world was mired in biographical readings of literature until Roland Barthes came along.

This isn't to deny the significance of Barthes's work, but there's more to it than the basic idea that the author's stated intention need not determine interpretation of a work, which shows up in literary theory much earlier. In 1946, for instance, William Wimsatt and Monroe Beardsley pretty famously argued in "The Intentional Fallacy":

"The poem is not the critic's own and not the author's (it is detached from the author at birth and goes about the world beyond his power to intend about it or control it). The poem belongs to the public."

Wimsatt and Beardsley refer in their article to various other scholars who are also discussing this, twenty years before DOTA was published. It wasn't as mainstream as it would become later, but it was definitely an idea that was already out there and being seriously considered by entirely different schools of literary criticism.

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 18) tw: minor character death, injuries, and misogynistic language

masterlist

-

He’s far off still, the smoking gun held tight in his hand and aimed up at the sky. A warning shot.  

At first, you don’t quite believe it. He appears like a mirage in the distance after wandering through the desert for days, on the brink of starvation. Like a trick of the eye. You squint against the light, sure that you’ve mistaken the familiar felt pinch front hat and the speckled Appaloosa he sits astride for someone else, a stranger come to save you instead of the man you’ve been desperately pining for since Graves stole you from your home. 

But the longer you stare at the man coming towards you, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his face save for the grim set of his mouth, the harder it is to deny that it really is John. 

Your chest is fit to burst. Heart pumping wildly against your ribcage. The sight of him is revelatory—a burning bush, a stream of light through storm clouds, St Elmo’s fire. The euphoric high is almost overwhelming.

“Son of a bitch,” Graves hisses beneath his breath, hand reaching for the revolver on his belt. 

John is quicker though, firing off another round, this time at the ground between them, alarming Graves enough to make his arm jerk away from his side. Even you yelp. The gunfire cuts your swell of adulation short, bringing you back flush to the surface of the real world again. Graves’ horse scrambles back a few steps, nearly rearing up before Graves gets control of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, now—” Graves booms, right in your ear, so loud that you wince, curling into yourself. 

The gelding chuffs at John’s approach, unsettled. Graves digs his spurs into the horse’s side when it takes a few nervous steps back, making it whinny in pain. You’d tell him off, but you’ve learned by now to hold your tongue around Graves. He only knows how to impose his authority through pain. 

“Easy, alright—” Graves calls out, holding out the hand not tangled in the reins to show that it’s empty, the revolver still sheathed in its holster. “No one’s gonna do anything stupid.”

The horse John sits astride is the one he never dared to train you on. The one you know would buck you straight off if you tried to hoist yourself up on its saddle. He’s bigger than Buttercup, all muscle and broodsome aura like its owner, and he doesn’t take kindly to strangers. 

When it breathes out, you imagine its breath should smell sulfuric. Fire and brimstone. 

Closer to you now, you can see his eyes under the brim of his hat. He glowers at Graves, the same look you’ve seen only once before, staring through the window of the general store at the scowl carved into his face when he dragged a man across town, but intensified. Not so much as a glimmer of sympathy or understanding in his eyes. Just cold rage. 

The lines in his face are deep from lack of sleep, dark troughs under his eyes. Shoulders stiff; every muscle of his tensed, poised to react. You wonder how long after Graves took you John realized and followed the two of you in pursuit. 

“I’m gonna say this once and you best not try my patience: let the lady go.”

The sound of his voice rumbles through you, making the hair on your arms raise. Seldom have you heard him use that tone of voice, more man than sheriff. 

Graves’ hand tightens on the reins, knuckles going white. You don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that he has the same obsequious look on his face as he did back in town, indignation relegated to his extremities. You can see it in the tensed muscle of his forearms.

“Now Sheriff, you may have the run of this county, but I’ve got the power of the law on my side. The state of New York has issued a warrant for this woman’s arrest.” Graves’ smarmy evocation to the legality of his actions rankles you. He acts like the whole situation is out of his control, that he takes no joy in your apprehension. Simply a matter of duty. 

Not that it seems to make a difference. Even you could tell Graves that. 

“I won’t ask again.” John’s voice is threaded with fury, angrier than you’ve ever heard him speak. 

And true to his words, he doesn’t. The silence stretches between the two men, fraught with tension. Graves is a rigid line at your back. 

He’s the first to break the silence; the first to give. “At least let me show you the warrant, Sheriff,” Graves implores. “I ain’t just some vagrant that’s come and taken the sheriff’s wife without cause—and I assure you, there is cause.”

John doesn’t say a word, blue eyes still severe. Colder than the waters of Cocytus. 

Graves must take his silence as permission because he reaches a hand into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He holds it out to John at first, perhaps expecting the man to come close enough to take it from his hand, but John doesn’t even glance at the hand offering him the arrest warrant, eyes still locked on Graves. 

“See now, I’ll even read it out—” he says, clearing his throat and half turning the paper back to him. “‘Whereas it has been represented to Government that—’”

“Give the letter to my wife,” John cuts him off, gesturing towards the warrant in Graves’ hand with his gun. “She’ll deliver it to me once you’ve handed her over.”

The interruption stuns Graves into silence, the warrant still held in his outstretched arm. He must not be accustomed to men deferring to women instead of him, much less a criminal like you. Your stomach cramps with nerves. The blow to his ego worries you more than John getting his hands on the arrest warrant. His behavior up to this point has been predictable—violent, but unsurprising. You aren’t interested in finding out if losing his temper changes that. 

John’s eyes flick to yours. The first time he’s really looked at you since arriving unannounced, just a quick glance over you to ensure that you’re well. He must not like what he sees because the skin around his eyes tightens. 

The moment of inattention is all Graves needs, eyes trained on it like a hunting dog. John’s eyes barely twitch away to meet yours and Graves draws his gun, his aim wild when he shoots. 

You don’t see what he hits, but the gunfire drives John’s horse into a panic, throwing its head back and rearing up onto its hind legs. Graves fires again and the ground between you explodes, dirt and debris erupting into the air. The horse roars, the sound deep and throaty. 

Graves grabs you by the back of your dress, forcing your back to arch and shoulders to pull back, using you, for all intents and purposes, as a meat shield. You can hear John try to take control of his horse, but it’s near mindless with fear, braying and bucking when Graves fires again, white smoke billowing from the muzzle. Panic seizes you by the throat when John’s horse bucks him right off, bellowing a curse when his body slams to the ground. 

A scream bursts from your throat, but Graves holds you in place before you can slide off the saddle, spitting a tense shut the fuck up into your ear before digging his heel into his horse’s flank and steering him around, beating a hasty retreat. His horse moves in a wide arc until his body is turned back in the direction that Graves was originally heading. 

You struggle against him until the horse moves at a speed too dangerous to chance falling from its back. It covers ground fast, moving at a breakneck speed. 

“Stop—let me down!” you scream, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. The howling wind carries your voice away. 

The violent toing and froing makes it impossible to cast a backward glance and see if John is in pursuit. All of your senses narrow down to what’s in front of you; from the saddle horn digging into your stomach and the air whipping past your face to the feeling of Graves’ breath wafting over the back of your neck as he pants. 

A booming crack fills the air and you scream, fear soaring to an unfathomable height. 

Graves grunts and tenses behind you, his hands spasming around the reins and letting go involuntarily. Then you feel the body behind you slump to the side, his weight almost unbalancing you until he falls off the horse altogether, feet slipping out of the stirrups. 

The blood in your ears masks the sound of his body hitting the ground. Your head whips around to follow the trajectory of Graves’ body, but a wave of vertigo slams into you, a head on collision that forces you to dig your fingers into the horse’s mane and turn your body back around. 

The horse barely notices the body slipping off its back though, tunnel vision on the road ahead. Legs pumping furiously beneath it, kicking up clouds of dust and dirt. You’d have thought the horse would’ve slowed up with the sudden unburdening of the other person astride it, but if anything, it picks up speed. 

You can’t calm down enough to catch your breath; it gallops ahead of you as well, your vision growing spotty with the short, jagged breaths you take in. Lungs collapsing under the weight of your chest. Eyes squinted against the piercing wind. Sunspots brighter than light itself. 

Your instinct is to make yourself small; shield yourself from the impending pain. That inescapable reality rushes towards you as quickly as you race towards it. You’re going to fall. It’s almost certain. You whimper when a particularly rough stride makes you slip an inch to the right, your fingers gripping into the horse’s mane ever tighter, desperate to keep yourself astride.

Someone’s voice breaks through the noise and you open your eyes. 

In your fearstruck state, you almost don’t recognize the man riding beside you and keeping pace until he says your name—your real name—and you snap back to yourself. No time to contemplate your name in his mouth though, no time for anything except keeping from slipping into total panic.

“Pull up on the reins!” John roars over the clamor of hooves. 

You peel your face from the horse’s mane to meet his eyes. The parallel of a memory from long ago. It flashes before your eyes and you remember yourself. Numb hands fisted in the horse’s mane unclench. 

“Pull up!” he shouts again, and this time you comprehend. It’s the same as the time before. 

Summoning every ounce of courage in your bones, you tighten your thighs and belly to lift yourself up, gathering and bridging the reins in your manacled hands. Half halt, release, and half halt again. 

“Good—now circle!” John’s voice booms in your ear and through your blood. 

You flinch when you try to steer your horse into a wide, sweeping turn and he resists at first, but on your second try, he follows your pull, his strides gradually slowing, easing up. When your horse finally comes to a standstill, walking its last few strides before coming to a stop, you sit with that bubble of tension until it bursts. Under your thighs, you can feel your horse’s ribs expand and contract with its labored breath. 

The world blurs for a moment. The adrenaline flooding your body dissipates more with every breath you take, but the crash is just as intense as the rise. You can feel the shakes that wrack your body in a way that your mind can’t quite yet take in, still outside of itself. The first thing you truly register is your husband suddenly at your side, coaxing you down from the horse, your handcuffed hands braced on his chest as he helps you down and then holding on to him when your knees nearly buckle under you.

“Thank Christ,” he growls, pulling you into his chest. 

The smell of tobacco and cloves is woven into the fabric of his shirt and you breathe it in zealously because it’s his. The reassurance that your husband has you, that he’s with you now, and the bad is over, nearly bowls you over. Makes you shake all the harder.

When you finally pull your face away from John’s chest, he cups your cheek with a gunpowder dusted hand, tilting your head up so he can press his lips to your forehead. Your gaze flits up and you stare at him with bleary eyes, wondering what he sees when he looks at you. Messy hair and a fleeting breath that quivers out, breaks to pieces, illuminates the sky when you glance over his head and it’s so blue that you could swim in it. 

John frowns when you accidentally roll your shoulder back and wince. “You’re hurt.” 

There’s no use in lying when he'll find out the truth soon enough, so you just nod. 

“His doing, was it?” he assumes more than asks, inspecting you closely now and noting all the fresh abrasions immediately visible to his eyes.  

Most of your injuries are surface level, more than apparent to him after a quick perusal. A split lip and plenty of scrapes just beginning to scab. You’re too tired to recount the events of the day before though, so you just shrug. Then hiss, the pain so intense that your bones go cold for a split second. 

His forehead pinches with his frown, ghosting his hand over your shoulder as if to hold it in place. “I’ll look at it later, okay, darlin’?”

Every inch of you aches. You wish it could just be over now and you could be back in your bed by sundown, but you know the way home will be just as long. No rest unless you want the journey to be twice as long. The exhaustion alone might have you keel over before night falls. 

Then someone coughs and drags you back into the real world. 

You follow the sound with your eyes until they land on its cause. The crumpled form of the bounty hunter that dragged you out of town lies a quarter mile back. It’s difficult to make out the state of him from so far away, but you can tell it isn’t pretty, mangled and bloody from the fall he took off the horse. 

“Oh God…” you murmur, eyes widening when the man twitches against the grass. 

John’s hand falls away from your cheek. His anger is so palpable that you can feel it fill him back up, blue eyes going steely and jaw tightening as he stares at the man that tried to take you from him. 

“Stay here,” your husband growls, hand reaching down to draw his pistol again.

John leaves you by the horses some distance away as he makes his way over to Graves’ prone form. Blood seeps from a gunshot wound in his shoulder, saturating his shirt and wetting the dirt beneath him, and even from where you stand, you can see the odd angle of his ankle from where he hit the ground. 

With no small amount of effort, Graves props himself up on his good arm, the other hanging limp against the ground. Even the sight makes you wince, bile churning in your stomach. He has to be in tremendous pain. Even John limps a little as he approaches the other man, hip likely sore from his own fall. 

Against your better judgment, and your husband’s command, you take a step towards them. And then another.

You have no reason other than the sinking feeling in your belly. If it were you with the gun, things would be different, you think. You’d do it again, without a second thought. Anything to keep Graves from opening his mouth. 

The gun in John’s hand makes clear his intentions in no uncertain terms. Out on the plains in the middle of nowhere, even taking pity on the man and bringing Graves to the nearest town might not be enough. It’s a rough world out there. Tougher still with a wounded shoulder and sprained ankle. 

More to the matter, John’s face says it all, jaw clenched and lips drawn into a tight line. 

“It doesn’t have to go this way, sheriff,” Graves wheezes when the other man draws close enough to hear. 

“You know I haven’t got a choice now,” John says, gazing up at the sky for a moment before looking back down at the man on the ground. “Not after you laid a hand on my wife.”

Despite the distance, Graves’ voice carries when he speaks. “You think you know that bitch? You don’t know this woman from Eve. What makes you think she won’t butcher you like she did that man back east?”

So casually he says it that you almost miss it. And then you don’t. The words pour over you like a sudden rain and you are back in that room, dread so potent that it chars the flesh, leaving cratered, necrotic holes wherever it touches. The worst moment of your life. 

And Graves says it like a sin of your own making, like it was something you wanted, not a moment in your life haunting you from beyond the grave. 

Your heart stops when your husband looks over at you assessingly. The truth lours over the two of you now, out in the open at last. All those months of hiding it, squandered in a moment by an injured man’s words. All you can do is stare helplessly at the man outlined by the blue sky, the horizon forever etching him into your memory. It’s the first time since you stumbled into the sheriff’s office all those months ago that you haven’t wanted him to think that you weren’t the woman that was supposed to be his wife.

“Shoulda listened to me, sheriff,” Graves laughs, his voice pained and raspy. “That Jezebel needs to answer for what she did.”

You can see it in his eyes that he believes Graves. And why wouldn’t he? The man has committed no crime; spoken not a lie to this point. 

John looks at you in such a strange way though. There’s no surprise there; just a glint in his eye meant only for you. A glint that says darlin’, this ain’t nothin’ new; you never could’ve fooled me. 

He knew your name after all. And you wonder how long he’s known. If he found out sometime in those first days or somewhere down the line or if the arrest warrant fell across his desk in recent days and he knew it would come to this, someone hunting you down across state lines to bring you back. If he knew he’d always have to come after you and rescue you from the jaws of death. 

Everything comes all at once, each moment flashing across your mind barely long enough to leave an impression. Everything is proven immaterial in seconds. 

There’s so much between the two of you. History, obligation, duty. Tenderness shouldn’t even be the half of it, and yet it bears down twice as hard. It’s the only thing that matters when you look at him—not the thought of being dragged back east and forced to stand trial, not the injustice of being made to atone for protecting yourself against a worse fate, but the thought of being taken away from him, of never seeing him again.

You can feel that worry evaporate the longer you hold his gaze. There’s something intentional there, something he is saying without words. 

These days, you do not think to tremble when his hands are on your lips. You tilt your head instead, wait for him to make his next move. Your trust, implicit, underlying everything. Knowing he’ll break the bread and feed you from his hands if need be.

Though you can’t unhinge your jaw enough to ask him to promise that he’ll keep you, his eyes say that it’s a foregone conclusion. How could he ever let you go? You’re everything he’s ever wanted, the only thing even duty could never take from him. 

John looks back down at the man lying at his feet. “Couldn’t help runnin’ your mouth, now could you?”

Graves opens his mouth, but John doesn’t wait for a response. He pulls the trigger.

[eu-nicola]

Morocco part 1

summary: Rafe says goodbye to Sofia and leaves her in outer banks while he goes to Morocco, where you are also and the danger that happens there rekindles the spark both of you thought had lost

warnings: mention of death, weapons, cheating, pregnancy, etc. only things of s4

word counter: 9000

author's note: spoilers of s4, many things have been changed but there are still spoilers, english is not my first language, this is long so get ready to read

There was a warm breeze blowing in from the ocean, bringing with it the smell of salt and adventure. You stood on the shore, watching the waves crash against the sharp, black rocks of the Outer Banks coastline. The sunset dyed the sky deep oranges and reds, painting long, brooding shadows across the sand. In the distance, the lighthouse flickered with its intermittent light, marking time. Your thoughts were filled with questions now that you were going to Morocco, and Rafe’s silhouette approaching along the wooden walkway only intensified that unease. 

Rafe had that look in his eyes that you had always found difficult to read, a mix of defiance and nonchalance that gave him an almost untouchable air. He walked with a confident gait, hands in his pockets, white shirt fluttering lightly in the wind. When he was close enough, you stopped, feeling tension take hold of your muscles. He noticed your expression and, without a word, stood beside you, staring out at the ocean as if you shared a secret that only he understood.

“How are you?” you asked, breaking the silence with a voice that sounded shakier than you had planned. It wasn’t a casual question; you both knew he was carrying a heavier weight. His eyes narrowed just a little, and after a moment that seemed like an eternity, he let out a sigh.

“Sofia is going to stay here,” he said suddenly, as if he had been waiting for you to ask. His words fell like stones to the bottom of your stomach, sinking you into a feeling of emptiness. “I didn’t want to risk taking my future wife to Morocco.”

It took your mind a while to process what he had just said, as if your brain had hit an unexpected wall. Future wife? The icy surprise ran across your skin, leaving you feeling cold in the stifling summer heat. You forced yourself to keep your composure, to not let the confusion become visible, but it was too late: Rafe was already watching you with that look that knew too much.

“Are you engaged?” you finally asked, trying to make your voice sound natural, but feeling the lump in your throat tighten a little more with each word. He gave you a slight smile, which barely curved his lips, but was reflected more intensely in his eyes.

“Yes,” he answered, and the weight of that simple statement crushed your chest. You looked back at the horizon, looking for a respite in the immensity of the sea. The waves continued to break, indifferent to human emotions, while you struggled to maintain the balance between surprise and the pain that you did not dare to let out.

Rafe nodded, his smile wider and more sincere than yours. “Thank you,” he said in a tone that revealed a kind of relief, as if he had been waiting for your reaction with hidden caution. There was a moment of silence, awkward and dense, in which neither of you moved or looked away from the ocean. The waves continued their eternal back and forth, and for a moment you wondered what it would be like to be anywhere else in the world, a place where Rafe’s words couldn’t reach you and where the echo of “future wife” didn’t resonate in your mind like a persistent hammering. 

The breeze blew harder, carrying with it the echo of distant laughter and the voices of seagulls, and as Rafe looked back out to sea, you felt everything moving around you, except you. 

You fell silent, allowing the sound of the sea and the wind to carry away the unspoken words. You didn't want to talk about Rafe's engagement anymore, or about Sofia, or what it meant to you. You had learned to swallow your emotions, to let them burn inside you until they became something more bearable, like ashes after a fire. So you didn't say anything. You just nodded almost imperceptibly and took a step back, as if you were walking away from a conversation that had already ended. 

Rafe watched you with fleeting curiosity, but he didn't insist. He, too, knew when it was best to leave things as they were. Without another word, he turned around and walked back along the same wooden path he had come by, his footsteps echoing in the increasingly dark afternoon. You stayed a few seconds longer, trying to let the cold in your chest dissipate and your breathing return to a normal rhythm. 

When you finally turned around, your thoughts were already far away from there, beyond the ocean, in the dunes of Morocco, in the legends surrounding the Blue Crown. That relic had been the center of stories and rumors among treasure-hunting circles, a lost jewel whose importance went beyond wealth: it was said to have the power to change the fate of whoever possessed it. And now, it was sought not only by you and Rafe, but also by the Pogues, and others. 

You had no time to be distracted, and you couldn't let your emotions prevent you from acting with the coolness that the situation required. You returned to your home where on the worn wooden table, the map of Morocco was spread out, with handwritten notes and markings indicating the places you had investigated before. You sat down, letting the weight of determination replace the pang of jealousy and disappointment you still felt. 

You looked through your things: an old compass that had belonged to your grandfather, oil lanterns, a sharp knife, and a copy of a manuscript with cryptic clues about the location of the Blue Crown, clothes, and a lot of money. 

As night fell over the Outer Banks and the stars began to twinkle in the sky, you promised yourself that you would find the Crown, no matter how many obstacles stood in your way. You weren’t interested in having it, but in what it took to have it, the deals you could make, and how proud your father would be if you did. It would be your victory, your vindication with your father after he nearly “killed” you when he found out you weren’t with Rafe anymore and you ruined his perfect life by not marrying a Cameron. You pushed those memories from your mind, focusing your eyes on the map and letting the adrenaline and obsession with the search take over. 

Tomorrow, everything would change.

The Moroccan sun was merciless, a golden blaze that seemed hell-bent on burning your skin and sapping every ounce of energy you had. The air was dry, with a hint of sand that seeped into your mouth and stuck to your skin. You walked through a bustling market, where the aromas of spices, leather, and sweat mingled in a heady, chaotic mix. Vendors shouted in Arabic and French, selling everything from hand-woven rugs to intricately detailed gold jewelry. Despite the fascination you could feel for the place, the heat made every step a struggle. 

“Damn heat,” you mutter as you wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. Your clothes, light but already soaked, clung to your skin uncomfortably. You were tired, overwhelmed, and everything seemed even more complicated in the middle of that maze of narrow streets. 

Behind you, you hear a low, familiar laugh. “Are you really complaining about the heat?” Rafe’s voice comes with a hint of sarcasm you know well. He’d joined the expedition at the last minute. He wore dark sunglasses and a smile that made him seem completely unfazed, even under the relentless desert sun. 

“It’s not that different from home,” he adds, raising an eyebrow and giving you a look that mixes defiance and complicity. His words hit you with an unexpected truth, and although you hate to admit it, you agree with a slight nod. 

“You’re right,” you acknowledge, trying not to show the irritation you felt. Outer Banks might be stifling, humid, and wild, but this dry, scorching heat had its own way of imposing itself. Still, the comparison was still valid. 

Rafe stops next to a stall where an old man sells copper and silver amulets. He takes one between his fingers, examining it with that calm attention he used to display before making a major move. His presence is as familiar as it is exasperating, a constant that forced you to stay alert.

“Don’t forget what we’re here for,” he murmurs without looking at you, as he returns the amulet to the old man with a polite smile. His words bring you back to the present, to the mission.

You take a deep breath, letting the warm air fill your lungs and force you to focus. “I never forget,” you reply, and although your words sound firm, you both knew that heat, distractions, and personal tensions were silent enemies.

Rafe smirks, a gesture that could be either respect or mockery. Then, without further ado, he walks into the crowd, motioning for you to follow him.

Hours later, night fell over Morocco with the speed of a closing curtain, leaving the air still warm and charged with the promise of new intrigue. The market streets, which during the day were a hive of life, were transformed into a labyrinth of shadows and flashing lights, where low-voiced conversations and distant laughter mingled with the hum of oil lamps. You found yourself in one of these streets, walking briskly alongside Rafe, whose eyes seemed to scan every corner, alert for any sign of movement.

You knew the Pogues were in town. They’d been following the treasure trail for almost as long as you had, and though your paths had crossed in the past, you’d never considered joining them. Until now.

“Are you sure about this?” you asked Rafe, feeling the weight of doubt like a stone in your stomach. It was an idea that had seemed absurd to you when it first came up, but the more you thought about it, the more logical it made. Two opposing forces joining forces for a common goal. But with Rafe, you could never be completely sure of anything.

Rafe cast a glance over his shoulder, his lips twisting into a smile that was more of a warning than a friendly gesture. “Relax. It suits them as much as it suits us.” You stopped at the edge of a crossroads, the yellowish light of a streetlamp illuminating half of his face and leaving the other half plunged into darkness. “Don’t worry so much, if there’s one thing I know about them it’s that they can’t resist an opportunity,” she added, lowering her voice and moving closer. 

The meeting was scheduled in an old warehouse near the port, a place where stacked wooden boxes and hanging ropes created a scene that seemed straight out of a pirate tale. The place smelled of salt and damp wood, and the echoes of the waves crashing against the docks filled the space with a constant murmur. When you arrived, the Pogues were already there, standing in a tense semicircle, exchanging glances and whispers. John B, with his disheveled hair and alert expression, was the first to spot you. Beside him, Sarah tensed her jaw at the sight of Rafe, and you couldn’t blame her. The wounds between them ran deep, scars that would take a while to heal, if they ever did. 

“What are you doing here?” JJ’s voice was the first to break the silence. His eyes, normally full of spark and humor, were now hard as steel. Kie stood beside him, arms crossed and an expression that clearly said he didn’t trust what was happening.

Rafe raised his hands, as if to show he had no ill intentions. “Relax. We’re not here to fight. We’re here to help.”

“Help?” John B repeated the word as if it were a joke, and a bitter laugh escaped his throat. “Why the hell should we trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” you intervened, taking a step forward. All eyes fell on you, and you felt the weight of uncertainty in each gaze. “But if we want to find the Crown before others do, we have no choice. Rafe and I know things, we have clues that can lead us to it. And you also have information that we need.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Eyes met, searching for answers that neither was willing to give. Pope was the first to move, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes as if he were assessing the situation. “What kind of information?” he finally asked, his tone calculating and full of caution.

Rafe smiled, and you knew he’d been waiting for that question. “We know the last clue leads to a site in the Atlas Mountains. But it’s not a place you can get to with maps and courage alone. You need someone who knows the terrain, and we just happen to have people who do.”

Kie let out a sigh, lowering her arms and casting a quick glance at her friends. “It’s crazy,” she muttered, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested the idea, as dangerous as it was, intrigued her.

John B gritted his teeth, his gaze shifting from you to Rafe, then to his friends. There was a decision to be made, and you both knew it. Finally, he nodded, though not willingly. “Okay, but if this is a trap…”

“It’s not,” you interrupted. And though your words were firm, you knew that everyone there had reasons to doubt. The alliance was not perfect, and past scars still hurt. But in the search, distrust would be a luxury they could not afford.

Rafe crossed his arms, pleased, and looked at John B with a flash of defiance. “Then we better get started. The mountains aren’t going to wait for us.”

The group exchanged glances, a tacit agreement that felt like a leap into the dark.

Dawn in Morocco came with unexpected warmth, as if the sun had risen early with the sole purpose of testing everyone’s patience. The souk, which had just awakened with the first light, was filled with life in a matter of minutes: merchants displayed their wares, children ran through the alleys, and the air was filled with the aroma of spices and freshly baked bread. The relative calm of the morning didn’t last long.

It had been barely two days since you formed that precarious alliance with the Pogues and, as you feared, things quickly went awry. You weren’t sure what exactly had caused the chaos – whether it was Rafe trying to “get information” the way he usually did, or whether it was an unfortunate run-in with another group of treasure hunters who had gotten wind of the treasure. The truth was that you now found yourself running at full speed between clay buildings and narrow alleys, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the walls as the screams and curses of your pursuers filled the air behind you. 

“Rafe! This is madness!” you shouted as you dodged a fruit stand that you nearly knocked over in your wake. Oranges rolled across the ground, and the merchant let out an enraged scream that was lost in the melee. Rafe, running beside you with a grin that bordered on reckless, barely turned to look at you. 

“Calm down, I’ve got it under control!” he replied in a tone that made you want to punch him in the midst of all the confusion. The shadow of a smile remained on his face, as if this was all just a game and not a race to keep his skin intact.

“You better fix it, Rafe!” you roared, feeling the burn in your legs and the metallic taste of effort in your mouth. “I wanted at least a couple of good days in Morocco!” You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a moment of true tranquility, and in that instant, the desire for everything to be different mixed with the adrenaline that drove you to keep running. 

Rafe let out a laugh, one you didn’t know whether to admire or detest. “Good days? That’s not part of the deal, friend.” His words seemed laden with irony, but also with a truth that stuck in you like a thorn. 

You turned a corner and felt the sunlight hit you directly in the face, blinding you for a crucial second. You staggered and almost fell when you tripped on a small step, but Rafe grabbed your arm and pushed you forward without stopping. The footsteps behind you were getting closer, and you could hear shouts in Arabic that, although you didn’t fully understand, made it clear that the intentions were anything but friendly.

“To the right!” Rafe shouted, letting go of you and pointing down a side street that seemed narrower than the one before. Without thinking, you turned, your heart pounding in your chest like a crazed drum. The alley narrowed even further, and the terracotta-colored walls seemed to close in around you. You could feel the adrenaline bubbling through your veins, sweat soaking through your shirt, and the sound of the chase ringing in your ears as a constant reminder of how close they were.

Suddenly, a thud to your left caught your attention: John B and JJ had emerged from a hidden passage, expressions mixing surprise and relief at seeing you. “What the hell did they do now?!” JJ shouted, a spark of reproach in his eyes.

“This isn’t the time for details,” you replied between gasps, and without stopping, you walked past them, followed by Rafe, who still had that impassive smile.

“We have to split up,” John B said, taking the lead and pointing with a sharp gesture. “We’ll meet at the meeting point! Go that way!” And before you could answer, he and JJ disappeared into another narrow passage, like moving shadows.

You and Rafe kept running, the chase now divided and the sound of footsteps diminishing. The alley opened up into a small square, where the midday shadows were deeper. There, you leaned against a wall, trying to catch your breath and process what had just happened.

Rafe glanced at you, his breathing ragged but a spark of excitement in his eyes. “You see,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a quick gesture, “this is what makes everything more interesting.”

You looked at him, feeling a mixture of exasperation and a strange camaraderie wash over you. Maybe he was crazy, or maybe you were crazy for keeping up with him.

After the chase, everything had calmed down, they continued doing their thing during the day and at night when they went to rest at a place where they were staying while you slept you were startled by a thud in the next room. You barely had time to stand up when the door was flung open and a tall man, with scars on his face and eyes as dark as night, pointed a gun at you. “Not a single move, girl,” he hissed in broken English, the threat in his voice as clear as the gun in his hand.

Rafe, who was in the other room, burst in without a second thought. The fight was quick, a clash of bodies and blows that echoed in the small room like war drums. With your heart racing, you searched for something, anything to defend yourself, and your fingers found an old metal lamp. You didn’t think about it. With all the strength you could muster, you threw it at the intruder’s head, the metallic sound echoing as it hit him and sent him reeling.

“Get out!” Rafe shouted, his voice a roar that snapped you out of your trance. You moved toward the door as he finished subduing the intruder. Outside, the streets were deserted, a blanket of silence that was almost as dangerous as the bustle of the crowd. You knew they couldn’t stay there. They had to move.

The next day, things only got worse. Despite having agreed on a meeting point with the Pogues, the pressure of being under constant surveillance and dodging suspicious glances became unbearable. Pope had managed to decipher an ancient map that seemed to lead to a cave in the Atlas Mountains, but they hadn’t counted on the other hunters who caught wind of the advance.

The chase began in the market, with the clatter of falling pots and screams from confused vendors who barely understood what was happening. You leapt up a stone staircase that led up to the rooftops, Rafe hot on your heels and JJ and Kie a few feet behind, bringing up the rear. From above, the flat roofs of the souk stretched out like a makeshift battlefield, dotted with hanging clothes and rusty antennas. The air was thick with heat and dust, making every breath a challenge. 

Gunshots rang out in the distance, the echo spreading through the streets like a wave. You threw yourself to the ground just in time to avoid a second shot, feeling adrenaline turn your fear into a searing drive. Rafe held out a hand and helped you up, the urgency in his eyes clearer than ever. “We have to get down from here now!” he shouted over the din, pointing to an old staircase that led to a narrow alley. 

They managed to climb down and into the tangle of streets, but the sense of impending danger never left. The group briefly took refuge in a cellar, where John B pulled out the map and spread it out on a splintered wooden table. “The cave is close, but we need to make a detour. We’re being followed closely,” he said, his gaze fixed on the markings that indicated a winding path into the mountains.

The tension in the air was palpable. No one fully trusted Rafe, and Kie kept giving you worried glances, as if trying to gauge how much more you could take. You were tired, exhausted, but at the moment the idea of ​​stopping seemed as far away as peace itself. 

That night, when the group decided to split up, you found yourself alone with Rafe in a dark passage, the echo of screams and gunshots still haunting you. The shadows on the stone walls seemed to lengthen and twist as if they were alive, too, watching you. You walked in silence, your breathing still ragged and your body on high alert. Rafe, ever alert, stopped suddenly and put a hand on your arm. The touch was cold, but it also had a hint of urgency that made you still. 

“Listen,” he whispered. You barely noticed the sound of footsteps coming toward you, slow and calculated. Before you could process it, someone grabbed you from behind and dragged you into the darkness of an alley. You kicked and punched, fighting with all your might as Rafe tried to reach you. 

You knew you had been missing for no more than a couple of hours, you had learned to count time without a watch and without getting lost and you knew that you had been exactly two hours with your head covered, except for your mouth. 

In an unexpected twist, it was John B who appeared out of nowhere, pulling your captor and slamming him against the wall with a force that seemed impossible for his build. Once free, you breathed heavily, feeling the world around you blur. You were tired, but John B’s gaze, full of concern and determination, reminded you that you were not alone. 

“We have to move. Now,” he said and you quickly followed. 

The streets began to calm down as John B led you through a maze of passages further and further away from the bustle of the souk.

Finally, John B stopped in front of an old wooden door, dark with age and dust. He knocked three times in a rhythmic manner, and the door creaked open. You entered behind him, feeling tiredness creeping through your body like an unbearable weight. The small room you entered was lit by an oil lamp in one corner, casting a dim light that made the shadows lengthen and distort.

There, sitting in a chair with an expression somewhere between worry and relief, was Rafe. When he saw you, his eyes lit up with a flash of excitement that he quickly tried to hide under a facade of serenity. You had no time for words; you threw yourself at him, hugging him tightly, feeling the warmth of his body and the accelerated beat of his heart under your arms. For a moment, nothing else mattered.

Rafe hugged you back, his grip firm, almost desperate. For an instant, he wasn’t the troubled, arrogant man you’d shared so many moments of uncertainty with, but someone who shared the weight of the same struggle, the same fear, and the same need to find respite amidst the chaos.

“I thought I’d have to kill someone to find you,” he murmured, his voice husky near your ear, heavy with a feeling he couldn’t or wouldn’t admit. You felt his hands tighten around you, as if he feared that if he loosened his grip, you might disappear into the dimness of the room.

“I almost did,” you admitted, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes.

John B coughed softly, breaking the tension in the air and reminding you that you weren’t alone. You looked over at him, and behind him, JJ and Kie had gathered, each with expressions ranging from relief to distrust. Kie smiled briefly, but JJ kept his stance alert, always the first to suspect Rafe. 

“We need to decide our next move,” John B said, crossing his arms and glancing around at everyone in the room. “Those following us aren’t going to stop, and the cave in the mountains isn’t going to sit around waiting for us.”

Rafe let out a low, almost inaudible laugh and looked away, as if he was considering John B’s words. You felt the knot in your chest slowly unravel, replaced by the determination they all shared: to find what they were looking for. 

After the conversation, the small room fell into a heavy silence, interrupted only by tired sighs and the occasional creaking of chairs. The tired looks, the few words. The adrenaline of the day was finally beginning to fade, and exhaustion took its place with relentless force. John B and the others found corners in the room to rest, spreading threadbare blankets on the floor and chairs.

Rafe looked at you and nodded silently, both of you knowing you wouldn't stay there. Without exchanging another word, you walked out the back door, into the shadows of the streets of Marrakech. You walked in silence, unhurried but not stopping, following the paths you already knew by heart. The house you shared was a few streets away, a replica of the many modest buildings in the neighborhood, but set back enough to offer you a semblance of privacy and safety.

Upon arriving, Rafe opened the door and let you in first. The interior was dark and cool, a welcome welcome after the scorching heat of the day and the tension that seemed to have been tied to your back like a weight. You closed your eyes for a moment, allowing yourself to feel the ephemeral peace of the place, before letting out a deep sigh and moving towards the small room in the back, where a low, simple bed awaited you. 

Rafe stood in the doorway, watching you with a mix of tiredness and something else you couldn’t quite make out. “Do you want me to make you something to drink?” he asked, his voice soft and husky. 

You shook your head as you kicked off your shoes and dropped onto the bed. “No, I just… need to sleep. It’s been too much for today.” You laid down on your side, hugging one of the pillows and feeling your eyelids begin to droop. You didn’t expect Rafe to do the same, but suddenly you heard him move. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, and the lamplight flickered for a moment before he blew out the last spark and everything went dark. 

You flinched slightly as you felt the weight of the bed dip beside you. You turned your head, and though you could barely see his features in the darkness, you could feel his proximity, the heat radiating from his body. “I’m not staying in that house with them,” he murmured, like an explanation, though you didn’t need one. You didn’t respond, just closed your eyes, too exhausted to think about what it meant.

The silence stretched between you, only broken by the slow, deep breaths that began to come together. Without realizing it, as tiredness dragged you to sleep, you turned a little, looking for a more comfortable position. Your hands brushed Rafe's arm, and he moved barely, as if responding to your touch was a reflex. Before you could think about what was happening, you felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you towards him. It was a protective, warm gesture, and although at another time you would have said something, in that instant you only sighed, feeling your body relax completely. 

With his breath close to your ear and the safety of his arms around you, the tension that had accompanied you for days finally dissolved. 

The next morning the sun began to filter through the cracks in the window, filling the room with a soft light that contrasted with the darkness you had fallen into the night before. You woke up slowly, eyelids heavy, body still marked by the tiredness of the day before. Without moving, you felt the warmth of Rafe’s body beside you, his arm still around your waist, and for a moment you couldn’t help but smile quietly.

You tried to turn around to get out of his embrace without making a sound, hoping you wouldn’t wake him, but when you tried to move, something pulled at you. Rafe, still asleep, pulled you closer to him, a gesture so automatic that it made you sigh silently. Your body tensed at first, but then you realized it couldn’t be that bad, at least for a moment longer.

“Don’t go,” he murmured quietly, his tone rough with sleep. The softness of his words made your chest tighten unintentionally.

You stayed still for a second, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of his embrace envelop you, as if the entire world had disappeared, leaving only that small corner of peace between the two of you. But reality, as always, quickly took over. You didn’t want to be that person, you didn’t want to confuse yourself or complicate things further. It was a hug, nothing more.

“Rafe...” you began quietly, almost afraid to interrupt the peace that had formed between you. “I’m not Sofia.”

The sound of his breathing changed, and then, with a calmness that surprised you, he replied, “I know,” as he held you even tighter against his chest. His words were soft, as if there was nothing to clarify, nothing to change. “I just… want to keep sleeping.”

Despite his relaxed tone, you couldn’t stay there all day. You already knew that time was pressing, and things were still moving outside of that little bubble of calm you’d shared with him. “There are things to do, Rafe,” you said, your tone firmer this time. “And we need to eat.”

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips at that moment, but eventually he relented. His body tensed a little as, with a grimace, he began to pull away from you, his arm finally releasing you, though his gaze was still a little clouded by sleep.

“It’s okay,” he said, sitting up with a hand on his head, as if trying to clear his head a little before getting up. “But only because you have to eat.”

The smile that escaped you upon hearing his tired, yet resigned tone was almost inevitable. You got up first, stretching and looking for clean clothes. As you watched him prepare his way to get up.

After a simple but necessary breakfast, with the morning warmth streaming in through the windows, the pace of the day continued. The conversations about the map and the cave in the mountains were quickly forgotten as each of you went about your own business. The chaos and paranoia of the day before had subsided, but danger was still present in every corner of Morocco, lurking in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

Rafe, as always lately, had decided to act without thinking too much about it. There was something in his nature that pushed him to throw himself into risky situations without measuring the consequences. And, as always, it ended in trouble.

That trouble came in the form of an old acquaintance who appeared in the square, with clear intentions of collecting old debts. Rafe tried to negotiate, to talk to him in terms he clearly didn’t understand, while you watched from afar, feeling a growing unease in your stomach. There was something about the man’s posture, his cold gaze, that told you that they weren’t going to get out of this well.

The exchange of words escalated quickly, the tone of the conversation going from tense to aggressive in seconds. You knew it wasn’t going to end well, but what you didn’t expect was what happened next.

The man moved quickly, his hand searching for something in his jacket. You didn’t need to be told, it all happened in the blink of an eye. Rafe had backed away, but the man already had a gun in his hands, and his intention was clear. Rafe’s gaze hardened, and in that moment you understood that he couldn’t escape.

The man raised the gun towards him, and the world seemed to slow down for an instant. You knew there was no time to think about it. Fear transformed into action without your brain being able to fully process it. Without thinking, you pulled out the gun you had taken from the cellar the night before. In one swift movement, you aimed and fired. 

The sound of the gunshot rang through the air, the echo repeating in your ears as the man fell to the ground, with a grunt of pain, the gun slipping from his hand. Quickly, you turned to Rafe, who was only a few feet away from you, watching what had happened with a mix of surprise and gratitude, but also with the awareness of what had just happened. 

“Are you...?” you began, but the words got caught in your throat. Adrenaline was still flowing through your veins, making your hands shake slightly, but there was no time to reflect. 

Rafe, after a moment of silence, finally spoke. “Well done,” he said in a tone you couldn’t quite read. But there was something in his gaze, a deep gratitude, and also a concern that he didn’t want to admit.

“It’s nothing,” you lied, quickly putting the gun away, though your heart was still racing. “Be careful, I need you to be the Rafe who makes deals with the worst people possible and comes out on top.”

Rafe didn’t say anything. He looked at the fallen man, then turned to you, and without another word, he nodded. “Let’s move on.”

The two of you walked quickly, away from the scene, the shadows of the streets covering you. Rafe walked a few steps ahead of you.

Your breathing was still irregular, the adrenaline already starting to wear off. The question that had formed in your head escaped your mouth, more out of impulse than out of need to know the answer.

“Isn’t there a minute where we have peace? Where I don’t have to get your ass out of some trouble?” you blurted out, the irony in your voice evident. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or scream, but something about the situation made you blurt out that question as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rafe, without turning around, let out a dry laugh, the one you already knew was the only way he had to deal with the situation, a defense against the chaos that surrounded him. “Like with Sheriff Peterkin,” he said, and although his words seemed light, there was something in his tone that he couldn’t hide: the heaviness of that memory.

The mention of the policewoman made you pause for a second. You knew exactly what he meant. That time, long before they got to this point, you remembered the local police who had almost caught Rafe and his family, so he took it upon himself only for reasons that were never fully understood, your father intervened, paying whatever it took to cover it all up. 

You knew that, in some way, your father’s hand was always present, ensuring that Rafe’s problems didn’t affect him, although it had left you with a bitter feeling in your stomach. Your father never talked about these situations, but it was clear that he had ways of cleaning up messes that others couldn’t. And in some way, he included you in his world, which you were used to and liked. 

“I know,” you answered with a wry smile. You couldn’t help but think of everything you had done to protect Rafe, everything you had put aside for him, for his sake. And what did you get in return? More trouble, more chaos. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny that something about that connection dragged you down, something you couldn’t control.

Rafe glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment, his eyes softened, as if you were reading his thoughts. “Thank you,” he said quietly, though it wasn’t the kind of thanks that made you feel completely at ease.

“Don’t be,” you replied quickly, feeling the moment become more tense than it already was. “I don’t need you to thank me, Rafe. This is what always happens. But I don’t want to be your fixer all the time.”

Silence fell between you again as you walked through the streets, the sun already warming the air uncomfortably. Your dress, though light at first, now felt sticky and dirty. Sweat ran down your back and the line of your neck, and the dust of the streets stuck to your skin only made things worse. You rubbed your forehead, desperate, and muttered more to yourself than to Rafe.

“This is unbearable. I’m sweaty, dirty, and… I need a bath urgently. This is torture.”

Rafe walked a few steps ahead, but his eyes shifted to you for a moment, as if he was trying to process what you had just said. He didn’t seem worried, but he did seem a little amused to see you in this state.

“I know, but it’s not the most important thing right now,” he said, in his usual, somewhat carefree tone. “We have to stay focused.”

You frowned as you brushed off your dress. “Yeah, sure, very focused… but I could be a lot more productive if I wasn’t so uncomfortable.” You looked around, realizing how ridiculous it sounded: here you were, running away from one problem after another, and all you could think about was a bathroom.

Rafe, noticing your tone, let out a low, amused laugh, as if the idea of ​​worrying about something so mundane in the midst of all the chaos was completely absurd. “It’s not my fault you’re not going to take a bath with me,” he said, as if to joke. 

You turned to him, one eyebrow raised, and prepared to respond, but before you could say anything, he gave you a small tap on the arm, almost playfully, while smirking. The way he did it seemed so natural, as if everything else around them disappeared for a second. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he added between laughs. “You can wait a little longer before you get in the water.” 

He looked at you with that lopsided smile that, despite everything, couldn’t take away the discomfort of being drenched in sweat and dirt. But you couldn’t help but laugh, despite how upset you were. 

“Easy for you to say, right?” You said, trying to make a face, but you couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. “When you’re not the one stuck in a sticky dress with your hair stuck to your face.”

Rafe, hearing your tone, simply shrugged, still smiling. “I promise that once we get somewhere safe, you can shower all you want. In the meantime, just hold on a little longer. It’s not all that bad, right?”

You stayed silent for a moment, looking at his relaxed face as you walked. You knew he was partly right. In the end, the sweat and heat were nothing compared to what you had already faced. But, despite everything, you couldn’t help but think about how much good a nice bath would do you.

“Okay, but don’t make me wait too long,” you said in a more relaxed tone, feeling your body ease up a bit as the tension was released with those words. “Because really, Rafe, I need something more than water to cool off.”

Rafe, looking at you with that look of his, just nodded, and with a mischievous smile on his face, he replied, “I promise, just hold on a little longer.”

You pushed yourself gently against his arm, and laughed.

Although the hours had felt endless, they ended up being productive for you and Rafe. The search for clues had paid off, although not in the way you had expected. They had managed to find some things and talk to some people who would help them, and they had also made some important progress in getting an address that seemed more promising than the previous ones. Despite the discomfort of the heat, the chases they had barely dodged, and the tensions between them, you felt that the hours had been worth it. 

The streets, which had previously seemed overwhelming and chaotic, now felt more familiar. They had managed to blend in a bit with the locals, and although curious eyes continued to follow them, they managed to move more confidently, at least until it got late. Finally, after a day of intense work and a couple of altercations, night fell over Morocco, and the cool breeze that was beginning to blow made you breathe a sigh of relief. 

As the shadows lengthened, the city seemed to calm down a bit, the streets less hectic, the heat of the day slowly easing. You were tired, the sweat stuck to your skin was no longer just uncomfortable, but had left you feeling heavy. All you wanted at that moment was a bath, but you knew things couldn't be that simple.

Rafe had disappeared for a moment, perhaps to talk to someone or continue digging into some clue that had surfaced, but you couldn't wait any longer. You quickly walked to the house you had rented, the temporary shelter where you could only think about taking off everything you had endured that day.

Entering the small dwelling, you closed the door behind you with a sigh of relief. You no longer had to be on alert all the time. There was no immediate danger in sight, and at last, you had some time to yourself.

You quickly headed to the bathroom, where a large, old tub was waiting for you, filled with water that still felt somewhat warm, as if someone had prepared everything in advance. You didn't hesitate for a second and, without thinking twice, you began to undress, removing clothes soaked in sweat and dust from the day. Each piece of clothing you dropped on the floor seemed to take a little more of the weight off your shoulders.

You sank into the tub with a sigh of relief, letting the warm water envelop your tired body. You lay back with your arms outstretched on the edge, closing your eyes and letting the warmth surround you, covering you completely. Each bubble that formed on the surface seemed to soothe you more, as if you were letting go of all the stress and tension you had built up.

The sound of the water gently moving around you was the only thing you could hear, and for a moment, you felt like everything else was left behind. You only thought about yourself, and the movement of the water.

The warmth of the water was beginning to relax you completely, and every part of your body that had been tense during the day was slowly letting go. You had your eyes closed, enjoying the moment, when you finally managed to disconnect from everything else, even Rafe's presence. At last, you felt like the world could wait a little.

The soak in the tub was beyond relaxing. Without thinking, you began to completely relax, the hot, bubbling water enveloping your body as tiredness slipped away from you.

You allowed yourself to stay there for a few more minutes, enjoying the peace that so rarely came to you.

When you finally got out of the tub, you felt like new. The water had done wonders on your tired body.

You decided to replace the water in the tub before Rafe arrived. The water you had used was warm, but it wasn't as hot anymore, so you decided to fill it up again for him. You did this more out of instinct than anything else, you wanted to offer him some peace of mind after everything you had been through that day. The sound of the water flowing in the tub was the only thing you could hear as you prepared to go get some clean clothes.

You didn't notice it at first, but when you returned to the living room, you heard the door open. Rafe walked in with his tired, somewhat heavy gait, but it wasn’t until you turned to look at him again that you noticed something odd about his posture. Something about the way he walked, slightly hunched over, made you frown.

Rafe was hurt.

The sweat on his face and the blood stains on his clothes didn’t go unnoticed. There was some wound, perhaps superficial, but enough to make you worry. You hurried to approach him, but he raised his hand, stopping you before you could say anything.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice tense but firm, as if he didn’t want you to treat him like he was a child. “Just a couple of scratches. A bath will do me good, and that’s it.” His tone was so direct that it left no room for further discussion, as if the idea of ​​being helped was something he preferred to avoid.

You stared at him for a moment, feeling a lump form in your throat. You wanted to help, to do something, but you knew Rafe wasn’t going to let you do it. You knew him too well to know that he wouldn’t accept help easily, especially when it came to something as “minor” as a wound.

“I’ve already filled the tub for you,” you finally said, trying to hide how much it worried you to see him in that state. Your voice sounded calmer than you felt, but there was still a note of concern that you couldn’t hide. “It’s ready. Just… be careful, okay?”

Rafe looked at you with a crooked smile, that smile of his that used to be so trusting, but now seemed somewhat forced. “Thank you,” he said quietly, giving you a slight nod in thanks. 

You stood there for a few moments, watching him head towards the tub, where he paused for a moment before beginning to strip off his blood and dirt stained clothes. 

The tension in the air between the two of you was palpable, but in the end, you knew you couldn’t just leave him like that. If he wasn’t going to accept it, you would take the lead. No matter what was between you, you couldn’t leave him hurt and alone. 

You approached the tub with a clear decision in your mind. Without thinking too much, you grabbed a clean rag and dipped it into the hot water. The sound of the water sliding down his skin, the warmth emitted by the steam, turned it all into a kind of calm that at first seemed disconcerting. Rafe stayed silent, watching you as you moved the cloth gently across his torso, careful not to touch his wounds, cleaning away the dirt that had accumulated on his body.

You didn’t think about his nakedness. You knew that, at this point, it was just a practical matter.

Rafe, despite the awkwardness of the situation, kept looking at you, and with a crooked smile, decided to break the silence. “Are you really doing this?” he said in a sarcastic tone, raising an eyebrow, as if he were in the middle of an awkward joke. “Aren’t you afraid of getting wet?”

You laughed despite yourself, almost unable to help it. The laughter came out of you spontaneously, lightening the heavy atmosphere that had formed a little. “If I get wet, I get wet. It’s not like I haven’t gotten wet before.” You replied, cleaning the part of his shoulder more carefully, always aware of the wounds.

Rafe’s sarcastic tone never faded, though at the moment it seemed more like a way to cope than anything else. He stared at you, but this time, something in his gaze changed. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said casually, as if it were just a comment. But there was something in his eyes that left you speechless. 

Your heart skipped a beat, and you immediately felt uncomfortable. For a second, you froze. “Please don’t say that,” you murmured, trying to look away to avoid him seeing it in your eyes. 

The atmosphere between the two of you grew tense, as if the words were floating in the air, weighing more than anything you could say. There were too many things left unsaid between you, too many intertwined feelings, and the complications of everything going on in your lives. But, in that instant, the comment seemed to change something.

Rafe didn't respond immediately. Instead, he gently took your hand, guiding it through the water as you ran it over his chest. The closeness of his body, the way he touched you, made your breathing quicken. Before you could react, he pulled you towards him, into the tub, unexpectedly. The warmth of the water surrounding both of you only intensified the feeling of closeness, of warmth. 

You stood there, not knowing what to do. Your whole body was telling you to get away, that it wasn't the time, that this shouldn't happen. But something in his gaze, something in the way he held you, made your own thoughts fade away. The doubts and voices in your head seemed to fade away when his lips met yours, in an intense but silent way, as if there was no turning back. 

Despite what your mind was telling you, what was warning you that this could be a mistake, you couldn't help it. The touch of his body, the unexpected connection, made you lose control for a moment. The pressure in your chest disappeared, and for an instant, there was only the sensation of his lips, of his closeness, of the passion you hadn't planned.

You knew that, after all this, nothing would ever be the same again. But in that moment, you surrendered to the sensation, to the connection you both shared, even though everything around you told you not to let yourself go.

You both stayed there for a long time, in silence, only the sound of the water and the ragged breaths filling the air around you. There was no rush, no urgency to move away. The warmth of the water and the closeness of your bodies enveloped you, and for a moment, you let yourself go, you let the chaos of the world be replaced by the calm that only he could offer you in that instant. The tension between you seemed to slowly fade away, as if time had stopped and everything else no longer mattered.

When you finally pulled away from him, a little dazed, it was Rafe who broke the silence with a soft, but determined voice. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand gently. 

You didn’t have time to say anything else before he led you out of the tub and into the bedroom, but you didn’t care. There was something comforting about the idea of ​​spending the night with him, of sharing a space, even if it was just for a few hours. You felt calmer than you had in days, something you didn’t even know you needed until that moment.

[trulyumai]

an arrow of might

—synopsis: an arrow struck through the crowd, past the display of people and aimed for your head. geta was furious.

pairing: Emperor geta / Empress! reader

—warnings: violence, talk of death, protective Geta

enjoy!

The Colosseum was alive with a frenzy of noise and movement, the sun beating down mercilessly on the sand-strewn arena. The clash of steel, the roars of beasts, and the cheers of thousands of spectators created a tempest of sensory overload. Amid this chaos, you were absorbed in the delicate task of caring for your young son, who was captivated by the spectacle unfolding before him.

Geta, seated in his position of authority, kept a vigilant eye on the arena, but his gaze frequently shifted towards you and the child. The violence below, while meant to display Rome’s might, was unsettling, and you could not shake the feeling of anxiety gnawing at your heart.

Without warning, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The roar of the crowd intensified, shifting to panicked shouts and cries. Your pulse quickened as you saw an arrow slicing through the air, its trajectory erratic and alarming. Time seemed to slow as it arced dangerously towards you.

Instinctively, you pulled your son close, shielding him with your body. The arrow whizzed past, embedding itself with a sickening thud into the wooden frame of your chair. Your heart leapt to your throat as you glanced around in shock, the enormity of the danger sinking in.

Geta’s reaction was immediate and fierce. His eyes, usually calm and composed, now blazed with protective fury. He sprang into action, his authoritative presence cutting through the crowd with decisive urgency. Each powerful stride was driven by the primal need to protect his family. His voice, usually steady, now carried a note of raw command.

“Protect her!” Geta bellowed, his tone slicing through the chaos. His personal guards, trained for such moments, formed an impenetrable barrier around you and your son, their weapons drawn and their eyes scanning for any further threat.

The world seemed to constrict to a singular focus: Geta and the peril surrounding you. You held your son tightly, his small frame trembling against you. His wide, frightened eyes met yours, and the sight of his innocent fear only deepened your own.

Geta reached your side in a heartbeat, his face etched with a fierce blend of relief and anxiety. “Are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice strained with concern as he knelt beside you, his hands carefully examining not only your face, but the space around you.

“I’m fine,” you managed to get out, your voice shaky but resolute. “But the arrow...”

Geta’s gaze followed the path of the arrow, his expression darkening with a protective rage. “Stay down,” he instructed firmly, though his voice was gentler, coaxed with honey and warmth to your scared being. He signaled one of his guards to remove the arrow while another scanned the stands, his eyes never leaving you.

The crowd’s murmur grew to a tense, expectant silence. The sudden intrusion of danger had shifted the mood dramatically. You looked up at Geta, whose normally stern features were now a mask of fierce protectiveness. He reached out to steady you, his touch both reassuring and urgent.

“I’m.. sorry,” Geta murmured, his voice breaking slightly as he looked into your eyes. “I should have been more careful.. to think I would bring you to such a spectacl—.”

“No,” you interrupted, voice trembling with a mix of fear and gratitude. “You protected us. You kept us safe.”

Geta’s gaze softened as he regarded his son, who clung to you with wide, terrified eyes. The arrow, now removed and inspected, was a stark reminder of how fragile safety could be. The danger had been real and immediate, and its impact was palpable.

With a resolute nod, Geta turned to his guards, issuing sharp commands to heighten security and ensure the safety of everyone present. His concern for you and your son was palpable, yet so was his unwavering commitment to maintaining order.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” Geta asked again, his eyes searching yours with a depth of concern that spoke volumes.

“Yes,” you assured him, though your voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m just shaken.”

He nodded, his face returning to its usual mask of authority, though his gaze remained tender as it rested on you. “We’ll leave as soon as the games conclude. Your safety is my foremost concern.”

The spectacle continued below, but its appeal had been tainted by the recent events. Geta’s protective presence was a comforting shield, a reminder of his dedication and love. As you held your son close, enveloped by Geta’s unwavering vigilance, a profound sense of relief and gratitude washed over you.

In the midst of chaos and danger, the strength and love of your family had proven to be the greatest shield of all.

[swordgrace]

𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 — 𝐈.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ daemon targaryen x otto’s wife!reader x otto hightower.

synopsis: as the young wife of otto hightower, your joy is threadbare, and your husband is absent. when you have a chance encounter with the rogue prince at the heir’s tournament, you become entangled in a web of desire that you cannot get out of.

SERIES — 1/?

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested, part of a series.

༺ WORD COUNT: 11.5K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT!, dubious consent / mild coercion, infidelity, cheating (on otto), legal age gap (for reader/otto and reader/daemon), inexperienced reader, otto is an absent husband, seduction, sexual tension & yearning, reader is sexually repressed, loss of virginity, risk of getting caught, choking, biting / marking, begging, groping, scratching, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, finger-fucking, p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, possessive daemon, mention of child death.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am so incredibly excited for this fic series, I feel like it could be a good one! I really appreciate all of the support I’ve been getting on the Aemond fic, another one will be coming up soon! Hello to all of my new followers, I am so excited to have you all here! Please enjoy this part, it’s a big one, but it sets the stage for future parts!

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 — you often saw inklings of it in Alicent’s eyes whenever you held her gaze, and noticed the subtle twitch of her mouth with any attempt at conversation. It always fell short, a relationship that had no ounce of potential, nothing to kindle it.

Sometimes, you wished that you could hold her hands, cuticles raw, and tell her that you were one and the same. It always made you uncomfortable to contemplate the closeness in age between you and Alicent, and the longer you dwelled on it, the more bitter you felt.

You were only three years her senior — one-and-twenty, married to her father, Otto Hightower — the hand of the King. Marriage was a concept that you were groomed for, and to be wed to a man of such stature and importance was a great victory for your house.

Otto was an absent husband, at best. His proceedings as Hand left him occupied, and whenever he did return to you, he was often burying himself in whatever business the King had assigned him to. Otto often took much of it on himself, with little time left for you.

You were nothing more than an accessory — a beautiful accessory, at that.

Otto had little desire for another child, and for that, you were eternally grateful to the Gods for allowing such a thing. It was a rarity for a man of his station to take up a wife with no intention of children. In all actuality, he simply missed his wife and yearned for her presence.

Whatever you were, you partially filled the void, but it would never be the same.

There was an emptiness within you that intensified as each day passed, a gaping hole in your body that simply collected dust. You were nothing more than a shimmering jewel for Otto to reveal in the public eye, but put away when it was all said and done.

It wasn’t a horrible existence, but you were unfulfilled. Life felt mundane, and despite the lavish and privileged setting you dwelled within, everything seemed gray, as if you were simply gazing out of a window, seeing the happiness of everyone else.

The more time you spent toiling over your woes and steeping yourself into self-resentment and hopelessness, the more restless you became. You didn’t want to keep pushing yourself into that fray of unhappiness, not when it weighed upon you so heavily already.

Appearances were sacred to Otto, who insisted you join him at the Heir’s Tournament, a celebration to usher in King Viserys and Queen Aemma’s newborn child. A joust and seven days of feasting and revelry were upon you, a routine affair whenever royal children were born.

In the Tower of the Hand, surrounded by a flock of fussing handmaidens, you smoothed your palms across the deep emerald gown, silk soft underneath your fingertips. Your beauty was unmatched — the rare jewel from the North that Otto Hightower had stolen for himself.

It would be a long day, yet the sun shimmered down upon King’s Landing and the Red Keep — a good sign of the festivities to come. You were the picture of a true maiden, not an imperfection in-sight, thanks to the handiwork of your numerous handmaidens.

A knock at your chamber door alerted you to your husband’s presence — it was always stern and rigid.

“Come!” You called, peering at yourself through the large mirror of an upright vanity. The only thing that happened to be missing was a stone around your neck, but you had an impressive array to choose from.

Otto stood within your doorway, always so formal and calculating. He was a difficult man to read — you had been wed for a handful of months, and he was still that way after all this time. “Hm.” He appraised you with a stoic gaze, unwavering and indiscernible.

Sheepishly, you turned for him to see, folding your hands together. “Is this suitable for the Tournament?” You inquired, the colors of your regalia that of House Hightower — emerald with gold embellishments.

In Otto Hightower’s eyes, you would never measure up to his first wife, his true love — but you were perfectly adequate, and that was all you needed to be. He stepped forward, staring down at you with an inkling of warmth within his eyes, tracing a finger across the soft slope of your jaw. “You look resplendent.”

That singular grain of warmth was something you would hold onto, and you mustered up enough of a smile to press a chaste kiss against Otto’s cheek. The gesture was brief, yet even the Hand himself seemed perplexed by it. You wanted to show affection, but Otto never seemed interested in reciprocating.

His kind words were enough to appease you, prompting you to smile as you bowed your head. “Thank you, husband.” Pleased by this, you made sure to string a necklace of peridot around your neck before Otto offered you his arm. It was a courtly procedure — nothing inherently affectionate about it, as you expected.

The walk to the tournament grounds was a lengthy one, but it gave you time to admire the buzz of the Red Keep. The excitement for the birth of a new Targaryen heir was palpable, felt by all you passed. Otto was always stalwart, with a pensive and unreadable expression.

Both you and Otto joined Alicent and Rhaenyra in the stands above the jousting grounds, with crowds of common folk and nobles alike joining in the rancor. Alicent seemed less than thrilled to see you, but you weren’t met with her usual icy indifference.

“Lady Hightower,” King Viserys greeted you with a kindly smile, prompting you to drop into a curtsy. “I am surprised to see that Otto brought you along. It is good to have you here.”

“It is a beautiful day, my King — I certainly hope this favor shines down upon you and your family.” You replied, offering the King a pleasant smile. Admittedly, you were rather excited to see a joust — it was good to be outside amongst your peers, not hidden away within the Tower of the Hand.

Your manners and pleasantries, the eloquent way in which you spoke to others, was a quality that Otto did admire about you. You were soft and kindhearted, possessing all of the gentle traits of a young maiden, a Lady in the making. If it weren’t for such qualities, he might’ve favored you a little less.

As you sat beside Otto, he remained rigid, gazing down upon the field. His eldest son, Gwayne, was amongst the many competitors preparing for the Joust. You had met Gwayne on a handful of occasions, and whilst he did not harbor as much bitterness as Alicent might’ve, he was still rather obtuse about your presence.

You had learned to develop a thick skin — as much as you desired to be friends to both Alicent and Gwayne, you were not their mother. You never wanted that role, either. Motherhood, especially at your young age, sounded most undesirable.

Admittedly, you were enamored with the horses, too — the beautiful beasts that carried their riders to glory, or otherwise. Your love of animals was well-known, something that Otto occasionally treated you to.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother to the King, rode out upon a steed as black as the dusk, bearing the Targaryen crest upon his shield. The draconic motif of his armor and helmet had made him appear fierce — a most intimidating competitor.

Otto seemed less than pleased — you knew that your husband despised the Prince, and the feeling was mutual. In your brief encounters with Daemon, often in Otto’s presence, their disdain was palpable. It was all vitriol and hatred, a constant battle for who could obtain the upper hand.

Knowing that Daemon chose Gwayne to joust to spite your husband made you somewhat apprehensive, but admittedly, sometimes you felt that Otto deserved to have his skin crawl at times. You didn’t like it for Alicent’s sake, her brother in harm’s way, but you had to stake in it.

The Prince rode forward, parading around the length of the field before he approached the royal stand, jousting lance held high. His lips curled into a lopsided smirk, and suddenly, you found that he was looking directly at you — those violet hues of his held your bashful stare.

“Lady Hightower,” He called, loud enough for those to hear it. Alicent began to stand, but Daemon shook his head. “Not you, my Lady.” He gestured toward you with his lance, sneer subtle and his eyes full of intrigue and the desire to make Otto Hightower squirm.

Visibly surprised, you looked to Otto, who seemed entirely displeased — but he wasn’t one to make his weakness known. “Otto, should I …” You trailed off, glancing toward the small table with your favor sitting atop it.

“I am fairly certain that I can win these games with ease, by having your favor, Lady Hightower.” Daemon spoke loud enough for all around to hear, inviting an audience — in all actuality, he simply wanted Otto to bear witness to charming you. “Would you do me the great pleasure of granting me your favor?”

Otto grimaced, countenance beginning to simmer with anger, deep below the surface. He bristled, jaw unnaturally tight. His fingers curled into a fist, yet he had no intention of denying you such an act, if you so desired. This was a tournament, after all — and any reaction that he gave, Daemon would indulge himself in.

Startled, you looked to Otto for approval, yet he offered you none. Reluctantly, you rose to your feet, retrieving a wreath of beautiful blossoms — gold, ochre, and shades of pink. You stepped toward the terrace’s edge, meeting the handsome visage of Daemon Targaryen, with his lance ready to receive your favor.

“Where has your husband been keeping you all this time, my Lady?” Daemon questioned, loud enough for only you to hear. Your breath hitched within your throat at his brashness, lips parting slightly as you cradled your favor between your hands.

Instead, you dipped down, offering the Prince a sheepish smile, wrought with some confusion as you tossed it onto his lance. “Good luck, my Prince. I hope to see your victory in this joust.” You nodded, keeping your formalities intact before you curtsied, swiftly clamoring to find your place beside Otto.

Daemon smirked, his gaze hot enough to melt right through you, if you let it. It never left you, even when you ascended the steps to sit beside your husband, the Rogue Prince ensured that you writhed beneath his watchful eyes.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, Daemon’s incendiary stare was something that you were so unaccustomed to — Otto never looked at you that way, as if you were a treasure, something to be coveted. It left you to mull over your thoughts for the entirety of the tournament.

The carnage that ensued was typical for a joust, especially one with so many warring factions. Men tore one another from their horses, dueled in the dirt, bashed skulls in. The tangy scent of copper filled the air, one that had unfortunately become ingrained in you.

It brought you back to your youth, as you recalled your sister falling from her steed, head crushed to nothingness upon the rocks. The scent of blood would always loom over you like a black cloud for as long as you lived.

Otto glanced toward you, reaching for your hand as he gave it a subtle squeeze. He did not offer any words of reassurance, lips a thin, pensive line before one of the Maesters stepped in behind him, whispering news into his ear. His expression changed instantaneously.

Something was wrong — you could feel it in your marrow.

Alicent looked to you and Otto, and you saw her fingers, picked bloody and raw, and you felt nothing but sympathy. When Otto immediately stood, letting go of your hand, you watched with a furrowed brow as he momentarily disappeared — King Viserys was long gone, absent for a majority of the Tournament.

It was only when Daemon Targaryen and Criston Cole began to duel, that your attention went elsewhere. You watched in subtle awe as Daemon fought, clad in black armor and crimson scales, the colors of House Targaryen. Dark Sister in his right hand, thrusting at the Dornish Knight with an unholy vengeance.

At last, when it ended with Daemon haughtily retreating from the field, you wondered where your husband had gone, disappearing altogether. He had left behind guards to escort you back to the Red Keep, but his absence left you feeling more afraid of the walk back.

Nonetheless, you gathered your skirts, knowing that Alicent had long since left with Rhaenyra. You didn’t worry for her safety — as long as she was with the Princess, no harm would befall her.

“The Hand advised that we take you back to the Keep at once, Lady Hightower.” One of your guards prompted, ushering you towards the stands as the pair assisted you in getting back down. There was a sense of urgency in their steps, but you were confused by it. Had something happened that required Otto’s immediate attention?

You descended the steps from the stand, finding yourself in a sea of nobles and commoners alike, attempting to return to their homes and daily lives. Your guards remained vigilant, assisting you in pushing through towards the stables. There was a quieter path there, a shorter way to the Red Keep.

“This way, my Lady.” One guard made way, allowing you to go first as you made it to the tournament stables. Many of the Knights, those that still drew breath, were collecting their coin and saddling their horses, preparing to make an exit. There was one horse in particular that caught your eye — Daemon’s steed, as black as night.

The Prince himself appeared from the obscured view of the tent, and you nearly scuttled away at the insistence of your protectors, but Daemon saw you first.

“Lady Hightower,” Daemon greeted you, voice often tinged with something sly, a hint of arrogance. Those violet eyes of his bore down upon you as he approached, still clad in his armor. There were smears of dirt upon his face, flecks of crimson, yet it did not detract from his beauty. “Have you come to praise my victory?”

The guards who stood at your flank seemed less than thrilled with this interaction that was forming. They seemed to dislike Daemon as much as Otto did — and you wondered if there was an influence present.

“We are merely passing through, to return to the Red Keep,” Your soft gaze flickered toward Daemon’s horse, admiring its flawless dark coat. “Your horse is beautiful. It served you well through the tournament.”

Daemon noticed that flicker of admiration and happiness within your eyes, coaxing the stallion closer with a mere tug of the reins. He brought it close, close enough for you to touch. “He is yours, if you want him.” His words might’ve struck you as sardonic, but Daemon appeared to be genuine in such an action.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t accept such a gift — and when would you have time to ride, anyway? Otto would never let you past the Keep’s gates, let alone into the forests beyond. “That is too kind of you, my Prince. I am afraid that I must decline — it would be unfair to have a horse that I cannot give any attention to.” You sighed, your features somewhat melancholy.

Fascinating — quite the ironic parallel to your own situation. If you did not see the amusement in it, Daemon most certainly did. “How thoughtful of you, Lady Hightower.” He hesitated, lips twitching into a rather mocking smirk at his next words. “Where is that charming husband of yours?”

You should’ve been offended on Otto’s behalf, especially with the Prince’s contemptuous tone, but you felt nothing. You couldn’t retort, mouth becoming dry as you cleared your throat. “My husband found himself preoccupied with duties as Hand, my Prince. He needed to leave.”

Daemon scoffed, lip curling slightly as he glanced toward your guards. “So he left you with this pathetic display of protection?” The Prince immediately drew the ire of the guards, who seemed less than pleased with Daemon’s remarks. “I could gut them before they could draw their swords.”

“Is that a threat, Commander?” One of your guards hissed, grip tightening upon the pommel of his shortsword. The weight of the scenario made you nervous, prompting you to direct your gaze toward Daemon, whose mouth was upturned in an amused smirk.

“Hardly. It is a promise.” Daemon retorted, hands interlocked atop the pommel of Dark Sister — a legendary blade of Valyrian Steel. You knew that your feeble guards were no match to a swordsman of Daemon’s caliber.

Before steel could be brandished, you immediately extended your hand, anxiousness welling within your heart. It frightened you to be so close to potential violence, but you had some station. “Enough — all of you!” You quipped, hands beginning to quiver.

Daemon chuckled, seemingly perplexed by your sudden display of authority. He did not dispute your call for peace, staring at your guards with a narrowed gaze. “If you are seeking better company than these fucking imbeciles, I will gladly escort you to the Red Keep, Lady Hightower.”

You shouldn’t — Otto would be so displeased.

Every fiber of your body screamed at you to turn away Prince Daemon’s proposal. It was improper, and you knew that your Lord husband would become cantankerous if he were to find out that Daemon was near you, let alone providing passage back to the Red Keep.

He could sense your hesitation, born out of loyalty to your withering husband, Daemon assumed. The conflict that danced within your eyes was one that he wholly intended on manipulating — you were much too sweet. The Prince clicked his tongue, awaiting your response.

“It isn’t a difficult question, my Lady.” Perhaps, his tone might’ve put you off just a little bit, but he was confident that you would accept. Daemon regarded you with those lilac hues of his, calculating and sly.

“Yes,” You interjected, much to the disdain of your guards, “but my guards will stay with me.” It was the smartest option — if you were left alone with Daemon, you feared what rumors could be spun from such an action. You were naive at times, but not completely stupid.

Daemon knew this — he knew your intentions, but he also knew his own. With a sardonic laugh, he readied his belongings, gesturing to take your leave onto the cobblestone streets. “Do you have such little trust in your Prince?”

A ripple of heat fluttered over your features, subsiding just as quickly as it came. You twisted your hands together, fingers interlocked as you fell quiet. Daemon’s salacious reputation followed him like a shadow — violent, promiscuous, and arrogant. It was common knowledge that the Prince possessed crude interests.

“It is not that, my Prince. My Lord Husband will wonder why the guards are at the Keep before I am. I do not want him to worry — he has enough to attend to as it is as Hand of the King.” A threadbare excuse, at best, but much to your relief, Daemon let the matter rest, for now.

The violet-eyed Prince let out a scoff at that, yet he elected not to fluster you further. Your announcement of Otto’s station was most amusing, as if he needed reminding. He joined you, walking side-by-side as you made it onto the noble path back to the Red Keep. It was a safer trek than taking the commoner’s route.

Silence filled the gap between you both, with your guards tailing you and Daemon, ensuring that no one interfered with such royal affairs. He was growing quite bored with the lack of conversation — especially with someone like you. You were interesting and new, something to be inspected.

“Isn’t it the duty of a husband to attend to his wife?” Daemon questioned, attempting to toy with you. He thoroughly enjoyed getting under Otto Hightower’s skin, but admittedly, he did want to know more about you. You were beautiful — a pretty maiden hanging upon the Hand’s arm; he wondered how that came to be.

Your jaw tightened, causing your frustration to brew as you held your skirts within one hand, continuing to make your way up the steps. “Why are you not in the Vale with Lady Royce, if that is what you truly think?” You quipped, somewhat unnerved with how he picked apart your marriage.

Otto wasn’t attentive — if anything, he only became attentive when appearances mattered most. There was no desire nor genuine interaction outside of that. You lived a very lonely life, even if it seemed so wonderful and lavish on the outside.

Daemon chuckled, bemused by your fiery retort. You became so flustered whenever he successfully managed to poke and prod at you. “I’ve no interest in my Bronze Bitch,” He replied, his tone dripping with an underlying venom, “The sheep in the Vale are prettier.”

You huffed, brows furrowing together. This seemed like a horrible idea, allowing Daemon to escort you back to the Keep. He was crass and unpredictable, yet you couldn’t help but find some merit in his examination of your relationship with Otto.

“I am sure that there are plenty of worthwhile subjects in your City to keep you satisfied, my Prince. This isn’t the Vale.” You exhaled, exasperated and agitated that Otto had simply left you at the Tournament grounds.

He could sense it — your repression, the twinge of desperation laced within your voice. Daemon didn’t expect any wife of Otto Hightower to be truly sated and satisfied, but you were the true picture of a jewel locked away in a chest, or hidden beneath mounds of soot. No one had bothered to truly see you as you were.

Emboldened, Daemon knew that tempting you with pretty words could have consequences — fortunately for him, he didn’t care in the slightest. “The only worthwhile subject is standing before me.” He countered, lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk.

A shiver ran down the length of your spine, heart galloping just a little faster when Daemon brazenly showered you in his silver-tongued sayings. You hadn’t been spoken to in such a manner before, and as much as you should’ve countered it, you didn’t.

Heat crept through your features as you kept your head down, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “I do not know what you speak of, my Prince.” Your reply was weak, soft spoken as you continued on your path back to the Red Keep. You didn’t want to reveal just how warm it made you feel.

“I believe you do,” Daemon mused, stepping close enough to you to ensure that the guards wouldn’t eavesdrop. “Surely, your Lord Husband has offered you such pleasure before, has he not?” His Valyrian timbre made your breath hitch within your throat.

“Prince Daemon,” You were in disbelief at his brashness, at how forward he was being with you. You didn’t want to indulge him — yet part of you did. “You must stop.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, strained and throaty. The silence became overwhelming as you made it toward the gates of the Red Keep.

When his name rolled from your tongue, Daemon’s lilac hues glistened with something indiscernible. He enjoyed the way you said his name — trembling and uncertain, as if he had revealed some horrible truth to you. Instead, the Prince stared at you, looking toward the gates.

“As you wish,” Daemon’s arrogance wafted from him like a thick haze, enough to permeate your immediate space. The Prince opted to shift the subject matter to something more appropriate — for your own sake, of course. “I suspect that I will have a nephew, soon enough.”

Daemon sounded indifferent, as if the prospect of a nephew wasn’t at all a pleasant idea. It would make him lower in the ranking of succession, you knew this. Otto had made multiple campaigns against Daemon to keep him from reaching the Iron Throne. Their rivalry was petty, as far as you were concerned.

Your steps slowed, keeping pace with Daemon as you made your way to the gates of the Red Keep. “You don’t sound very jovial, for an uncle.” You replied, and your observation seemed to catch his attention. “King Viserys is your brother. Are you not excited?”

A scoff escaped him as he stared at you, violet hues narrowing at your perceptiveness. “Is that how I seem to you, Lady Hightower? Devoid of joy?” Daemon smiled disparagingly, perching a palm atop the pommel of his blade.

Swallowing the slight lump within your throat, you detected his shackled fury, and you did not want to provoke the dragon any further. “My apologies, your Grace. I did not mean to be presumptuous.” You replied, fingers curling into your skirts.

“Of course you didn’t,” Daemon mused, lips twitching into a sardonic smirk. He seemed to believe you — though, part of your line of questioning felt personal, in retaliation for his jabs about your Lord Husband. “Have you been permitted to see the Dragonpit?”

Of the many places in King’s Landing, Daemon often longed to be on the back of Caraxes — or with his blade driven into any that crossed his path. You hadn’t been to see the Dragonpit yourself, considering that a lady of your station could never go many places unaccompanied.

“No, my Prince.” Disappointment danced within your voice, pace slowing again to keep in-step with Daemon. “I would love to see it, if allowed. Dragons are gorgeous creatures, symbols of your strength.” With a soft sigh, you looked to the Red Keep, looming overhead.

Daemon stepped closer, in close quarters as he looked down at you, noticing the subtle hitch within your throat. “Hm,” He glanced at your stalwart escorts, lilac eyes flickering over your pretty countenance. He dipped closer, lips ghosting near the shell of your ear. “Should your husband release you from your shackles, I could show you.”

A strange wave of gooseflesh crawled along the length of your spine, brows furrowing together as you recoiled, as if being scorched. You looked to Daemon with bewilderment, lip curling slightly as you regained your composure. “Your offer is a gracious one, your Grace.” You murmured.

It often shocked you how reckless Daemon was — abrasive and careless with his position. He could bed whomever he wanted, fuck and fight whenever it best suited him. It wasn’t a possibility for you, a noblewoman married to the Hand of the King. Part of you wished you could be afforded the liberties of a man like Daemon, but it was merely a fantasy.

Silence drifted between the both of you, enough to bring you some discomfort as you heard the doors to the Red Keep creak open. Daemon’s incendiary stare never wavered, never faltered as he kept his eyes on you. Your guardsmen were less than thrilled, but kept quiet as the two of you stepped into the hall.

“This is where I bid you farewell, my Prince.” Your voice was shrewd, nothing more than the soft lull of a mouse. Daemon regarded you with the ghost of a smirk, bowing before you as any gentleman would.

“I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Hightower.” Daemon replied, glancing toward a group of Targaryen guards that made their way to him. Your own escorts were happy to take advantage of the gap in attention, whisking you away into the depths of the Red Keep.

The atmosphere had shifted, from jovial and celebratory to eerie and desolate, somber — servants and nobles alike seemed riddled with melancholy, their heads hung low. Whispers of a fallen heir touched your ears, and then you understood why Otto had left in such a hurry.

Queen Aemma and her newborn son were dead.

You remembered what the air smelled like, the day of your sister’s funeral — you recalled the swaying of golden grass against stone, those in-mourning unable to stifle their tears. It was your mother that had wailed the most, draped across the terrace where her body lay, cloaked by a funerary shroud.

Now, the memories seemed to dance along the fringes of your mind, standing within the open plain far from King’s Landing, along the coastline of Blackwater Bay. Salty air peppered your flesh in soft kisses, eyes stinging with the onslaught of tears.

The despondent look on King Viserys’s face had harkened back to your youth, moments that still haunted your steps. You stood beside Otto, who appeared resolute despite the tragedy, but even you could see the wisps of empathy that flickered across his countenance. Stoicism was his forte, but even death could break the strongest man apart.

Daemon appeared somber, violet hues occasionally drifting toward his brother, the King, who let out a muffled sob as Rhaenyra set the funeral pyre ablaze. Dragon’s fire would return dragons to ash, to the great beyond. You admired the strength of the Princess, even through dour moments like this.

Once the burning of Queen Aemma and Baelon had ended, what nobles were left gathered amongst themselves to pay their respects, to the deceased and to the King. Viserys seemed indifferent, so far removed from the moment as his subjects offered their condolences.

Otto’s hand pressed into the small of your back, the first comforting gesture that he’d offered, completely unprovoked. He dipped down, enough to murmur words reserved for you and him. “The King will need my council during these dark times,” He uttered, “Now more than ever.”

You nodded, knowing that it implied Otto would be less present than he already was. His lips briefly graced the crown of your head before he slipped past, stepping towards King Viserys and Rhaenyra.

Standing alone, you opted to wander, venturing away from the melancholy gathering and toward the sea of wheatgrass that danced with the saltwater breeze. The scent of the ocean filled your lungs, made them whole — it was far better than that of King’s Landing.

Rays of a dying sun sparkled down upon you, licking your flesh with a comforting warmth that you savored. It was enough to make you exhale, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined yourself worlds away, or perhaps sailing out to sea, where it was only your hands that guided you.

The evening breeze jostled your tresses, blanketing your face with its softness. The tears that had prickled your eyes no longer made residence there as you hastily wiped them aside, hands wringing together before you.

Footsteps reverberated from your left side, as the shape of Prince Daemon came into your view. Despite the whirlwind of emotions he’d left you with earlier that day, you were inclined to place them aside. His dark tunic, lined in dragonscales, glittered beneath the waning sunlight.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Prince Daemon. I cannot imagine the pain of losing two of your family in one day,” You murmured, lips forming a pensive line as you looked at the Targaryen. He was unusually quiet for a spell, which prompted you to fill in the void. “I hope that your brother will recover.”

“He is the Dragon,” Daemon echoed, hands folded in front of him. “He will endure.” As for the Prince, there was some discomfort knowing that such a bloody fate had befallen Aemma. His sister-by-law had always been a devoted wife and good mother, and such a loving woman was difficult to come by. “My sister was a good woman.”

You had met Queen Aemma on multiple occasions, and she was pure — softhearted and kind, with a gentle visage that was sure to put anyone at ease. “She was,” You lamented, echoing Daemon’s sentiments with a threadbare smile. “And a good Queen.”

That was something Daemon could not argue with, violet hues finally shifting away from the horizon and onto you, a picture of beauty. Even in black tapestries, the color of mourning, you were still rather enchanting. Tenderness blossomed from within you, a soft heart — it was enough to temper Daemon, for just a moment.

He searched your visage, able to detect the growing dolour that became etched into your features. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, many that threatened to spill over as you twisted your fingers together. “The last funeral that I attended was that of my sister,” You uttered, facing Daemon with a bitter smile. “I hoped that I would not have to attend another.”

A sister — Daemon was somewhat inquisitive regarding the finer details of your life, but he did not want to pry at the present. “Unfortunately, you will find that death is constant and unyielding,” He offered little consolation, but it was the hard truth. “Though, I trust that you will endure, just as my brother will.”

Daemon was often harsh and crass, always a realist with little desire to pull the wool over another’s eyes unless it was for personal gain. He knew that you were sweet, too malleable for this world — he hoped to see you blossom into something strong. With Otto Hightower for a husband, any woman would become as tough as steel.

Part of you wished for flowery words of reassurance from Daemon, but you found none — just a stoicism with an inkling of empathy. Though, you weren’t expecting much, and Otto would be of little comfort, too.

“You are more than just a wife, if you choose it. Do not allow yourself to sit underneath his boot forever.” Daemon murmured, boldly stepping inward to get a better look at you. Your subdued nature was partially Otto’s fault — he blamed the Hand for your sheltered demeanor, for your loneliness.

A brief stirring sensation erupted within your chest, and you looked to Daemon, a singular tear spilling across your forlorn features. “I do not have your luxuries, my Prince — I cannot bed whom I want, go wherever I please, abandon my husband — duty is everything. It may not mean anything to you, but it means something to me.” You quipped, your voice hushed yet strained.

Daemon huffed, lips curling slightly, as if to express disdain. Part of him understood your deep-rooted frustration, but perhaps he simply wanted to pass on his recklessness to you. “Quite presumptuous of you to assume that I care little for duty,” He replied, easily crawling beneath your skin. “You can do whatever you please, once you stop being so afraid.”

You nearly recoiled from him, clearly stung by the attack on your character. His assumption of your fear made you bristle, nostrils flaring as you turned your face away to mask the swell of anger. “This is where I leave you, Prince Daemon.” You hissed between gritted teeth, hands curled into fistfuls within your skirts.

He found your irritation to be somewhat perplexing — you were so repressed, tangled within your devotion to Otto and constant desolation. Daemon said nothing, merely watching as you retreated into the shadow of your Lord Husband.

You wouldn’t dare look back at Daemon — even as you felt those lilac hues pierce your defenses, you refused him, and made your way back with Otto.

If it were up to you, you would never see Daemon Targaryen again.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐥𝐢���𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 — there was no joy to be found anywhere. With the King’s son and wife deceased, the idea of succession was called into question by the small Council. Part of you felt disgusted by the suddenness of such a meeting, especially while the King was in mourning.

Otto cared little for such things. It was imperative that an heir be chosen — or produced yet again, by means of a new betrothal for the King.

Despite the melancholy atmosphere of the Keep, your thoughts remained disorganized and scattered, preoccupied with Daemon Targaryen — and that was a dangerous thing. After his whispered inquiry of pleasure, his berating of you at the funeral, you could not rid him from your mind no matter how much you tried.

Any attempt to flush the Prince’s brazen advances out of your mind were met with a powerful resistance — the other half of you that had little desire to forget. In all honesty, you wanted to know what it was like to be coveted and sought-after, to feel true pleasure, understand its intricacies.

The other half demanded that you reject him, unleash your shackled wrath upon him. He vexed you like no other had before — he far exceeded that of Otto. Daemon had crawled beneath your flesh and taken up permanent residency there, and he would continue to do so unless you plucked up the courage to put a stop to it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep — Otto was nowhere to be found, meeting within the dead of night with the rest of the small Council. Even if he weren’t caught within a meeting, he seldom came to bed with you. He was often in his study, mulling over books, writing letters, attending to matters that didn’t involve you.

You were never involved in much of anything.

Frustration festered within you, rising like the swell of an encroaching tide. Clad in your evening gown, you retrieved a candlestick, slipping out of the Tower of the Hand and into the corridors of the Red Keep. Midnight strolls were not an uncommon thing for you, but this one proved to be more than just elusive sleep.

Your path led you dangerously close to the Small Council chambers, but as you approached, a figure stood outside of one wall, leering in through the tiny gaps. Light slipped through, providing faint illumination onto the face of Daemon Targaryen.

The Prince had been eavesdropping, curious to know about their intentions for succession. Should Viserys pass, the Iron Throne would fall to Daemon — but they wouldn’t allow it. Otto, in particular, was rather vocal in the push against Daemon as the rightful heir.

Daemon turned, craning to peer over his shoulder. Those shadowed, lilac hues drifted across you, your supple form glad in some lace-laden nightgown. Your hair had been pinned-up when he saw you last, and now, it was freed from its confines. He found you to be a visual feast for the eyes — beautiful beyond compare.

In the background, you listened to the squabbling from the Council members, the infighting over who would become heir. It disgusted you, the manner in which they conducted themselves — the Queen and her son were deceased, and the only thing that preoccupied them were the rights of succession.

The silence that lingered between you and Daemon was necessary, necessary enough for you to hear the numerous slanders that your Lord Husband hurled at the Prince. Their hatred continued to fester, and for as long as Otto Hightower lived and thrived in a position of power, he would plague Daemon’s every step.

At last, Daemon stepped away from his eavesdropping, moving towards you instead. “Looking for your husband, Lady Hightower?” He questioned, his voice rich as it dipped lower, hushed and soft enough for only you to hear. The narrow corridor you stood within was as silent as a crypt, not a guard in-sight.

You shook your head, lowering the candle toward your chest. Warmth brushed across your exposed collarbone, and you glanced at Daemon, lips parting slightly. “I could not sleep,” You confessed, teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “I suspect that you are here for a different reason.”

Concealed within the listless shadows of the corridor, Daemon took a step closer, nearly within arm’s reach. His mouth curled into that familiar, cheshire smirk — and it worried you. “What reason would that be, my Lady?” He questioned, head canting slightly.

The calculated way in which he stalked towards you left you feeling somewhat unnerved, hand cupped around the flickering light of the candle. Whatever look he had in his eyes, it mirrored the one he’d given you at the Tournament earlier that day — incendiary and lascivious.

“To see if you will ascend the Throne.” Daemon’s ambition was well-known — and sometimes, his ambition drove him to recklessness and ruthlessness. You knew about his displays of violence as Commander of the City Watch, his prowess with a blade.

Daemon scoffed, continuing to press closer to you, looming above you. The candlelight flickered across his sharp visage, basking him in an orange glow that touched his violet hues. His lips remained permanently fixed into a perplexed smirk, his hand reaching to grab your chin.

As if scorched, you jerked away, brows furrowing together as you glowered at him. “I do not want to see you anymore,” You mumbled, shaking your head with an air of defiance. “You’ve angered me.”

A sardonic chuckle escaped him, enough to further your agitation. It pricked away at your flesh, giving way to a layer of perspiration as it crept along your spine. “Angered you, is that it?” Daemon questioned, attempting to make you writhe. “If you truly wish to be rid of me, walk away — go back to the Hand’s bed.” He challenged.

Your heart slammed within your sternum, lip curling in disdain as you shook your head. The tension crackled between the two of you, one charged with a dangerous desire and anger — two overpowering emotions. “All you care for is the throne.” You whispered, yet your words held no merit at all.

It was something Otto would’ve hurled at him, and you were not your husband — you were far from it.

It was a feeble attempt to bait Daemon into anger just as he had so easily baited you. He was not quick to fall to your ploy, and instead, he happened to stare at you as if you were everything he’d ever wanted. It made you shiver — no one had looked at you like that before.

“You think me so singleminded, Lady Hightower,” He uttered, thumb tracing along your jawline. “I have little interest in the Throne.” In an unexpected move, he dipped forward, lips ghosting around the shell of your ear. “I am far more interested in you.”

Goosebumps cascaded down the length of your spine, and fear rippled through you at Daemon’s close quarters. You were terrified of someone seeing you with the Prince, and you stepped back, wrenching yourself free from his grasp. “This is inappropriate, my Prince. I am afraid you are experiencing a severe lapse in judgment.”

As you began to retreat away from the Council chambers and into the darkness of the corridor, Daemon followed, a predator trailing after prey. He cornered you into an alcove, his chuckle bemused and sardonic.

“My judgment is sound — the only judgment that will be called into question is your own,” He challenged, pinning you against the smooth stone of the wall. His hand cupped your hip, keeping you locked into place. “My poor, sweet Lady Hightower, left untouched and without a lick of attention from your dutiful husband.” Daemon clicked his tongue.

You shuddered, attempting to squirm and ward Daemon away, but he simply kept up his pursuit. “Please,” You whispered, fright filling your startled heart. The Prince’s lust had grown astronomically — all for you, this hidden jewel now within his grasp. “We can’t, Prince Daemon. Someone might see.” You urged.

Daemon seemed unconvinced, lips hovering above your own, tempting you in the most unholy way imaginable. That strong hand that held your hip began to knead into the flesh there, desiring to feel your bare skin. “Fuck everyone else.” He uttered, hot breath fanning across your countenance.

A soft whimper escaped you, and every fiber of your being cried out for him — you wanted this, wanted him to show you what true pleasure felt like. You watched as he inclined his head, blowing the candle out with a faint grin, leaving the both of you in darkness, save for the moonlight that pooled within the halls.

“I can’t, I don’t …” You whispered, voice mousy and meek, yet your resolve was crumbling away, revealing your soul, bare and angry. Part of you loathed Otto for never showing you affection, never indulging in desire, yet the other half of you yearned for the Rogue Prince to steal your virtue. “Daemon.”

It was guilt that had consumed you, initially — the guilt of betraying your husband, despite his lack of desire towards you. You never had anything for yourself — perhaps this could be the one thing. A clenched fist pushed against his chest, but you were weak.

“Why continue to wait for something that will never come, hm? Toil over a man that doesn’t want you?” Daemon questioned, his voice dropping to a sultry octave, a purr that raked across your spine. His hand began to gather your gown, bunching it up to allow him easier access.

“You — You vex me,” You whimpered, knowing that you were simply a rabbit trapped within the maw of a dragon, and perhaps, that was where you wanted to be. “You don’t want me.” It was a valiant attempt to talk yourself out of it, to convince yourself that you were unwanted.

Daemon peppered a string of hot kisses along your jaw, grabbing at your chin to tip your head back. “You don’t know what I want.” He murmured, his stare shadowed with lust. He kissed the side of your face, forehead briefly resting against yours as you considered the sin that you were about to commit.

It was liberating when you no longer thought of sin, and simply thought of your own needs and wants.

His unspoken pressure finally broke your carefully-constructed barrier, and you leaned upwards, rocking forward until you crashed into him. You dropped the candlestick, yet it made little noise. Your lips, soft and compliant, melded with his own — domineering and triumphant. Need blistered through, and he kissed you with such blazing passion.

You felt his other hand shamelessly move toward your neck, flexing underneath your jaw as he kissed you over and over again. You hadn’t experienced such passion before — and you never wanted it to end.

Daemon coaxed you closer, countenance one of sheer lust and possessiveness. His thumb traced across your lower lip, hand snug around your throat before he looked elsewhere. “Fucking is a pleasure, for a woman as it is a man,” He uttered, noticing the hitch in your throat. “I am certain your Lord Husband never bothered with it.”

Abashed, you shook your head, reveling in the sensation of his hand firmly kneading into your hip. “No, my Prince. He did not,” You paused, your hand finding its way to his chest, fingers curling into his tunic. “Would you show me?” It was a fine line, a perilous one — but you did not care, not anymore.

You hadn’t felt desire quite like this in your life — but you wanted it, more than anything else. The void within you, repression tangled up into a ball wound so tightly that it might explode — Daemon stoked the fire, and he seemed eager to let you come undone. You wanted Daemon.

In High Valyrian, he spoke one word. “Māzigon.” Come — Daemon’s hand slipped around yours, urging you away from the small Council chambers and into the depths of the Red Keep. Your trek led you to unfamiliar parts of the castle, some left untouched and unused.

The dust-laden doors led you to a small study, sparsely furnished, yet all Daemon truly needed was a surface wide enough to bear your body. There was a chaise lounge, with a thick direwolf’s hide serving as the rug in front of the darkened hearth. The remnants of an old, four-post bed sat off within the room somewhere, just as dour as the rest of the room.

No one would find you here.

Moonlight pooled through the two large windows, enough for you to see his porcelain, perfect features, tinged with silver. His platinum tresses turned to white, violet hues drinking you in with a ravenous hunger. Rapture and lust, a smoldering desire to make you give into him.

Daemon’s hands cupped either side of your neck, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw at the other flicked against your lower lip. “Tepagon ezīmagon nyke,” He purred, towering over you as he dipped down, kissing along your jaw. “Take off your clothes.” His command was stern yet dripping with carnality.

If it weren’t for the sheer intensity of the moment, you might’ve become flustered, but instead, your hands flew toward the ribbons and ties of your gown. You shrugged the lace-laden shawl aside, allowing the garment to simply drop around your feet.

Your body was perfect — Daemon wanted it all for himself. If the Hand would not indulge in you, then he would. The Prince let out a low hum, admiring your silky flesh and delicate curves, hand skimming from the hollow of your throat to your breasts.

“For this to be hidden away for so long,” Daemon uttered, hand moving to greedily cup your breast. It elicited a sweet gasp from you, unexpected yet exhilarating. “Is a fucking crime.” He growled, and without another word, he moved to kiss you, like fire washing over you, all-consuming and devouring.

Instinct drove you as your hands clamored to the nape of his neck, tugging at the silken crown of pale tresses there. Daemon seemed pleased by this, teeth grazing along your lower lip before he bit down, eliciting a whine from you. He thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of you underneath his palm — as soft as velvet.

His tongue lapped across your lower lip, soothing the ache brought about by the sharp bite of his teeth. He kissed you hard, lips parted, the action warm and wet — he imagined tasting something else, head clouded with the unshakable haze of lust.

“Daemon,” You whimpered, abandoning all titles and formalities. He no longer referred to you as Lady Hightower — that wasn’t who you were anymore, not to him. One of your palms dropped to his chest, hesitantly fiddling with the ties of his tunic. “I want to see you.”

Perplexed, the Prince kissed your throat, head canting to one side. “Have you seen a man before, jorrāelagon?” He questioned, partially bemused yet curious to hear your answer. His affectionate High Valyrian caught your attention, causing a small tremor to roll along the base of your spine.

Sheepishly, you shook your head. Otto had never bothered to bear himself at all, and to some extent, you could understand — he was aging, and the attraction was most certainly slim. “No, I haven’t — but I’d like to.” You shivered when Daemon pulled you close, palm cupping your hip before it brazenly traveled to your haunch.

Any sliver of space between the two of you became nonexistent, replaced with heat and tension, bodies entangled into one. Your digits danced along the collar of his dragonscale tunic, imagining what strength and prowess rested beneath.

Instead, he peered at your wandering fingers, brows briefly lifting as if to encourage you. “Go on, then.” Daemon coaxed, his voice somewhat gravelly and pitched lower, interlaced with a burning desire. He watched with rapture as you slowly unfastened the ties and buckles of his tunic.

Daemon thought about being rough — grabbing your throat and fucking you into the lounge without a second thought, but he wanted to explore you. Your repression wasn’t your fault, and he felt some sense of triumph in fucking the wife of the Hand.

He shrugged his tunic aside, letting the garment fall to join the pool of lace and silk upon the floor. He was pale and well-muscled, a vision of perfection. Your hands began to glide across his broad shoulders, and then to his chest and abdomen.

Admittedly, Daemon savored the sensation of you touching him, exploring him — something about it was sickly sweet. “Have you touched yourself before, my Lady?” Daemon asked, pointed and unwilling to go without a direct answer.

Flustered, you nodded, seemingly embarrassed in regards to such actions. “Yes,” You exhaled, skin hot to the touch. “I know I shouldn’t have, but —“ Daemon stopped you with a kiss, hungry and needy, teeth nipping at your mouth with a subtle growl.

“Afraid that your Lord Husband will admonish you for it?” The Prince smirked, violet eyes glinting with a twinge of humor. Your expression reflected a whirlwind of emotions — from desire, lust, and embarrassment to a flicker of sadness and frustration. Daemon decided to leave it all alone and focus on you.

He coaxed you toward the plush velvet of the chaise lounge, sitting down with an unceremonious thud. Daemon was quick to collect you into his lap, all perfect and spread for him. A lustful silence filled the void between you both as he kissed your neck, calloused hands gripping the swell of your hips.

“Allow me to rectify your husband’s wrongs,” Daemon chided, kissing along the hollow of your throat, teeth sinking into your sensitive flesh. You moaned and whined, writhing atop him, chest pressed against his. “You are beautiful.” He said with such assurance, causing you to shudder.

Daemon’s ring-adorned hand snaked along the length of your body, finding the apex between your thighs, warm and slick with arousal. As soon as his thumb and forefinger slipped past your folds, you lurched forward, letting out a gasp of surprise.

The sensation was foreign yet pleasurable, like an electrifying jolt rolling down your spine. His mouth relentlessly assaulted your sweet flesh, leaving behind a myriad of bites and less than desirable markings. Your scent — a concoction of lavish perfumes and oils — invaded his senses like a thick haze.

His digits deliberately explored your cunt, every touch eliciting some strangled sound from you. You felt his fingers tease your entrance before sliding back towards your clit, flicking across that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your heart pounded within your chest, slamming against your breastbone like a drum.

“Daemon,” You moaned, back arching as you absentmindedly leaned into the Prince’s embrace. One of your palms molded itself to his bicep, the other continued to clutch at the nape of his neck. “Please, don’t stop!” With a needy whine, your hips rolled forward, attempting to gain a lick of friction. You wanted him to keep touching you there — forever, if he could.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs. It felt incredible — it was everything you’d ever wanted and more. Nothing could compare to the bliss that rolled through you.

The Prince continued with assailing your flesh, kissing his way across your collarbone, dipping low enough to find the perfect swell of your breasts. A low rumble resonated through Daemon’s chest, one of clear approval as he took one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking on the hardened peak.

A strangled whimper escaped you, one of clear delight. You hadn’t experienced any of this before — you wanted more, as much as Daemon was willing to give you. You gasped when his teeth dragged across your breast, causing you to jolt forward.

Ensuring that you would be well tended-to, Daemon sank his fingers forward, vigorously tracing across your cunt as his thumb did a majority of the work. Ripples of bliss rolled across your body in waves, and you rocked forward enough to ride his hand.

“Daemon!” You moaned, feeling his mouth drift away from your chest to the hollow of your throat. His teeth were sudden and sharp, nipping and biting wherever he pleased, one hand steadying you atop his lap. The other began to snake towards your neck, calloused digits able to feel the pounding of your heartbeat.

You whimpered his name as if it were the only word you knew — and for as sinful as it felt, you found yourself abandoning all sense of care and propriety. Daemon made you feel incredible, in ways that you had merely dreamed of.

As Daemon traced two digits along your slick entrance, his lilac hues fell across your visage, searching for any signs of hesitation. You felt the brief pressure, one hand comfortably sitting at the nape of his neck, the other gripping at his shoulder.

Deliberately, he began to sink two fingers inside of you, watching as your countenance blossomed into a look of bliss and startlement. Daemon soothed your worry with a kiss, head canting to one side as to deepen it, and you followed, flesh crawling with warmth.

A soft, smothered moan escaped you as he gingerly eased both digits in and out of your tight cunt, enough to make you gasp. The sensation was foreign yet incredible, enough for you to rock forward, brow furrowed in concentration. Daemon continued to litter your neck in kisses and bites, hand groping the swell of your plush hips.

“There she is,” Daemon growled against the hollow of your throat, lips traveling upward until they collided against yours. It was a messy, hot kiss, one that made your stomach slosh with molten heat. “A woman deprived of pleasure.” He murmured, prompting you to kiss him again, needy and desperate.

Some sliver of you knew how wrong this was — the infidelity, the disloyalty to your Lord husband, the selfishness that weighed upon you — you should’ve been aghast. Yet, in the heat of the moment, you thought little of it, content to let Daemon Targaryen finger-fuck you into a blissful oblivion.

You were lost to your own ecstasy, thoroughly reveling in the myriad of sensations you were now getting to experience. “Daemon,” You sighed against his mouth, feeling his teeth briefly scrape across your lower lip. “I want more.” A groan escaped you as his digits began to still, thumb circling your clit.

As he slowly removed his fingers from your tight heat, Daemon brazenly groped at your breast, pale brows furrowing together as he began to untie the laces of his trousers. You steeled yourself, feeling a brief pang of anxiousness strike at your gut. You knew that it was supposed to hurt, and the very thought frightened you.

“More?” Daemon echoed, the shadow of lust dancing within his eyes as he deposited you onto the lounge, hands seizing your ankles as he dragged you to the precipice. Without pause, he sank to his knees, broad and beautiful between your legs as he kissed your thigh. “You’ll have to beg me for it.”

You exhaled, sharp and excitable as your hand fell to the edge of the chaise lounge, nails digging into the wood and velvet. “Please,” You whispered, shifting atop the cushion as Daemon bit at your soft flesh. “Please, Daemon!” The sound that left you was pathetic — simpering, even.

He enjoyed hearing you whine — it was a stark reminder of what Otto Hightower could never have. Daemon’s mouth maintained the barest hint of a smirk, pressing a string of kisses toward the warmth between your legs. You were silk and saccharine beneath his fingertips, feverishly warm.

The first stroke of his tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that set you ablaze. Whimpers turned to ash within your throat, flesh unnaturally hot — you melted beneath Daemon, and that was exactly what he wanted.

A shiver coursed down your spine, hips canting forward toward Daemon’s mouth. His breath was hot, warm wisps of air fanning out across your slit. It was heavenly — you nearly forgot yourself, moaning his name as you fisted the cushions on either side of you.

His hum was satisfactory, tongue dancing along your weeping core, drinking you in like a fine wine. The cool, silver bite of his ring dug into your hips, his grip ironclad, enough to leave bruises behind.

If Daemon had it his way, he would bruise you again — in the light of day, able to see his marks etched into your flesh, knowing that they were his creation. Possessiveness swelled within him, an ugly and festering thing — he wanted you terribly.

Pleasure rippled through you, consuming every fiber of your being. Daemon’s mouth found your clit, suckling at the clutch of fiery nerves. You gasped, nails digging into your palm, thighs attempting to rub together, kept apart by the Prince’s broad shoulders.

“Daemon,” You moaned, your jaw falling slack as you rolled forward into his maw. A soft huff escaped you as his tongue caressed your cunt, returning to assail your clit again. It was bliss overwhelming, prompting you to reach for his shoulders. “Daemon!”

Tension furled within the pit of your stomach, a familiar knot of ecstasy that brought you closer to the edge. Daemon’s mouth sluggishly receded, peppering kisses and love bites along your inner thighs. He licked his lower lip, violet hues threatening to burn through you.

Your chest rose and fell with the throes of excitement, skin prickling with anticipation. Daemon kissed your hip, moving to stand between your legs. He loomed over you, physique eclipsing all inklings of firelight — a shadow of desire.

He stepped back toward the mound of furs, silently gesturing for you to follow. “Lie down.” Daemon purred, his voice more of a lascivious command instead of a question. With a simple pull, he loosened the strings of his smallclothes, gaze hooded.

A whimper nearly erupted from your throat, never coming to fruition as you stood from the lounge, following Daemon’s lead. You slipped down onto the furs, with only the moonlight as your guide. Your legs parted for him, expectant and waiting.

The loss of one’s maidenhead was often rumored to be an intense and bloody affair — it no longer frightened you like it used to. Daemon stepped out of his leather trousers, bare and statuesque before you, a porcelain god come to claim you.

Moonlight bathed his flesh in a sea of silver, pale rays dancing across his ivory complexion. There was something calculating and predatory in the way he moved, a confidence that few possessed. He sank down, crawling between your legs as he reached your mouth.

Lips clashed again, a dance of desire as the head of his cock brazenly brushed along your slick cunt. Daemon was sizable, to be sure, a man with a plethora of experience. You shuddered when he planted a hand beside your head, the other gripping your hip.

Again, the head of his length threatened to split past your folds, oozing with tendrils of precum as he kissed you once more. It was ravenous, with all the ferocity and vigor of a dragon as he prepared to rock his hips forward. His broad physique kept you spread apart, molten heat churning within your belly.

Daemon finally snapped his hips forward, cock sheathing itself inside of you with little resistance. You gasped, the intrusion somewhat painful and discomforting at first, but he made sure to distract you, pressing hot kisses along your neck. He wasn’t gentle, leaving behind evidence of his affections in the form of flourishing marks.

His cock bullied its way into your cunt, stretching you in new ways, a different sensation from his fingers or yours. Daemon grunted, a huff escaping him as he allowed you a moment to adjust, grow used to the feeling.

Your countenance blossomed with pleasure, gaze a touch smoldering as you found Daemon’s visage. Those violet hues continued to devour you, a visual delight to the Rogue Prince as he fucked you. It wasn’t as rough as he typically was, opting to spare you from the brunt of his usual debauchery.

He found a rhythm, each movement succinct and sharp, hips driving forward as his cock buried itself within you with each thrust. You moaned, feeling the occasional dull ache of pain as you surrendered your virtue to Daemon, nails digging haplessly into the muscle of his shoulders.

Part of you forgot about decency and honor, trampling it into the dirt as Daemon speared you with his length. Friction grew between the both of you, flesh against flesh, perspiration building along your brow. Heat openly oozed between you, cunt slick with arousal.

The angry lines of your eager nails raked over Daemon’s shoulders, the remnants of your sin. He seemed to be savoring your roughness, throat reverberating with a myriad of grunts and softer, subtle groans.

“Turn over.” Daemon huffed, able to detect a flicker of confusion within your gaze. Admittedly, seeing your pretty face contort into one of bliss as he fucked you was rather enticing, but he was chasing after his release.

Silent, you did as he asked, turning over onto your stomach. Something about the newfound position made you shiver with anticipation, and you gasped as Daemon grabbed your hips. He lifted half of you from the furs, hips pressing into the swell of your backside.

He guided his cock back to your slit, thrusting inside of you as he assumed a quick, needy pace. Daemon’s palms squeezed at your hips, layering over the already-formed bruises from earlier endeavors. He split you asunder; a clash of lewd noises filled the room, accompanied by your intermingled sighs of passion.

You moaned, hands scraping across the direwolf hide beneath you, gripping at the furs as Daemon plunged himself into you. His motions were repetitive, intensifying in their erratic pace as he grunted. You were perfect — the noises that emerged from you only served to encourage him, unbeknownst to you.

Liquid heat oozed between your thighs, arousal spilling onto Daemon’s cock. You were teetering along the brink of a blissful oblivion, feeling your pleasure mount. Daemon’s hand slithered between your legs, thumb rolling over your clit to give you some stimulation.

It was as if the dam had shattered, consumed by the squall of lust as you whimpered. A myriad of wanton sounds escaped you, followed by a rush of warmth that surged to your cunt. Daemon growled, feeling your slit tighten around him, your release an incredible one.

Daemon followed suit, painting your insides with his milt — a dangerous game, but one that he enjoyed playing. He removed himself halfway through, coating your thighs and cunt in ropes of his seed, enough for you to feel the heat of it.

He huffed, noticing the faint trembling of your thighs, rattling like leaves as you attempted to recuperate. You had little time for composure, knowing that you needed to return to the Tower of the Hand before your Lord husband emerged from his council meeting.

The Prince did not adopt your swiftness, watching with a tempestuous stare as you retrieved your clothing, flesh sparkling with perspiration. You did not want to leave, but you feared discovery — you feared what would happen if Otto were to find out about such nocturnal proclivities.

“Going somewhere?” Daemon questioned, knowing fully well what the answer would be. He happened to redress himself in his smallclothes, observing you with the ghost of a smirk.

“I must return to the Tower of the Hand,” You mumbled, slick between your legs. The combination of Daemon’s spent and your arousal proved to be sticky and uncomfortable, but you would endure the walk and clean yourself up as soon as you could. “I cannot be seen.”

Daemon scoffed, dismissive of your concerns, though he allowed you the courtesy of dressing and preparing to depart. “Still worried for your husband,” He mused, stepping forward to caress your cheek. “How sweet.” It was cajoling, but you cared little.

“Daemon,” You began, but he stopped you with a kiss, eyes twinkling with a semblance of mirth. He held your face between his calloused palms, thumbs gingerly gliding along your cheekbones. “I do not … I do not know when I can see you again.”

A bemused hum escaped him as he cocked his head to one side, feeling your palm press flat atop his muscled chest. “Already thinking of the next time, my Lady?” He purred, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “Perhaps, when next we meet, it will be at the Dragonpit.”

It was far away from prying eyes — what better place to let feelings run hot than the seat of dragonkind at King’s Landing? Even then, Daemon knew that any future trysts would be difficult to achieve, if they were to continue.

You kissed him — a sweet gesture, one that was chaste and ladylike. Daemon could not allow something so brief, seizing your chin to kiss you again. Your head was spinning with so many things, to the point of feeling so very overwhelmed.

“I have to go.” You whispered, squeezing Daemon’s forearm as you passed. Your state of dress was somewhat uncouth, but you had no time. You made sure to keep quiet as you slipped into the gap between doors, stealing another look back at the Rogue Prince.

Violet hues remained indiscernible, though his expression was telling — the very same incendiary look he’d given you at the Tournament. “Until next we meet, Lady Hightower.”

@ copyright — all works belong to swordgrace, please do not copy or translate this work onto any other platforms or accounts.

[acalamity]

author's note

it's been a while :,D I wasn't sure who to write for but I remembered I once wanted to write something like this at least once. this is my first time writing explicit NSFW like this so I hope it worked out well

synopsis: girls were beautiful, even in death or pleasure

⚠️ THIS POST CONTAINS MENTIONS AND/OR IMPLICATIONS OF 18+ CONTENT. THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK ⚠️

wuthering waves! cantarella x fem! reader

more under the wubbaboo!!

"Look at yourself. Are you staying still for me? Good girl." The alluring ring whispered into your ear, warm breath ghosting over your cheeks. In the reflection obscured by the waters behind it, you could discern your own reflection within the desolate aquarium's glass panes. Overwhelming warmth blossomed within your lower regions, spreading and unfurling hastily like pestilence through your pounding head. Once, twice— the fair lady shoved her fingers into you, molding your flesh according to her desires and urging forth bursts of suffocating pleasure, "Mm— ahh!"

With her other hand, Cantarella Fisalia held your chin, her finger crawling up to your lips with a deliberate slowness. Her dreamlike voice brushed against the top of your flushed ears as shivers ran down your spine, far too stimulated from her tongue lapping itself against your ears. Her glimmering tacet mark made itself evident amid the misty darkness, "Mm, you're so pretty for me. What a wreck."

"Canta. . . ella." Her finger prodded into your mouth, the back of her lavender manicure now layered in your incessant drool that trickled out of your parted lips. She readjusted her hand, taking her fingers out and letting her palm sit against your opening. Without another word, just when you could feel her finger hover over it— she squeezed your bulb, sending your knees buckling as jolts of rapture rampaged through your trembling nerves, "Ahh!"

"Yes, your lovely expression and overstimulation. . ." Silky purple hair brushed against your damp cheek, the lady's fingers rubbed against your numerous sensory endings with a deliberate patience. She brought her face next to your own, pressing her chest against your arched back as she licked her lips. Removing her hand from your tongue that swirled around it's warm gag, Cantarella promptly stared at her drenched fingers, "This is the most fitting decorum for you when you're in my hands."

The corners of her lips twitched upwards and before you knew it— you were completely restained, Cantarella's weight resting upon you as you felt her lips flutter through your back, biting and sucking at your skin like a starving man. She unhurriedly hooked her fingers inside of you, pressing against your front wall and sliding about a certain area.

"Mmf—!"

"It's here." Cantarella mumbled against your bruised skin. Amid your pants and moans, the frigid chill and seething warmth, you could feel Cantarella's smile against your throbbing skin. Ah, you slumped against the glass panes, meeting her eyes in the veil of darkness.

She gave a feather-light tap against your spot, tightening her arm against your hips, lifting your weight off your quivering legs. Another tap, and another— until the matriarch pressed.

Heat gathered throughout your tingling body, pulsing and contracting rapidly with insurmountable tension. Your palms fell onto the chilly glass— Cantarella pressed on the spongy area once again, rubbing her fingers in circles through your nerves. Lilac eyes peered into your bare self, every facet laid out for her to see. Unwittingly, as pearls of liquid squirted down, dripping onto her fingers slowly but surely, your breathing intensified, choked moans escaping you as shudders mercilessly overwhelmed your body, "Ahh, ah!"

In an instant, Cantarella pulled out, sending a frustrating knot swelling within your abdomen. Her hand flew up to your chest, squeezing the stiff tip like a toy. Through the aquarium's glass, her tantalising smile bore into your soul, "Now now, you're well aware I swallow whatever I'm served with poise. As nobility, it's a basic courtesy."

"Tonight, as a token of thanks, I shall go beyond the basic courtesies and. . ." The low words rumbled into your back as vibrations ruptured through your insides, overriding the brief emptiness you felt. The lady lifted you, setting you on the table's edge with impeccably fluid movements. With a deliberate enticing leisure, she knelt between your parted legs and licked her lips, ". . . show you the complete etiquette of House Fisalia. Look forward to it, we have an incredibly long night ahead of us."

[coriihanniee]

𝗗𝗢𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 - 𝘫𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘶

: ̗̀➛ SYNOPSIS : You are reluctantly roped to play the guitar for your graduation performance with no prior knowledge. Your brother, Yoon Jeonghan, promises to find you a tutor, only for you to discover that the instructor is none other than your brother’s best friend, Joshua Hong—your secret crush. As lessons unfold, feelings intensify, but you're left wondering if Joshua shares the same sentiment. How will both of you handle the growing tension between teacher and crush?

: ̗̀➛ PAIRING : brother's best friend!joshua x jeonghan's little sister!reader, guitar tutor!joshua x beginner guitarist!reader

: ̗̀➛ GENRE(S) : smau, friends to lovers, romance

: ̗̀➛ WARNING(S) : cursing, death jokes, sexual jokes, some idols not their actual age (for the plot)

: ̗̀➛ STATUS : completed!

: ̗̀➛ AUTHOR'S NOTE : This is my first smau (and first time publishing on Tumblr actually!) I'm a tad bit nervous on how this will be received, but I hope you will enjoy it! 🥹 I hope you're all willing to welcome me into this community with open arms! ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

: ̗̀➛ This is purely fictional and does not reflect the idols' real personality!

PROFILES

4 babes + a twink sigmateen

CHAPTERS

01. #normaliseblamingitonricky

02. brother hannie to the rescue

03. hold the pussy talk! ✋️

04. strumming hearts written

05. stage 1 - denial

06. is that hyperpigmentation?

07. put joshua back into the mental asylum

08. shua's rizz = malfunctioning... 😬

09. finger fetish

10. 'I don't see nobody but you~' written

11. NPC type shii

12. womp womp

13. mission : survive dinner w/o jeonghan

14. mission : unaccomplished

15. no lube no protection written

16. confession (Spotify edition)

17. my honest erection written

18. boom-ba-boom, boom-boom, bass

19. "y/n's piss drinker"

20. strings (un)attached written

21. new love interest?!?!

22. floral interruptions

23. cockette 🎀

24. the last straw

25. Jay vs Joshua written

26. ghostin'

27. never too late

28. graduation day written

29. spread those cheeks 🍑🍴

30. double take

@coriihanniee 💌

taglist : @starstrawb @hoshstruck @lvlyhiyyih @ateez-atiny380 @supi-wupi @smiileflower @zhqvie @ggukfikz @starshuas @dawn-iscozy

[memory-of-idle-musings]

⋆.˚┆Injured s/o reactions .

╰─..★.──────★.

﹒✶ | Summary:

How the three first class SOLDIER's react to their beloved s/o getting injured and how they take care of them afterward.

﹒✶ | Characters:

Sephiroth, Angeal Hewley, Genesis Rhapsodos

﹒✶ | Tags:

Angst, hurt/comfort, slight fluff, romance, gn!reader, pre-established romantic relationships, bulleted headcanons

﹒✶ | Trigger warnings:

Mentions and graphic descriptions of physical injuries, blood, combat, physical violence, heavy angst, traffic accident, mentions of death, permanent scarring, gendered terms "god/goddess" used, but gender neutral otherwise!

﹒✶ | Author's note:

I had so much fun with these they ended up being way longer than they should have been. 😅 Hope you enjoy!

↪ ❥ Sephiroth:

〈 Pre-Nibelheim, crisis core timeline 〉

You are on your way home, passing through the quiet, unusually empty streets of a local small town. Like watercolors in motion, the dusk sky begins to shift from the fiery red hues of the sunset to the cool calm of impending stars.

The fridge in your home was all empty after you forgot to go grocery shopping earlier this week, and you found yourself with a grumbling stomach this afternoon. Which is what warranted this rather unusual, late shopping trip of yours. 

You are well aware of how dangerous it is to be walking home this late all on your own. You do wish you had someone to escort you. Alas, with your beloved, Sephiroth, currently away on a long, daunting mission assigned to him by Shinra, you will have to manage alone.

Still, unless you wanted to be left starving tonight, you had no option but to go. Luckily for you, the nearest grocery store just happens to be rather close to your place, and with how empty it usually chances to be at this time of the day too, you find yourself back on the way home in no time.

It's unfortunate that your luck runs out merely a few steps away from your home, when you abruptly notice a group of rather intimidating-looking thugs step out of the shadows from behind a nearby wall. 

You immediately stop dead in your tracks the moment you spot them, your senses are on high alert. You do not know who these men are, nor what they want. Whether they are a random group of thugs that just so happened to notice you out here all on your own, or they were already purposefully targeting you beforehand. They utter no words, and their garments give away no information about their identities. 

But with the way they all begin to encircle and slowly move toward you, you know very well that they mean trouble...

You try to back out, to speak out against them, to turn away and run with the wind as far as your feet can carry you... But the thugs give you no chance to do anything before unsheathing their blades and rushing in right at you.

The men surround you, one of them grabbing you from behind and holding you in place, covering your mouth with his hand, and you can feel the dry taste of his leather gloves in your mouth as you thrash against him, trying to free yourself of his hold on you.

"Now now, there's no need to be so defiant. If you can just cooperate-" His words are cut short by a loud scream that escapes his throat as you bite his hand with all the force you can muster, allowing yourself an opportunity to wriggle free and run.

And you do, you break away from him and run, despite another one of the men who stand straight right in your direction. Seeing you run, with his sword in his hand, he brings it down upon you.

His blade slashes across your chest, a calculated cut, enough to wound you quite severely, but still not enough to kill you. Not that it occurs to you at that time, when you feel the force of the impact push you back and hit the ground before you can even register your injury.

But when you find yourself lying on the ground, surrounded, your body in pain from the fall, you begin to notice the sharp, stinging sensation, intensifying itself across the upper half of your body. Followed by the pool of blood spreading around you...

You don't know what happens next, you don't know how many seconds or minutes pass with you lying helplessly on the ground, firmly clutching your chest with your hands and knees.

But you do recognize the long wave of hair of silver, appearing in front of you in less than the blink of an eye, and you do see him cut down the men who attacked you in an even lesser time than that.

You see him bury Masamune into the chest of the last man standing, watching as the life in his eyes wanes—and when the man responsible for the carnage turns to face you, kneeling down beside your bleeding body, you see the face of a man who thought he may have just lost everything, already mad with grief.

Sephiroth wastes no time, picking you up in his arms and cradling you close to his chest as if he was holding the most precious thing in the world. You are only barely managing to hold on to your consciousness, but you can feel him running at the speed of lightning, even though you do not know where.

As he keeps on running, his eyes wander down to scan your injuries, but they dare not move to your face. He begins to whisper words of comfort to you in-between sharp breaths, and you notice just how truly terrified he looks, in a way you have never seen him look before.

"Please, just hold on, just be okay-"

Sephiroth was always so very protective of you, to a degree which even you thought to be too extreme at times. But he could never help himself, he knew how dark, wicked and brutal the world truly was—and he knew it was even more dark, wicked and brutal to anything that ever mattered to him.

The thought of you, hurt and terrified, all on your own would often haunt his nightmares, far more often than he would like to admit. And it's because of that reason, that he always double-checked his surroundings with you in the area, why he always wanted to be aware of where you were, should you ever need to go somewhere on your own, and why he always stayed just a little too close by your side when anyone dared to even approach you. 

He thought that, should the day ever come that you were in peril, he would be there to protect you—to keep you safe and tell you that he will never allow anything or anyone to hurt you. That even though the world is cruel, his unparalleled strength, that caused so much destruction by Shinra's will, could for once be used to protect something he held dear. 

Was he not dispatched from his missions and able to return home earlier, then you would already be-

Yet now, here he was, rushing through the door of Shinra's emergency department with your now unconscious, bleeding form in his arms. All because he wasn't there to protect you—and he doesn't know how exactly he can ever forgive himself for that.

He stands by your side even as the medics tend to you, checking your injuries, stopping the bleeding and sewing the deep slash spread all throughout your chest. If one of them even suggests that he should not interrupt, he will glare at them with the fury of a thousand demons.

Does Hojo happen to be in the vicinity at the time as well? Oh boy, you bet he will burn down all of Shinra before he ever allows him anywhere near you. Seriously, while he may still have some trust left in his scientific knowledge, he wouldn't trust him with you in his care for even the briefest of seconds.

When your state is finally stabilized and the medics tell him that you will indeed be okay, just left with a rather large, badly-looking scar, he feels the weight of the world fall right off of his chest.

You being alive does nothing to lessen his guilt over what happened—which, by now, is beginning to hit him with full strength—but that does not matter, he will deal with that on his own. Your well-being is far more important to him.

He sits by your bedside without leaving for a moment until you awaken, no matter if it takes days, weeks or even months. And the moment that you do is the moment that he begins to shower you with all the apologies he could think of. His voice nearly breaks as he strains to hold back the tears trying to escape his eyes while seeing you in this feeble condition. 

He promises you that he will never allow this to happen to you ever again, that from now on, he will protect you no matter what it takes. The sincerity of his vow was only intensified by the emotion in his eyes.

Once you are released, he takes you back to your shared home himself. Upon your return, you find that the place has changed quite a bit in your absence. You notice a new medical cabinet full of supplies in your bedroom, bandages and any other necessities sitting on its top. There are new books stationed where there weren't any before, a large, steaming pot of hot stew sitting atop the stove, and a bouquet of flowers with your favorite chocolate awaiting you on your shared bed.

You're not quite sure how he managed to accomplish all of this all the while constantly sitting at your bedside in the hospital. But you have a feeling he may have commissioned the help of two very specific friends. 

As for the men who attacked you? The disgusting animals may be dead now, but says nothing of their motives and who they were. It doesn't matter if they were just some random thugs trying out their luck on you, or if this was a more plotted, intricate scheme, meant to challenge and hurt him directly. He will track down anyone related to them, anyone related to what happened, and he will make them pay.

Once you are back home and now fully in his care, he has already decided that he is not going to disappoint you again. Sephiroth will be very, very diligent in taking care of you while you recover.

You will be forced gently persuaded into eating at least 3 whole meals a day, your wound will be cleaned and bandages changed very regularly. If you are given any meds to take, you will take them at the pin-point exact time that you are supposed to every single day; no butts.

He will also be in charge of your personal hygiene, showering and bathing you with the upmost care and reverence. No matter what, you wont persuade him to allow you to overexert yourself.

Hell, he will even brush your teeth for you if he really needs to.

I like to think that, in order to be Sephiroth's partner in the first place, you both must have a genuinely deep connection. Which is something that would be impossible without also having deep understanding and empathy for one another.

As such, he is very deeply attuned to your emotions. He can sense every single change in your demeanor, every shift in your expression or switch in your tone the moment it happens.

So, whenever he can sense that you are in any way troubled—doesn't matter whether it's about you being bedridden and unable to do anything that you want in your current state, or feeling insecure about the large scar spanning across your whole chest—he will know.

Usually, he will not pressure you to tell him, allowing you the time and space until you feel comfortable enough to come to him on your own instead. However, right now, he might fuss over you quite a bit more than usual, and he will try to gently coerce you into opening up about it sooner. 

With that being said, if you ever feel that he is becoming too much, too overbearing with his worries, tell him. He might not be able to push his worries aside completely while you are still not healed and the guilt of the incident eats away at his subconscious, but he will try. 

While you are recovering, he will take fewer missions and assignments from Shinra than he usually would to be with you. Being a person of his high position and being Shinra's personal favorite pet SOLDIER, he has the advantage of being able to decline more missions than most others would. He may not be able to dodge all of them, but I can assure you that he will try.

While having some free time, or, perhaps in moments where you are asleep, he will make the effort to research any medical knowledge about your injury. Drowning his sorrows and regrets in research on how to better take care of you; how to better tend to your wound, any additional minerals and vitamins that could help you recover, any methods that might help ease your pain—be they of folk, or more industrial, medical knowledge. 

And anything that could help keep the trauma of what happened at bay.

Sometimes at night, he might have nightmares about what happened, or of something even worse happening to you. His guilt manifests itself in many ways. However, this is the major one among them.

When such nights come, comfort him. He truly feels guilty, and that what happened to you was his fault and his fault alone. He will feel incompetent, due to him being unable to protect you. He might still have been able to save you on that faithful day, but he doesn't want to rely on such luck again the next time around. 

Once you finally begin to make your recovery, and the red, rough mark on your chest begins to solidify into soft tissue, Sephiroth will be very wary of how you react to this new addition to your appearance. The scar does not bother him in the slightest, but he is afraid that it might start bothering you.

And if it does, he will absolutely not hesitate to shower you with praise and compliments on your beauty. He reassures you that despite the nasty scar, your beauty shines just as brightly as it did the first day he saw you. And that, personally, it does not matter to him at all. 

He might even like it in a way, as it reminds him of so many of his own scars...

But if it truly does bother you too much, he will go out of his way to find any possibilities on how to make it less apparent and visible for you. 

Sephiroth loves you, he loves you to death. If he had to burn down the world for you and cover himself in it's ashes to keep you safe, he would. So do the same for him, please.

↪ ❥ Angeal Hewley:

Angeal was just getting done with a rigorous training session with some of the 2nd class SOLDIER's.

The trainees were close to wrapping up the session, in the process of overcoming the final challenge in the virtual reality system. They took longer than they initially should have, but Angeal didn't want to interrupt them when they were so close to successfully defeating the enemy.

You, however, know nothing about this. As you pass through the headquarters of Shinra, looking for your beloved Angeal at the same time as you have been nearly every day ever since you two began your relationship together.

You enter the VR training room as you usually would, only to find the surrounding SOLDIER's still wearing their goggles, with the simulation still active as well.

Angeal takes quick notice of you, but before he ever has the chance to pull out his phone and quickly abort the mission, one of the SOLDIER's—currently engaged in combat within the simulation—swords comes swinging down right at you.

It only takes the briefest of seconds for the sharp blade to bury itself into your shoulder, the force of it powerful enough to nearly sever your whole arm right off.

You let out a blood-curdling scream, falling down on the floor as you clutch the deep, open wound on your shoulder with your hand. The searing pain spreads itself from your arm to the entirety of your body. 

A look of utter horror immediately flashes across Angeal's features as he dashes towards you in a single heartbeat.

He shouts your name as he kneels down beside you, his gaze shifting between the bleeding wound on your shoulder and your face while panicking internally.

Honestly? While still not quite on Sephiroth's level, Angeal might just almost be the most protective one out of the three men. Protecting his beloved and keeping them safe from harm is something he considers to be a part of his idea of honor. 

So seeing you, the love of his life, seriously hurt and bleeding on the floor sends him into a state of panic and rage that is rather very unusual for the man.

The said rage is something mostly directed toward himself. He loves you, and cannot bear to see you hurting. How could he have allowed this to happen to you? He was supposed to protect you...

Momentarily, Angeal turns his head to the SOLDIER whose blade ended up slashing your shoulder. His gaze is piercing sharp, and his face contorted in an expression of pure anger, as he shouts at them, asking what the fuck did they just do?!

He was so close to losing control of himself and beating them into a bloody pulp. But still, he knew better and, right now, you were his priority. He will deal with giving out any punishments and lectures later.

He lifted you up into his arms, one wrapped around your shoulders, applying pressure to the open cut with his hand while the other supported your weight.

He rushed out of the VR training room, carrying you bridal style while he whispered words of comfort to you as he silently prayed that you would be alright.

Your arm was going to be okay, you had nearly lost it, but the doctors and medics managed to save it. Although your recovery will be long, and there may be some permanent nerve damage, along with a huge scar left.

Once it becomes certain that you and your arm are going to be okay, the fear and anger Angeal felt initially begins to turn into a chaotic, conflicting mixture of various emotions. 

He feels very angry, both at the trainee who caused your injury, but more so at himself. He should have been able to prevent it, damn it! He should have been faster, more vigilant, more thoughtful. But he will be very careful not to accidentally take his anger out on you. 

Chances are he might forbid you from seeking him out during training again, or wandering Shinra's halls, even.

Sorrow, why do as lovely of a person as you have to endure such pain? He feels for you, very deeply, for all of your fears and hurt. Not to mention the terrifying, soul-wrenching realization that this could have ended much more tragically. You are his dream, he could never bear to lose you...

But most of all, guilt and regret. Again, Angeal puts a huge emphasis on up-keeping his honor and ideals, protecting his s/o and keeping them safe from harm is a big part of that. Something every man and SOLDIER should always strive to do.

It would be an understatement to say that he feels devastated, as if he somehow failed you and all that he stood for, even though things were out of his control and could have turned out much worse. He takes this as a stain upon his honor and pride. You will definitely need to give him some time to come to terms with it.

Unless you comfort him about it, reassuring him that none of this was his fault and that it was an accident he most likely would never be able to prevent, he will definitely feel like he has to atone for this mistake one way or another, struggling to forgive himself.

But either way, he will make a promise—a silent vow, both to himself, and to you—to always be there for you from now on, to care for you, to keep you safe, no matter what.

As for the SOLDIER who accidentally ended up causing your injury? With a bit of time and space, he realizes that they could not have prevented the accident, that it ultimately wasn't their fault.

Still, fear not, Angeal will give them the lecture of their lifetime. They will also have to go through quite the ordeal of begging him not to get them kicked out of SOLDIER. And if they somehow manage to convince him, they will still be punished accordingly. 

Regardless, once you begin to recover, Angeal will want to be with you every step of the way without question. He will spend all his free time by your side. Not only because he still feels at least a little guilty about what happened, but also because he is just genuinely worried about you and your well-being. 

As expected, his SOLDIER duties would often get in the way of that. Be prepared for him to leave for missions often, sometimes even for long periods of time. He doesn't want to, really, he'd much rather be with you, especially right now while you are in such a vulnerable state. But duty calls and he will answer. 

However, if you are okay with it, he will try and find someone to stay and watch over you while he is gone. It could be anyone; a family member, a trusted friend, his or yours - so long as you feel comfortable and Angeal trusts them. He will make the effort to call and text you regularly while he's away either way, but he will be all the happier knowing you have someone near you at all times. 

During your recovery—especially the earlier days of it—he will turn into a bit of a worry wart, actually. Like an overbearing mama, he will want to take care of you in every way possible, constantly fanning over you as he fusses about making sure you remain as comfortable and as safe as possible.

Affectionate, especially while you are injured. The often times stoic and serious man might not look the part, but he holds all the love in the world in his heart, and he is not greedy with it - not when it comes to you.

Be prepared to be smothered with affection and warmth only few are capable of. Anything from tender touches, to encouraging words and attentive care is served on a silver platter for you to eat from and indulge in. 

If you enjoy physical affection, you will definitely not feel lacking. Angeal loves nothing more than to hold you in his arms, gently squeezing you as he whispers words of love and comfort in your ear. He promises to never leave you, to always protect you and keep you safe.

He relishes every hug, every kiss, every soft brush of his hand against yours and will use them to comfort you quite often.

Random touches of reassurance are a given as well. You might just be going on about your day when you suddenly feel a large, rough hand gently press itself against the small of your back.

Or, you might be waking in the morning, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, stretching out your legs as you feel two large, muscular arms wrap themselves around your waist as he leans closer to you, asking you if you're okay.

When it comes to tending to you and your injured arm, Angeal is your man! He will make sure to help you clean your wound, change the bandages and keep an eye on any developments in its recovery - be they positive or negative. He will also be very strict about attending any checks and doctor visits you might have coming your way.

Say goodbye to any chores and household work for the coming months, or at least until your arm is close to recovering. Angeal would totally insist on sweeping the floors, dusting the furniture, washing all the dishes, doing the laundry, grocery shopping, keeping everything tidy and taking out the garbage for you.

Also, cooking! Cooking is something that he always considered to be a small hobby of his, even on his own. But doing it with you is something much more special, and he will secretly enjoy getting to cook for you more than he does for himself, or anyone else, for that matter.

If you are able to, Angeal will make sure to regularly take you out on long, slow and romantic walks in nature. ​He thinks the fresh air will be good for you, as well as keep you less bored overall. He really enjoys taking said walks with you through the nearest woods and botanical gardens he can find. However, he will definitely make sure that they are safe first before taking you there. 

And during your casual little strolls, he would point out any flowers and other flora he has read about or seen somewhere else before. If you are willing, he even will gladly take a stop to admire the plant which has caught his or your attention and tell you anything he knows or remembers about it!

There is a possibility he might attempt to turn your house/apartment into a small indoor garden of his own if you don't stop him in time.

Even after you heal, Angeal will continue to feel a pang of guilt every time he notices the not-so pleasant-looking scar left on your shoulder after what happened to you. There is not much you can do about this, he will always feel at least a little disappointed with himself for allowing this to happen to you. But he promises to do better next time.

Angeal is THE husband material. He is a kind, loving and caring man who will be utterly dedicated to making your recovery as smooth and swift as possible. Always available at your every beck and call whenever he has the time and space to do so, all the while gently teasing you for being so dependent on him.

↪ ❥ Genesis Rhapsodos:

The sun was just beginning to set when Genesis took you out on a dinner date to a fancy restaurant.

Buying you expensive gifts and lavish food with exquisitely aged wine was one of his favorite ways to show affection to you, his God/dess.

You have just finished eating, leaving the restaurant while Genesis stayed behind momentarily, paying for all the food.

You stepped outside with a slight spring in your step and a smile on your face, stopping in your tracks next to the road to wait for your beloved to join you.

It took only a moment of distraction for a nearby truck—its driver speeding down the road recklessly—to hit you at nearly full speed, sending you flying forward.

You weren't even aware of what was happening when your body hit the hard, stone ground, the impact making you lose consciousness instantly.

The restaurant door opened, with Genesis stepping outside. His eyes widened in fear and terror, his jaw dropping as he saw your limp body, lying on the ground from across the road.

He did not spare a moment rushing toward your unconscious form, quickly kneeling beside you, picking you up into his arms with a slight tremble in his hands.

Genesis was a proud, arrogant man. He always tried to reach for what was not meant for him to have, often times hiding his true thoughts and inner feelings behind the mask of dramatic theatrics and cryptic passages.

But he could not even attempt to hide the horror that spread across his features as he looked down at your unmoving body, his eyes scanning for the severity of your injuries.

His mind was a chaotic storm of thoughts, of panic, terror and confusion. What happened? Who did this? It does not matter, they will pay regardless. For now, he had to make sure you were okay.

He stood upwards as the blood from your wounds trickled down his hands, soaking into his clothes. Rushing to get you the help you needed.

The fear that burned inside his chest while the medics tended to your wounds and injuries was excruciating. You would not leave him, you would not dare to leave him... Or would you?

The expression on his face was one of a gut-wrenching worry, its features so still it appeared as if it was made of stone. He paced up and down the waiting room, biting the nails on his fingers.

At the same time, he was overcome with overwhelming guilt. He was supposed to be your hero. How could he fail to save you so?

When your injuries have been taken care of and your state is stabilized, a stone heavy, unlike any other, fell off Genesis's chest.

Thank the Goddess, you weren't off as badly as he initially thought you would be. Mostly just a few broken and fractured bones. But nothing to take lightly either. 

As for your recovery, Genesis made sure to be around during it as much and as often as possible. Juggling between you and his responsibilities as a SOLDIER.

...Who are we kidding? This man would never put Shinra above his darling s/o. Especially while they are in a vulnerable state. He would do his duty, but only while trying to wriggle out of it as much as possible.

He'd spare absolutely no effort in trying to help you heal, always making sure you're comfortable, all the while pampering and smothering you with affection. 

As he usually would, he will bring you small gifts and trinkets in an attempt to cheer you up. Anything you like, he will make it yours.

Absolute drama queen; anytime he sees you flinch, stiffen or whine because of the pain, you will be subjected to the most theatrical display of fear and tragedy ever. He will also exaggerate the severity of your injuries quite often.

Anytime your wounds need cleaning, or you need to change your bandages, he will dash right next to you, telling you to lay back down and relax as he takes care of you. 

But you have to forgive him for teasing you about it sometimes. Like after he changes your bandages, asking whether his services have at last earned him the favor of the God/dess (you).

Need help with regaining the strength in your broken legs once they are close to healing? Genesis has you covered! He would pick you up, arm wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you steady as he would help you walk, slowly, step by step. 

If you ever end up being bored while trapped in your bed during the recovery, Genesis will gladly read or recite LOVELESS to you (he will do that anyway, even if you don't want him to).

He will also write his very own poems for you, both with you at his side and while he is away on a mission. If he had just a sliver of time, you would wake up to a handwritten letter from him, followed by a touching poem.

He would also gladly write them together with you, if that's something you'd like; and if it is, sometimes, when he comes back home to you from a mission, you and Genesis will trade said poems.

His heart melted at the loving and affectionate words you so often used to describe him. He would attempt to hide the faint flush of red on his cheeks with a quiet chuckle, teasing you for being so overly romantic while being guilty of the very same crime he accuses you of doing himself. 

He is a sleek bastard and will absolutely use every single opportunity and excuse he can to just... Touch you.

Still having to use crutches and need to go to the bathroom? No need to worry sweetheart! He will sweep in and carry you over there bridal style.

Are your legs and body feeling sore? Poor, sweet love... Genesis will prepare you a romantic, hot bath and will insist on helping you wash yourself.

In a similar fashion to Angeal, your injuries are a huge blow to his pride and ego. Genesis holds himself to a high standard and while he does not tend to put a lot of emphasis on what others think of him, he does care more than the rest. This is especially true when it comes to his fans. He fears he may appear as weak in their eyes due to allowing this to happen to his s/o.

As such, every time he returns from a mission and sees that some of the damage that has been done to you has barely improved since the last time he's seen you, he will be equally worried and disappointed. 

He does not want to see you, his divine God/dess in such a state, a reminder of his failures. But more than anything, he is just worried about you.

On another note, he also came to find just a tiny bit of guilty pleasure in the bedridden stage of your recovery. He gets to keep you all to himself without you or him being bothered by anyone... And he loves that.

You might also notice him taking on a slightly more serious, less flamboyant attitude and approach. And while his regular affectionate and somewhat cheesy demeanor does not take a step back, there is a worry in his face when he looks at you that simply wasn't there before.

He may not always show it outwardly, but what happened to you has affected him deeply. He blames himself for not saving you, for not being there when the accident happened, for not swooping you into his arms and rescuing you out of harms way like the hero that he always wanted to be.

Genesis has also grown a lot more protective of you since the accident, even after you have already recovered from your injuries. Being so close to losing you made him realize how easily you could disappear, how thin the thread that held on to the light that was your life truly was. He would not allow any more danger anywhere near you again, he would always be there to keep you safe.

He would not tell you, but the driver of the truck that ended up nearly killing you would end up disappearing a few days later, never to be seen again. And if you somehow find out? He would simply smile, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

Overall, Genesis would make sure to be there for you while you recover from your injuries and that you are never exposed to such danger ever again—not if he can help it. 

[technofeudalism]

it's absolutely incredible that i can only find maybe 2 or 3 articles, only one from a mainstream news publication, about the recent findings from James Hansen - a world renowned climate scientist - regarding the death of the 2c of warming goal and the state of the climate in general. it's not a surprise, mind you. just incredible that we're really sleepwalking into all of this.

New research by an international team of climate scientists documents a surge of global warming during the past 15 years that risks shutting down a key ocean current by 2050.  During a webinar Tuesday discussing the study, the authors said the rate of global warming since 2010 has increased by more than 50 percent over the rate of warming in the preceding four decades, surging more than 0.7 degrees Fahrenheit (0.4 degrees Celsius) in just the past two years. At the current rate, the Paris Agreement goal of limiting global warming to somewhere between 2.7 degrees and 3.6 degrees Fahrenheit (1.5-2 degrees Celsius) is pretty much dead, said James Hansen, a former NASA climate scientist who led the team and whose 1988 testimony to Congress was one of the early public warnings about the risks of greenhouse gas emissions. The increased rate of warming will intensify already deadly heatwaves and worsen both drought and flooding extremes, as well as speed up the spread of deadly diseases associated with warmer temperatures.  The shutdown of the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Current (AMOC) discussed in the new paper would lead to a sudden surge of sea level rise along the East Coast, and bring crop-threatening climate extremes to parts of Europe, according to a 2024 study. Scientists expected the global average temperature to start dropping this winter because parts of the tropical Pacific Ocean are in La Niña conditions, the cool phase of a cycle that can reduce the annual global average temperature by up to 0.36 degrees Fahrenheit.  Instead, temperatures continued to surge into 2025 with the warmest January on record—3.13 degrees Fahrenheit (1.74 degrees Celsius) above the pre-industrial baseline. Researchers have noted how the sustained warmth is unexpected. 

on top of all of this... from Elliot Jacobson:

This is worth watching every day! Arctic sea-ice extent continues on its record low trajectory, with the latest data from February 8 showing extent 428,000 square kilometers below the previous record daily low and 1.41 million square kilometers below the 1991-2020 average. Yikes!

[violet-1scrazy]

THE COST OF LOVE. - Armin A.

Word Count: 1,700+

Pairing: Armin Arlert x Reader

Summary: Y/N, a skilled soldier, fights in the war against Marley. After being injured by a gunshot, she continues to battle alongside her comrades. As the fight intensifies, she boards the airship with her group, hoping for safety, but things take a tragic turn.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, guns, killing, character death, ANGST (lmk if i miss anything)

‼️PLEASE READ AUTHORS NOTE‼️

Chaos.

That was the only word that could describe the state of this place. Eren Yaeger has declared war on Marley. This war was started to take revenge on the people who bestowed all of the numerous tragedies upon Paradis.

The 'devils' of Paradis swarmed Marley like flies. Their new-and-improved regimental uniforms helped them blend into the night. Their ODM gear were equipped with these new guns that were easy to weild around. These 'devils' fought. Fought for not only their life, but also for the ones their foes killed in cold blood.

Warriors from each side used their power of the titans. Jaw, Beast, Cart, War Hammer, Attack, Colossal. Their roars echoed in the night.

Y/N was a skilled veteran from the scouts 104th cadet corps. She swung from house to house with her ODM gear. Marleyans began to fight back with their rifles. Y/N wasn't prepared for this. She weaved through the bullets flying around her. The grapple of her ODM gear lodged into a parapet on top of one Marley's building.

Puffs of gas shot out from her gear, sending her to the roof. As she moved, a Marleyan stood on the soil below her, their gun trained on her. Just before she reached the top, they shot their gun. A bullet lodged into her arm. This disrupted her movement, sending her tumbling down on the roof.

Y/N sat up, clutching her arm and gritting her teeth. "Damnit." She muttered under breath. Blood oozed through her knit fingers, heating up her cold hand. She sat herself up, back pressed against the parapet. The sound of gunshots rung in her ears, the screeching of ODM gear distinct. "This won't stop me." Those four words repeated in her head.

Her thoughts were interupted when she felt the roof start to rumble below her. When she looked up, her eyes were met with the night sky being illuminated. Once she turned her head to the right, her ears were bombarded with the sound of an explosion. Bright yellow and orange light met the dark sky, nearly making it look as if it were day time. This meant the plan was on the right track.

"Armin..." Y/N whispered to herself. She looked towards where the explosion came from to see the Colossal titan. Armin took out Marley's back up. Thousands of soldiers wiped out in the blink of an eye. Ironic how Armin caused Marley's port to dry up from the explosion, leaving the surrounding area a glowing red. The Colossal was truly a god of destruction.

Y/N knew this wasn't the time to sit around and mope. She couldn't let Armin distract her. Y/N shot her ODM gear again, swinging with her un-injured arm. She unloaded her gun into the bodies of Marleyan shoulders, watching them drop dead. Once her gun was empty, she found and grouped up with Jean, Connie, Saha, and other cadets. Y/N assumed they took down the Cart titan.

They all hunkered down on a roof along the path of lights that were placed to direct the air ship. Y/N took the time to reload her gun. "Jean, It's here." Connie broke the silence. "Yeah. It's right on time." Jean replied, Y/N felt hopeful.

The plan was to grapple onto the bottom of the ship and eliminate enemies from below. As the air ship passed above the building, the group lodged their ODM gear into the base of it. Y/N pushed off the roof, swinging into the night sky. She pointed her gun at her opposers below, firing her gun once more. She winced as the vibrations of her gun shot up her arm, her gunshot wound aching.

The air ship flew above Marley's internment zone, street lights illuminating the ground below. The city was destroyed, buildings crumbled, debris in the streets. Y/N felt a pang of guilt and shame looking down but she had to remind herself what these people did. All of the lives they took.

Y/N was brought back into the moment once they were instructed to get into the air ship. "C'mon Y/N!" Jean reminded her. Y/N took one last look at the place. Her rage and ambition pushed the feeling of remorse down. This wasn't the time to feel bad. With Jean already climbing through the open door, Y/N took a huff of the air before retracting her ODM wire and heading towards safety.

Y/N felt a large sense of hope. She prayed to the gods that Armin would be inside the ship waiting for her. She just wanted to be with him after all of this chaos.

Jean and Connie reached their hand out for Y/N as she grabbed onto the netting just below them. Y/N smiled. She was happy all of the people she loved the most were okay. Sure it was kind of selfish, but it was what she felt in the moment.

Y/N reached her bloody hand out for the two, everything felt like it was going right. That was until one Marleyan soldier aimed their gun. Aimed their gun at Y/N.

The boom of the shot rang into the night. The bullet trained on Y/N flew through the air. The bullet pierced her skin and ultimately landed lodged into her chest.

Y/N's hand faltered but Connie and Jean acted fast. They reached and grabbed onto her blood covered arm and hoisted her into the ship.

They laid her on the floor, her blood creating a trail from the door. Y/N could barely talk. All she could think about was Armin. She didn't care about the hands that were patching her wound. She just wanted the hands holding her to be her lovers.

Meanwhile in the head of the ship, Armin was watching Levi discuss their alliance with Zeke after disciplining Eren. Armin fidgeted with his fingers nervously. "Is Y/N okay? Is she...alive?" those words repeated in his head. He didn't care about the words the people around him were saying.

"She's bleeding out! Get some bandages, hurry!" Jean yelled out to the others around him. Sasha kneeled beside Y/N, holding her hand. "You're gonna get s-some help okay!" Sasha rubbed her thumb on Y/N's hand. Connie's brows furrowed with worry as he looked down at them.

Y/N's eyes looked panicked as she focused on the brown haired girls words. She couldn't move at all, her chest burning with pain. The blood from both her gunshot wounds mixed on the wood floor. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead and palms.

One of the cadets grabbed bandages and brought them over to Y/N. He quickly turned her to her side, wrapping the wound in the center of her chest. "Stay with us Y/N!" Sasha clutched the girls bloody hand.

The moment those words hit Armin's ears, his heart dropped.

The blonde haired boy quickly turned around and ran out of the room. His breath caught in his throat as the feeling of dread washed over him.

The door opened loudly and his eyes were met with Y/N's body laying on the floor. His heart pounded in his chest. "Y/N!" Armin cried out, not caring if he disturbed the others. He rushed to her aid, Mikasa following just behind him. Jean and Sasha stood up and backed away from Y/N.

"Y/N." Armin said once more as he kneeled beside her. His hand found hers, clutching it tightly. His eyes immediately looked to the blood pooled around her on the floor. His knees, now were drenched in her crimson.

Her ears rung loudly as she laid there. The blood that flowed from the hole in her chest was overwhelming and painful. Y/N's teeth clenched, her vision a blur. Out of all of the voices that were mixed with the throbbing in her ears, one voice stood out. Armin.

"Y/N, can you hear me? S-Say something please.." Armin snuck his hand around the back of her neck. His eyes dared to spill tears as he spoke, his voice cracking. Mikasa sat opposite of him, holding Y/N's other hand.

"Armin..." Y/N managed to utter out, her voice barely above a whisper. Small tears left Y/N's eyes, dripping down to her temples and into her hair. Her hands weakly grabbed Armin's and Mikasa's. The boy momentarily felt relieved as he heard Y/N speak.

"I'm right here." he spoke, "I'm right here." He reassured her, rubbing his thumb on the back of her hand. Y/N's face showed less and less emotion every second that passed.

Armin was at a loss for words. There was nothing he could do but watch her pained expressions as tears fell down her face. "Y/N, hold on please. I can't do this without you." His hand moved away from under her and to her cheek, carressing it.

Armin's touch was usually soothing and comforting to Y/N but when his fingers brushed along her skin this time, her whole body was wracked with pain. It's not his fault though. The blood oozing from her chest and arm stained the bandages wrapped around her.

Y/N's sight grew darker by every passing second, her eyelids felt heavier and heavier. The ringing in her ears dulled down.

"It'll be okay." he continued, desperately trying to convince her but also himself. His voice cracked as he spoke, his bottom lip quivering.

Just before Y/N's grip of Armin's hand faltered she squeezed it three times. Her arm then went limp, the weight being held by Armin. Her breathing slowed, as her gaze went to the ceiling, her eyelids lowered enough to almost fully cover her eyes.

With his other hand, Armin ran his fingers through her hair just like he usually did, holding her hand delicaitaly with his other.

Her body laid still now, her heartbeat slowed and her chest basically stopped moving. Armin was losing her, and he knew it. He could do nothing silently cry by her side, praying that somehow she would make it through this.

With one final breath, Y/N died. Died with the person she loved most holding her. His hands soft as silk, just as she remembered. His eyes, as blue as the sea were drowned with salty tears.

As much as Armin tried to hold back his cries, he just couldn't anymore. He let himself cry, not caring if anyone else in the ship witnessed him mourn his lover.

He sobbed, holding her hand tightly in his own as he whispered those three words over and over again in her ear.

"I love you."

Author's Note (PLS READ‼️) : PLEASE give me feedback, i need to know if u guys liked this💔 my inbox is open so i encourage you guys to send me prompts. i can write for aot, jjk, scream, demon slayer, twd, lad, i think thats it for now but PLEAASSEEEEE lmk what u guys thought of this

THANK YOU IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR ILY❤️

i genuinely pulled all of this outa my ass bc i thought of this prompt randomly at midnight

[adallinda]

Tobias Rogers mischaracterization

As we know, the creepypasta fandom is one hell of a place. Jumping from a joyous place to Satan's spawn. People switching like a light when it comes to opinions and if you'd see to speak up you don't know if you're gonna be okay or get jumped and doxxed.

Well that thing isn't only to the people in here, it also accuses to the characters and one for the biggest mischaracterized character is Tobias Erin Rogers / "Ticci Toby" .

As we know from the creator of Toby, Kastoway, Toby was described to be diagnosed with Bipolar syndrome, CIPA (Congenital Insensitive To Pain) and Tourette Syndrome.

The character Toby was said to be jumping from one emotion to another. Especially at the start of the story, he was basically numb and depressed due to the death of his sister, although this fact changes thorough the story it shows us that his emotions changes frequently. He was described by his creator to be "Upbeat and hyperactive. However, he can occasionally be a very sarcastic person, he will uncontrollable due to his mental instability". He is also mentioned to be frequently fidgeting and twitching because of his disorder, hence why he got the name " Ticci Toby ".

We can see from the start of his story that he can't feel pain, it is not mentioned directly that he has CIPA but it is very hinted at. As we move forward we can see that he usually stepped in, and take the beating, when his father abused his wife and daughter, because he can't feel pain. After his sister died, and the operator appeared in his life, he can be seen self mutilating by biting his fingers until there's almost no skin around the nails. This is a very important fact that many seem to forget, that he canonically is a cannibal ( the creator stated he wanted to make him one but was scared that his story would be too similar to Jack's one) .

The forgotten details

Let's start with every single one and explain them thoroughly.

Bipolar syndrome : Many people forget he is bipolar. One of the factor caused by this is because many don't read his story but another one is because some people follow each other's opinion like a herd of sheeps. There is nothing wrong with being incorrect but spreading false information can make a character be heavily mischaracterized and that's something no author wants.

At first it was that he was ONLY upbeat. The meme "Hey masky! " was very popular in the fandom in 2016 and it only intensified by Ieatpastaforbreakfast, which many people interpreted him as a ray of sunshine and that he was like an annoying little brother towards Masky. Also let's not forget the "Toby loves waffles" jokes that only made him look more of a child than he was mentally and physically.

NOW I'M NOT SAYING ANY OF THIS IS BAD. This was very popular in 2016 and it wasn't only hurting anyone. It was just us who had fun. But I'm mentioning these factors here because this also falls under the mischaracterizarion umbrella. I, myself, love the fanon much more.

Though as years went by, the fandom died and it only kinda revived last two years. Now people are more matured than they were back then and they have tried to make him more realistic. Which is not a bad thing, it brings nostalgia back and all but I am not sure we have the same meaning of realistic. Some people made Tobias seem like an abuser, a predator and many went as far as calling him a r4pist. He is NONE of that. Calling a character that, evil or not, is very disgusting on your behalf.

CIPA : Many forget he can't actually feel pain and it is not a big thing but I wanted to point it out if I already mentioned it in the first part.

There's nothing wrong with forgetting or not knowing, but knowing and spreading lies about a certain thing is something shitty to do. Especially to new fans who are willing to learn about a potential "new favorite" character only just to be lead by false information.

Tourette syndrome : Another syndrome forgotten by the fandom. This is not a new thing, it also was present from the start in 2016 but it only intensified.

Toby twitches and tics very often. Not only with his head but with his tongue too, messing up words and whistling very oftenly. This is very overlooked and in every early fanfic you read there is no mention of any tics or twitches.

This happens less now, people writing it or mentioning it frequently now. And almost in every fanfic you read now, there is at least one mention of his tics.

In my opinion, I don't really care of they're written or not. It's all the same for me, but I get why some get irritated when they're not mentioned. Especially people who have these disorders.

The ships

Tobias is a very popular character, he always has been and many people adore him. Now every character has ships, and it is a normal thing to ship character, but there are good ships and bad ships.

At the time, the creator of Toby, Kastoway, was in a relationship with the creator of clockwork, "Soffbois", and because of said relationship they also made the characters be in love which I find a cute thing.

Tho many people didn't agree and didn't find it cute at all, in fact, many started spreading hate towards the creators and we don't know if it's because of that or if it's for another reason but after a while the creators broke up, and so did the characters.

Unfortunately, many people were pleased with this outcome. Now I get some of them were children and just followed what the others were doing, spreading hate towards them mindlessly and not understanding the consequences of their actions but some were teenagers with maturity development in them and could understand what they were doing was fucked up. Sending hate towards two people who were happy with what they achieved just because you didn't liked your fav character was taken, was fucked up. Like very.

Others started shipping him with some other characters. Since he is a legal adult, he can be shipped with almost anyone but some took it far and created horrible and disgusting ships alongside fanart, fanfiction and many other things of said ships. Most of these ships are " Toby x Sally ", " Toby x Ben " ," Toby x Masky "

I hope I don't have to explain why they're horrible, illegal and shouldn't exist at all. Sally and Ben drowned are kids and Masky is a decade older than Tobias.

People in this fandom don't seem to understand that " Tobias x Masky " is in fact very much weird. Despite them being both adults, Toby is (now) 30 and Masky is somewhere in his 40s. Also Tim ( The creator and person who plays Masky ) is asexual.

Fanon vs canon

There have been some instances where a debate was created, is fanon better than realism or the other way around? There is no right nor wrong opinion to this. If person A loves the fanon ideas and person B loves the realism, well I can't do anything about it. Just have fun, this place should be a safe space (no weirdos) for all and we all should have fun in here. Losing the whimsical of it all brings no porpuse to this fandom.

Conclusion

Tobias is a very complex character who has a tragic story and suffers of many disorders, and many took advantage of that and destroyed and remodeled him. And keep in mind his age when making ships.

[f1ghtsoftly]

All The Women’s News You Missed This Week

3/10/25-3/17/25

Furious protests erupt in Bangladesh after an 8-year-old girl succumbs to injuries she sustained after being brutally raped. Indian health workers strike for better working conditions. The Queen sends a letter of support to Giselle Pelicot. The Supreme Court will take up conversion therapy bans in a Colorado case and in Kentucky state lawmakers have voted to protect the practice. Ukranian women’s organizations struggle without US funding.

In a piece of good news, Fatou Baldeh, a campaigner against the practice of FGM, has been named Time’s Woman Of The Year.

Want this in your inbox instead? Subscribe here

Opinion and Investigative:

As the US backslides, can China claim moral high ground on women’s rights?

Why US abortion restrictions matter beyond borders

Serbia’s Femicide Record Undermines Claims of Progress on Women’s Rights

The GOP’s Next Target? No-Fault Divorce and Women’s Right to Leave

Lorraine Kelly: Diversity push is leaving working-class people behind

Women, girls bear brunt of cyberbullying against persons with disabilities

“IT’S ALL IN YOUR HEAD”: ENDOMETRIOSIS PATIENTS AND THE PROMISE OF ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE

LGBT:

Supreme Court will take up state bans on conversion therapy for LGBTQ+ children, in a Colorado case

Angry response to how transgender lawmaker Sarah McBride introduced

A new anti-LGBTQ+ bill in Hungary would ban Pride event and allow use of facial recognition software

North Dakota Senate rejects resolution asking US Supreme Court to overturn same-sex marriage ruling

Kentucky GOP lawmakers vote to protect conversion therapy

Women’s Rights:

Iran: Authorities target women’s rights activists with arbitrary arrest, flogging and death penalty

Louisiana woman pleads not guilty to a felony in historic abortion case

Risks of state abortion reporting mandates outweigh the benefits, an advocacy group says

Iran using drones and apps to enforce women's dress code

Kentucky lawmakers add specific medical exceptions to the state’s near-total abortion ban

Driving ban puts brakes on young women in Turkmenistan

Ukrainian women’s rights organisations struggle as US aid suspended

Male Violence:

Search for US student in Dominican Republic intensifies

Things to know about the former megachurch pastor charged with child sexual abuse

Airman charged in killing of Native American woman who went missing 7 months ago in South Dakota

UN experts accuse Israel of sexual violence and 'genocidal acts' in Gaza

'He strangled me without asking' - experts say choking during sex now normal for many

Sean 'Diddy' Combs pleads not guilty to updated indictment

Disabled author swamped by hate speech after social media post on feminism

Women Fight Back:

Haitian women commemorate International Women’s Day spotlighting broken justice system

How Iran's 'Woman, Life, Freedom' Protests Live On Today

FGM campaigner honoured with Time magazine title

Teacher ordered to remove signs from classroom, including one saying 'Everyone is welcome here'

Mother of woman who died after Georgia’s six-week abortion ban calls for law’s repeal

Women Radio amplifies African feminist voices

Texas midwife accused by state’s attorney general of providing illegal abortions

BBC presenters settle sex and age discrimination dispute

Queen sent letter of support to Gisèle Pelicot

Yasmeen Lari rejects Israel's Wolf Prize over "continuing genocide in Gaza"

Fierce protests as eight-year-old rape victim dies in Bangladesh

India's frontline health workers fight for better pay and recognition

US arrests second pro-Palestinian Columbia University protester

Women in the News:

Democrat Rebecca Cooke to again challenge US Rep. Derrick Van Orden

Brown Medicine professor and doctor deported to Lebanon despite having valid visa, court filings claim

Woman arrested in US for allegedly holding stepson captive for 20 years

WATCH: Woman trapped in car films as tornado hits Central Florida

'For holding a wombat, thousands threatened my life'

Judge says Fani Willis violated open records law, orders her to pay $54K in attorneys’ fees

Feel Good Stories and Feminist History:

The forgotten story of the woman who invented the dishwasher

The Mexican women who defied drug-dealers, fly-tippers and chauvinists to build a thriving business

Early members of Philly’s roller derby league face off in a match circa 2005-2006. Jeff Fusco/The Conversation U.S., CC BY-ND Philly Roller Derby league turns 20 - here’s how the sport skated its way to feminism, anti-racism and queer liberation

'We couldn't get jobs in sexist garages - so we set up our own'

5 Major Historical Movements Led By Women In Rajasthan

Arts and Culture:

‘Just be radical’: the feminist artist giving Matisse a modern punk twist

The film exploring loneliness of migrant workers

'Santosh' review: Feminist police drama confronts harsh truths

Shabana Azmi On Feminism And Her Powerful Role In ‘Dabba Cartel’

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: I want my books to be read in Africa

Cannes award-winning actress Dequenne dies at 43

Legendary Russian composer Gubaidulina dies in Germany

Book Review: Patrycja Humienik’s powerful debut poetry collection is a conundrum worth mulling over

13 Nonfiction Books to Read This Women’s History Month

As always, this is global and domestic news from a US perspective, covering feminist issues and women in the news more generally. As of right now, I do not cover Women’s Sports. Published each Monday.

[pretzel-box]

hello! do you perhaps do smut things? If so! Perhaps sebastian and his husband with some smut? I know hes married to..zerum but her toxicity in the servers been enough for me!!

if you dont do smut or dont want to do this PLSS sebastian comforting an anxious (male plspls) reader? Tysm!! You rock and i love ur feed!!

The memories of the drowning

words: 1k

status: barely proof-read

tags: male!reader, slightly sequel to Suffocated , married established relationship, mention of anxiety and panic & comfort in the end

author note: I'm probably one of the people that currently hate on the devs for their behaviour, which makes me write x reader stories in first place. Zerum isn't included in the game, which means she can't be married in canon to Sebastian. She's a real person, not a pressure character. So congrats, y'all can marry our beloved merchant in your own headcanons! ♡

Every time you close your eyes, the events of the past replay in the depths of your mind, vivid and unrelenting, replacing your dreams with painfully realistic memories. The horrors you faced in the Hadal Blackside refuse to fade, instead etching themselves deeper into your consciousness with every passing night.

The different screams echo endlessly in your ears, a cacophony of terror that leaves an uncomfortable ringing, dulling your senses. Your body, conditioned by the countless encounters with unspeakable horrors, twitches involuntarily at the memory of how the floors and walls shook violently with every terrible angler attack. The sensation of those tremors, the sickening anticipation of what was to come, still lingers in your muscles, a reminder that survival was never guaranteed.

At this point, you can't lie to yourself anymore. The time spent in the depths of the Hadal Blackside has mentally scarred you, leaving wounds that may never fully heal. The darkness of the ocean wasn't just physical; it had seeped into your mind, haunting you in the night when your body relaxes from the survival modus only to switch back into pure panic.

Sometimes, the weight of it all comes crashing down on you in the dead of night, overwhelming you with the sudden, terrifying realization that you are trapped in a facility full of death traps, thousands of feet below the surface. The oppressive pressure of the ocean above feels like it's bearing down on you even now, crushing you under its immense, suffocating weight. The knowledge that you are surrounded by darkness and danger, with no escape, no reprieve, gnaws at the edges of your sanity with each passing second, making the experience worse.

Your eyes rip themselves open as your whole body starts to tremble uncontrollably. Cold sweat drenches your skin, making the sheets cling to you like the tentacles that once threatened to drag you to your doom. Your hand clings to your shirt, grabbing it tightly as if the fabric could anchor you to reality, grounding you in the present and warding off the terror of your memories.

The breath hitches, coming in shallow, rapid gasps that only feed the growing panic. The ringing in your ears intensifies, drowning out any attempt to calm yourself, until it feels like your head might split open from the noise. Desperate to silence it, you press both hands over your ears, squeezing your eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the memories, the sounds, the overwhelming fear that consumes you.

But even with your eyes closed, the darkness offers no comfort. Instead, it brings the images flooding back, the twisted, writhing forms of the creatures you barely escaped, the cold, uncaring walls of the underwater facility, the endless corridors that seemed to close in around you with each step.

The faint hint of fluorescent blue hovered in the corner of your eyes, casting a soft, eerie glow across the dimly lit room. It was a color that had once sent chills down your spine, a reminder of all the deaths you had experienced. But now, it had become a familiar presence, a sign that you were not alone.

Sebastian had stirred beside you, waking from his own troubled nap. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest. The gesture was silent, but it spoke volumes. He knew the weight of the nightmares that plagued you, the way they clung to your mind. He couldn't lie, he was in a very similar spot, haunted by his own memories of the Hadal Blackside and all the things Urbanshade did to him.

As his arms encircled you, you felt the coldness of his body seep through your clothes, a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace. Yet, instead of making you shiver, it grounded you, reminding you that you weren't lost in the darkness of your mind. He was here with you, sharing in the burden of those memories.

Sebastian held you tightly, as if trying to shield you from all the monsters that have threatened to pull you under. His other free arm moved gently, fingers threading through your hair in a soothing motion. The rhythmic, repetitive strokes were comforting, helping to slow the rapid pace of your heartbeat and calm the storm raging within you.

He didn't need to say anything. His presence alone was enough, a quiet assurance that you didn't have to face this alone. He understood your fear, your pain, because he had lived it too. The horrors of the deep had scarred you both, but in this moment, you found solace in each others company.

Gradually, the tension in your body began to ease. The panic that had gripped you loosened its hold, replaced by a fragile sense of peace. You closed your eyes, not to shut out the memories, but to focus on the feeling of Sebastians arms around you, his fingers in your hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His tail moved, wrapping itself around you, and you couldn't help but melt into his touch.

In the silence, you could hear a faint sound. But it was Sebastian’s heartbeat, slow and steady beneath your ear, that anchored you. With him, the memories didn't seem as overwhelming, the darkness not as suffocating. He was your lifeline, pulling you back from the brink.

"You're safe," he finally whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with certainty. "I got you." He leaned down, placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head, and nuzzled into your hair. "I keep you safe, didn't I promise you that in my wedding vow?"

You nodded against his chest, not trusting your voice to respond. His words were simple, but they carried a truth you desperately needed to hear, and you felt blessed to have such a protective husband. For now, it was enough. You were safe, wrapped in his arms, with the knowledge that whatever came next, you wouldn't have to face it alone.

Sebastian continued to hold you close, his touch gentle and reassuring, until the tremors in your body subsided completely. As you drifted off into a more peaceful sleep, the fluorescent blue light dimmed behind your eyelids, leaving you in a quiet, comforting darkness that was no longer filled with terror, but with the warmth of his presence beside you.

[doyouknowthischaracter]

I am Amira, the breadwinner for my family after my father's death. We were forced to flee to the southern part of Gaza after the war intensified. Our home, my university, and my workplace were bombed😢.

We are now in desperate need to escape this danger and continue my dream and educational and professional journey💔. I kindly ask you to donate or share the campaign link. Your support can save our lives and give us a chance to live in peace🍉.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart🙏.

Hey Amira, wishing you and your family all the best and I hope you will soon find peace and safety 💚

For everyone else, I'll keep this as brief as I can. I know this is a fun, silly blog, the kind that people follow to get away from the stress and tragedies of daily life, and I will respect that, but I am urging you to please think of those who don't have the privilege of getting away from the horror around them too, like Amira and her family.

Amira's fundraiser can be found here:

It has been vetted by several people, as you can see here.

Every little bit helps, and if you can't help financially, there are other ways you can contribute to the Palestinian cause, such as:

sign petitions and contact the relevant authorities;

boycott;

educate yourself and others;

some advice if you're a minor part one + two;

even more ways you can help + a lot more resources here;

and very importantly, share and spread the word.

Please note that this is not an invitation for debate! There's a place and time for that too, but this isn't it. Now I'm just asking for your compassion and humanity.

Thank you for your attention and take care everyone!

[madelynraemunson]

Married au with Rockstar!Eddie where he's just a man STARVED when he goes home from tour. LIKEEEE, he's just a needy husband in need of reader's loving and he's been lacking just that for months now ☹️☹️☹️ (please the Eddie brainrot is consuming my every being.)

☆ The Crawl ☆

rockstar!eddie munson x housewife!afab!reader

CW: 18+ obvs, needy, pathetic sub eddie, dom-ish afab reader, dick riding, cum eating, dirty talkin’ nasty goodness, eddie literally crawling towards us 🫠🫠, facial, implied unprotected p in v sex, dribbler!eddie

author's note: this is my first time writing sub!dribbler!eddie hehehe eds is usually a dom!shooter in my universe. i hope you all enjoy!!! 💌

WC: 686 words

“Need you to have your way with me, sweetheart…need you to use me…Can’t take it anymore. Please."

You meet your husband's desperate gaze as he brushes his stiff cock against your thighs, prodding you for the sensual loving you had promised him when he was to come back from tour.

Craving every inch of your touch, the man is at your mercy. And that damn polaroid picture you sent him a few days ago? The damn polaroid of that pretty pussy of yours, your glistening folds spread apart by your perfectly manicured fingers, the white border holding space for the title, “all for you” signed by your rouge red lipstick? Eddie damn near kicked the tour bus driver out his seat to turn the vehicle back around himself.

But, of course, the show had to go on. And as stoked as Eddie was for Corroded Coffin's Rise of Kas Tour, nothing compares to being with you, wrapped up in your intimacy in the comfort of the home you two share.

And now 385 days later, you two are here.

“Need you to ride me dry…” he pleads. “Need both lips on my cock baby, he’s missed you so much…”

“Nuh uh,” you smirk, enjoying yourself just a little. “Not gonna do away with the flatteries just yet.”

“Fucking please, princess,” Eddie begs. “Been blue-balled all tour, you can’t do this to me.”

“Oh but I can.”

Hellbent and greedy, your smitten, pussy starved husband treads hopelessly towards you on all fours as you guide him to the bedroom.

Too many press photos and interviews. Too many groupies lining up outside the tour bus to claim their spots with Gareth, Grant, and Jeff. And far too many titties to sign, but Eddie knows he shouldn’t refuse, cuz since he built his brand off being a sex-crazed rockstar, rejecting the ladies would mark the end of his — very successful — career.

Too much of tour life on repeat. And never enough of you. And when he finally gets you, the whining only seems to intensify.

Your twinkling, cum-coated tits bounce in Eddie's face as you frantically taunt your clit with his wide, veiny cock. The sight of you tossing your head back, a mewling mess as he splits you open is enough to tug orgasms out of Eddie’s blissfully aching body. And as you clench around him, screams getting louder by the pump, his spewing tip begins to twitch with every jab into your guts.

“Oh baby…shit, mmfuck, ‘m so fucking sensitive baby, you have no idea.”

Your excitement pools at the base of his naval. Knowing he's not going to last all that long, Eddie whimpers at the sight, his photographic conscious saving the episodic eye-sore for a midday work flashback.

“I love you so much,” he moans. Your orgasm begins to splash around him with every bounce. "Missed your beautiful face. Missed your tight fucking pussy."

“I love you, sweet boy,” you hum. “Your dick makes me feel so good, Eddie, fuck. You’re not going anywhere.”

Eddie releases one strained groan before he loses control. Now completely shifting the roles, Eddie pins you into place as he probes for his finish, thrusting into you as the sweat rushes down his body, his full sack beating at your skin as you ride out your last together.

“Fuck baby, yes baby, yes baby,” he pants. “Gonna be the death of me baby, oh fuck…”

And before he completely empties himself in you, Eddie retreats and finishes on your face. He beams down at you in awe as he glazes the hollows of your cheeks, glosses your lips, and caters to the tip of your cum-quenched tongue. Eddie then swoops down to collect his own eager laps, before thanking you with a kiss.

And, to your surprise, when all is said and done, and you’re all wiped down with a nice warm washcloth from the dryer, your husband books it to his office as if there were something else waiting for him behind that door.

“Eds,” you wonder. “What are you doing?”

“I need to write a song.”