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dawnwriterimagines · 4 months ago

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Traitors Among Us

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x Fem!Reader Task Force 141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

PART 2

Part Three: The Guilty Plea

Part Four: The Verdict Due

Summary: You're a rat, a traitor. At least that's what Task Force 141 believes due to the evidence and claims scattered against you. It doesn't matter what you say, everyone's against you, ready to end you for it...until the truth comes out.

Warning(s): Torture, Heavy Angst, etc.

If you liked this would you Buy my a Coffee?

---

Drip.

Drip..

Drip...

Your shoulders seize up involuntarily as freezing droplets continue to hit your skin, eyes squeezed shut to try to ignore the sound that had been going on for who knows how long.

Another drop of water hits your spine from the faucet placed above you, it's cold as it runs down your bare skin. It feels like ice. Hitting the same spot over and over and over...

Drip...

Not even able to take a deep breath, you release a strained cry, it can hardly leave you, not that you hadn't cried enough already. You could feel the dried blood, tears and snot still on your face and a testament to your torment. You haven't been able to get the metallic taste of your blood of of your mouth since you got in here.

You breathe slowly, trying to relieve the pain in your chest. Body positioned downwards, chest pressed down to your knees, a leather buckle holds you down and over a metal stool. Wrists torn open by old shackles and stretched upwards to connect to the steel pipe in the middle of the room.

The stress position had been Johnny's idea, putting you in it to begin with. The bastard...

Kyle had been in and out to collaborate with Price on the interrogation, he didn't have the heart to do you any harm like his Captain. But, that didn't stop him from stomaching your screams as he turned the handle up, piercing cold crashing down atop you, it beats down on your back, by the time it's done your shaking, and your skin a bruising purple hue. It goes on like that for hours, even as you beg. He reads you the files again.

Price would then take the baton from the corner of the room, the side of your face already swollen from the last strike, you were seeing red out of your left eye and soon you wouldn't be able to see out of it if the swelling continued.

"Please..." you shivered, miserably.

"Over in a jiff, love, but i need somethin' from you, you know that." Was his reply, he tapped the baton against the metal below you, the reverb makes you jump each time, leaving you to stare at it as you watched his boots walk around you.

"Cap'n, It's not...It's not--me..." you tried, breathless. "I'd never.."

The steel baton came down on your shoulder, first. There was an immediate response from your constricted muscles, limbs that had all tensed up at once despite their numbness. Pulling at the shackles that kept you in place, the hit shocks you, nearly silencing you completely, it hurts, then it burns. Mouth open in a silent scream, you squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain that crawled through your shoulder. "It's not me!"

You've been suffering from hypothermia for a few days since then. Your shoulder crushed right out of place or just plain broken, you weren't sure. It's not like you could feel much of your arms in this position.

It hurt. Not just the painful strain that this position was currently putting on your muscles, but everything else...

Of course, you've handled torture alike this before. Captured and tortured by enemies, ransomed for pay and fought tooth and nail to live, then found your way from that hell...only for the men who you'd kill for, to do the same thing to you with no remorse.

In the quiet of the empty room, you sobbed in agony. Squeezing your fists, but you couldn't even feel them, as far as you knew your fingers could only twitch in response to your demand.

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Well, you knew. There was a mole, all evidence pointing to you, whatever it was had completely stunted their mission earlier in the week, left them hiding in a safe house for days until they were picked up by evac. Apparently, you'd leaked mission details to some hostiles over seas, you weren't sure which ones, they were hoping you could tell them. You had absolutely nothing, lost.

Of course, they didn't believe you. Although you expected to have at least a sliver of trust, someone to speak up against these claims and believe you...

It must've been too much to ask.

It came out of nowhere, at first you had been in bed with Simon, your fucking Fiancé, then that meeting with Price, then just...they'd cornered you in that room. Knocked you out without even an explanation, woke you up strapped down, confused, stripped of your uniform and feral as you demanded answers. Nobody listened to you.

That first night you thought you were gonna die. The second night you thought you had. The third night you were just convinced this was your hell.

You were soaked to the bone, and unable to stop shivering. The only sound you could hear was your own chattering teeth in this never-ending void of darkness.

It was so fucking dark in here, your eyes darting around to every corner, hoping for even a measly crack of light that your eyes could adjust to. Every sound, scratch, scrape or click made you jump, you couldn't see shit in here, so just about everything made you hyper aware. You couldn't help your anxiety as the sound of the faucet, the constant drops against your spine, the jingle of your shackles and the whimpers that echoed against the walls as you struggled to comfortably breathe. Maybe it was the thought of a mouse crawling up the stool and along your skin, or someone in here just staring at you in the corner, or the door finally opening for Price to start slicing into you demanding answers you didn't have.

You were on the cusp of losing your mind. If you hadn't already.

But it's been a few hours since then...

Maybe even a few days...

It could even have been a week.

You weren't too sure.

Simon had been the last one in here. He'd pulled the strap loose around your neck, hauling you up to an upright position by your jaw, eliciting a whimper from your lips. Able to breathe a bit easier, your lungs finally decompressing and you gulp down air greedily, "Simon..." this had been the first time you'd seen him since. He wears his balaclava, he is Ghost, not your Simon Riley.

As your bloodshot, swollen eyes raise to look into his cold ones, so unfeeling. You hadn't even realized you were so hopeful for his trust in you until then, looking at you like you were absolutely nothing to him, the same look he always had before pulling the trigger. "Simon, please, stop this..." your words slurred by your shivering, exhausted. "You know me...please."

Your tears slide over the leather of his gloved hands, while he holds tight to your face and cuts your pleads short with a painful squeeze. "Shut up," he says. His eyes are blank, but his voice is low and seething. "Shut the fuck up!" Simon harshly grits out to you, jostling you harshly. You squeeze your eyes shut, weeping miserably, throat closing up to your agony.

He had to know that you would've never done this to him. He should've known that. Given you the benefit of the doubt at least. You'd have never done this to him...

"I'm sorr-" you try, he squeezes harder to silence you swiftly, and snatches a tiny bowl off the tray he'd brought in. Raising your jaw a bit higher, he pours down a chunky broth into your mouth, letting it all just fall down to your throat. It's disgusting. He doesn't ease up for even a second as you toss and turn your head to breathe.

"Don't say a fucking word," he seethes, his hand enveloping your neck and keeping your head raised upward. "As if I should believe you..."

He then takes the next cup to do the same, your eyes bloodshot wide and you jerk away from him as you choke, unable to stomach anything, but he doesn't let you. This time you inhale accidentally, blocking your airway, eyes watering as you writhe for oxygen, your shackles clang violently as you attempt to retaliate, the first fight you've put up in days. His grip doesn't let up, even as you struggle and start to vomit up whatever he decided to shove down your throat.

When he finally lets go, you curve over and heave up whatever's left in your mouth, hyperventilating as you empty your guts on the floor. Hacking up whatever you can, it hurts, your throat burning from the sobs that leave you in between coughs. "If you love me, if you--ever had--" you spat at him. You'd given him everything, every part of yourself, nearly given him your life in the battlefield, and yet...it wasn't enough. "You would fucking believe me!" your voice cracks with the effort it takes to scream at him, to curse him to hell.

"My trust? That's what you want," Hollow eyes stare back at you, his attention flickering around to the uncomfortable shift of your shoulders in those cuffs. Your swollen left eye that had been hit so hard, the white of it had filled with blood. The black and blue littering your sides and your spine, the loss of color in your skin from the stress position and the cold that had you uncontrollably shivering. "You've had it before. You must've sold that to them too."

Your head drops to the stool again, releasing a heavy breath. "It wasn't worth much, if it was so easy to lose..."

Usually it's not very easy to set Simon off, you've known him always to be quite mellow, besides the barely concealed rage he had settled in his chest since you've known him. But, today, you were an exception.

Fisting a hand in your hair, Simon yanks at it, pulling you upwards for your to face him. His other hand coming up to wrap around your throat before your tortured scream can even manifest. In that moment, it feels as if he'd snapped your spine in half, having not used the muscles to stretch that area in over a week. Your shackled wrists shifting in the cruel position.

His eyes are wild and rageful, the balaclava that covers him twists just the same, his grip very telling to his violence as he squeezes down any chance at air or even a sentence. "Easy to lose..." he repeats, spitting in your face as he strangles you. "Easy t'lose your life! If you don't tell me the fucking truth," he pulls out the knife you'd seen him slit so many throats with before, you hear the familiar sound of it first then its cold steel pressing into the side of your ribs. "I'm gonna carve out your heart, and I'll take it real slow, let you feel every little thing I do to you in here," he shakes you harshly as a startled cry escapes you, your tears are burning hot against your cheeks. "You don't get to cry. Or whine. Or beg!"

"Stop--" you try to squirm away from him, to get as far away as possible, from this place, from this moment.

"Just tell me the truth," Simon's face twisted in agony, for just a second, his thumb drags along your jaw, meaningfully. "You'd be doing us both a favor..."

As his vast hand finally loosed around your neck just enough to hold you up, awaiting the bitter truth. Simon's knife catches on the protrusion of your ribs, nicking the skin, drawing blood on purpose. You stare up at the ceiling, the flickering old lights, the dripping faucet that's tormented your already fragile state for weeks now. "The truth..." you spoke, hoarsely. "You've all shown me...it doesn't matter to you. If it ever... Believe what you want--" you close your eyes, you're exhausted. Sleep had evaded you for days. "You and your truth and this team, you can all go to hell."

And finally he lets you go, letting your fall forwards, unable to find the relief of a cold floor but back to the strenuous position you'd been placed in. "AH!" nearly popping your shoulders out of place, or maybe they had, you bite down on your tongue, shaking in silence.

If you could see Simon's face, you could've relished in the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the sudden doubt that led his knife back in its holder and his nails to bite into the flesh of his palms. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing leaves him, instead he stands there.

You can't say a thing to him now, everything that's happened was just a little reminder that whatever you said, whatever you did, it didn't matter. Their minds had already been made. You really would die here.

Simon stands there a little longer, he doesn't say anything, you're not sure if he stays there to watch your suffering a little longer or to wait to say another heart-wrenching thing. Maybe he's just there to wait for you to die. But, he just watches as you wretch and cry in a ball atop that stool.

He leaves not long after, he didn't bother to strap you down this time. He left the old light on, but it must've been older than you thought.

The single bulb fizzled out completely hours ago. Not unless one of them decided to cut the silence and turn on the light to start another 'questioning', so suddenly being able to see more than darkness wasn't anything to be excited about.

They'd leave you in the dark until then, to await the next moment any of them would grace you with their presence.

To be honest, you'd imagined you'd be stronger than this. But, there was nothing to hold onto, so what did strength matter?

It was too late anyway.

They'd broken you days ago.

---

The truth had come out, two days later.

"Oh god..."

"Oh my fucking God," Simon rushed down the corridor, Price tailing right behind him. "Oh my God!" his normal monotone voice now a mess of fear and panic, breathing harsher, on the cusp of hyperventilating with every stride as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Finally getting to the interrogation wing of the department, he bangs his fist on the plexiglass of those silently monitoring the rooms, "Open the fucking door!" he's buzzed in before he can pull on the handle another time.

Rushing down the hall to the now green lit room, lights flickering to life with every step closer down the hall of empty rooms. He nearly rips the door off its hinges as he bursts inside, the lights of the your tiny prison don't come to life as they should. Light spilling into the cell, to hit your limp figure first.

He doesn't deserve to say your name. "(Y/n)," Simon rushes over, to his knees instantly. A puddle of vomit, water and spoiled broth soaks through his uniform.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he sobs out his mistakes, unhooking your chains and cutting through your buckles as fast as he could. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" he catches his fiancé as you collapse, turning over and off the stool, your legs having lost all sense of feeling. You fall into his arms, catching you carefully. "Price!" he cries out, desperately.

"They're on the way!" Your captain assures, he sees the medical team rushing down the hallway, a stretcher, a box of medical supplies. Christ.

You're freezing to the touch, your skin a hue of blue, not to mention the bruises, the cuts and the swollen areas throughout your face and spine. You suddenly inhale, sharply, coughing terribly. You're sick, breathing shakily, "Simon...?" you breathe, confused. You can't see. Your eyes swollen shut from your torture at their hands.

"It's me, it's me," Simon assured, although he knew it probably brought you no comfort. He snatches the blanket offered up by Price, your captain a mess of himself, holding himself together at the doorway, nails biting into the steel.

As Simon wraps you in the first glimpse of warmth you've had in days, you ease up a bit, fingers twitching upwards to pull the threads closer around yourself. "It wasn't..." you shiver, Simon listens intently as he rises with you in his arms, running off to meet the medical team halfway. "It wasn't me..." you gasp out. "It wasn't..."

Simon can't say a thing as he hears your tormented voice stutter in fear of him, lips pressed tight together, heart sinking and as the nurses take your body, he collapses to his knees.

Part 2

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #ghost x yn #call of duty x reader #cod angst #simon riley angst #ghost angst #simon riley angst x reader

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nebulaafterdark · 5 months ago

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The Rats Pt. 2

Aegon Targaryen ii x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Summary: Aegon attempts to make peace with Rhaenyra after being forced to usurp her throne. Lucerys’ death complicates things.

18+ ONLY, MDNI

Part 1

“Princess Y/N of house Velaryon.” The guard announces.

Rhaenyra’s heart skips a beat, surely he is mistaken.

“Mother,” Y/N says, racing toward her. “Your grace,” she corrects herself.

Rhaenyra wraps her eldest child in her arms. “Mother will do just fine.”

Y/N buries her face in Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“How did you get here?” Aegon would never let her go of his own free will.

“Daemon,” Y/N breathes. Knowing that her stepfather will owe her for the half truth.

“Where are the children?”

“In King’s Landing.” Y/N tells her, “to keep Aegon’s wits about him in my absence. He wants to come to an agreement, he’s more than willing to bend the knee. I only ask that he and Helaena be spared…as for Aemond Targaryen, he is a murderer.” Y/N’s voice breaks, “we will avenge the murder of my brother.”

Rhaenyra’s strokes a hand over her hair, feeling the dark waves that remind her of Lucerys. “Aegon and Helaena will receive full pardons based on your testimony. Rest assured I appreciate what you have done on my behalf.”

“Thank you.” Y/N pulls back marginally, realizing her mother’s pregnant belly should be between them. “Where is the babe?”

Rhaenyra shakes her head.

Y/N covers her mouth with her hand, “I am terribly sorry.”

“It is no fault of yours, darling girl.”

“I should have been here with you.”

“When I offered your hand in marriage, I had no idea Aegon was capable of love. It has complicated all of this.”

Y/N nods, “speaking of my husband. I should send word that I am well, lest he take out his frustration on Dragonstone.”

Rhaenyra taps her chin, affectionately. “I will fetch a scroll.”

————————————————————————-

Aegon’s youngest son is the only one of his children to share Y/N’s dark locks. His wife insisted they name him Aegon. After my dearest love. She said.

Aegon agreed of course as he can deny her nothing. The child wails nonstop, in the absence of his mother. At all of four months old, Aegon is the only one who can quiet him besides Y/N. As such, the King is now attending the small council meeting with a babe in his arms.

Their daughter, Dahlia, the eldest of the twins will sit the iron throne one day, through his line of succession and Rhaenyra’s. At all of six, she is sitting at the table. His other children Visera and Laenor have not been properly protected under the guard, they too must stay in his sightline.

“Gods be good.” Alicent frowns at her son.

“What is it?” Aegon huffs, arching a brow at her.

“The small council is no place for children, your grace.” Alicent explains. “They would be better tended by their maids.”

Aegon nods, “right. As you all know, two nights ago, the Princess Helaena was attacked in the children’s chambers. Our heirs were threatened and Queen Y/N was taken from us. During which time, not a single guard could be found on the entirety of the royal floor! Because you were-”

Aegon looks to his children in turn, “cover your ears my darlings.” He smiles, waiting until they have done as they’re told, holding his own hand over his infant’s ear. “Where were we, mother? Oh, that’s right, no one was guarding my children because you were fucking the royal guard.”

The council members lower their heads in acknowledgement.

“The men who carried out this attack, entered under the guise of rat catching. I want them found and swiftly executed.” Aegon demands, patting his sleeping son’s leg.

“We have been interrogating rat catchers for days, thus far we have no leads.” Otto explains.

A slow smile spreads over the King’s face. “Then hang them all.”

Alicent blanches.

“Anything else?” Aegon asks, watching Visera begin toying with Otto’s chair.

“A letter arrived from Dragonstone, your grace.” Lord Tyland informs him.

“Oh?” Aegon says, “from Rhaenyra?”

“From Queen Y/N.”

Aegon swallows, “did you read it?”

“No, my King.”

“Good,” Aegon reaches for the rolled parchment.

‘My dearest Aegon,

Please know that I am well. We would like to begin negotiations to end the blockade and create a peaceful transfer of power. This will require your cooperation, I hope you will meet me at Dragonstone to discuss this matter farther.

Forever yours,

Y/N’

Aegon exhales, sharply.

“What is it, your grace?”

“The children and I are off to Dragonstone.”

“Whatever for?”

“To negotiate the terms of Y/N’s return.”

“My King…”

“And if you cannot agree on said terms?” Alicent asks.

Aegon frowns, lifting a shoulder. “To war then.”

“He is unhinged,” Otto whispers to his daughter.

“As I warned he would be.” Alicent rises from her seat. “He is quite…devoted to her.”

————————————————————————

“It has been three days since you sent word to King’s Landing. We must assume Aegon’s silence is his response.” Daemon seethes, around the drawing table.

“Give it time.” Y/N insists, “you owe me that.”

Daemon smirks, “I owe you nothing, spoiled thing.”

“Mmm,” Y/N hums. “My mother does not yet know how I came to be here.”

“And you are not going to tell her. Otherwise, my distaste for your usurping cunt of a husband will be demonstrated at length.”

Sunfyre roars, calling their attention to the nearest window.

Daemon huffs, “I’ll be damned.”

“And he’s brought the children.” Y/N rejoices, running out to join her family.

Jacaerys is already helping to unload her children from the makeshift carriage on the dragon’s saddle.

“Mother!” Dahlia and Visera charge Y/N nearly knocking her backwards.

Laenor runs after them with his little legs as Aegon the fourth, stares at her, babbling in his father’s arms.

Y/N is moved to tears, “you came.”

“You didn’t think I would?” Aegon cocked his head to the side.

“It’s a rather large ask,” Y/N explains.

“For you, the world.” He replies, with a kiss to her temple. “Now, where is Rhaenyra? We have much to discuss.”

“Her grace will join us soon.”

Aegon nods, “I request a small audience, before the council.”

“That can be arranged.”

“After which your brother might tend the children whilst you show me your quarters.” Aegon whispers.

Y/N smirks, “of course.”

Part 3

Taglist: @minttea07 @callsignwidow @fallout-girl219 @syraxnyra @vickynephilim @jeondeluxe111 @geeksareunique @arya-brooke @7minutes-tomidnight

#house of the dragon #hotd smut #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon smut #aegon fanfic

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acid-ixx · 5 months ago

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ch.2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

*"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 13.

i hate everything. i hate my family. i hate my father, i hate my brothers, i hate my classmates, i hate alfred, i hate this place, i hate my mom, i hate everyone.

why can't i ever get what i wanted? what do i have to do? i tried so hard to be everything for them, but why do i only amount to nothing? it's been a year, or two, i don't know. it hurts trying to remember when was the last time i saw him. saw, not talk, because he never talks to me, bruce never even looks at me. and i hate myself for trying to get him to look at me.

is he disgusted at me? does he see my mother in me? does he hate me that much? i don't know, i don't want to know, it hurts to know. i don't know why i'm trying anymore, i don't know how longer i can last in this hell. i can feel it, the longer i stay here, the more i lose a part of myself. i don't want to be here.

i don't want to pray anymore.

so if there's any god out there watching over me, then i wish for you to burn, to suffer, to go through the same thing i have been experiencing for years— all for putting me in this place. i would've been fine living in the streets with my mother. i would've been alright providing for our small family, i would've known to never get my hopes high, but you took her away from me!—

i hate you."

"master (name), are you awake? dinner is ready."

you had to shut your diary at the sound of the knock and alfred's voice.

"alfr-"

a cough, hoarse and croaky, cuts you out from calling his name. it was accompanied by uncontrollable sniffles, mucus blocking your nose from breathing properly. your room was dark, save for the lamp that lights up your bedside, where you currently were seated on your bed to write another entry, grip on your pen unknowingly harsh. you didn't even have to look at your reflection from your phone laying beside the diary to know that hiding your tears were fruitless.

salty were the crystalline droplets that streaks your face, but bitter were the emotions that had your heart ache.

you hear a sigh from the other room. before he could muster a reply, you beat him to it.

"i'm not eating dinner, alfred," you hate hearing your voice, sounding so obviously scrathy from the hours of wailing. "at least not with them. i don't want to get out at all."

"then may i at least bring them over to you, master (name)?"

his answer was final, you have no choice on retaliating and starving yourself like you did for the past few days. but it wasn't your fault that you had forgotten your body's needs. it wasn't your fault that your mind blanks itself out on the dinner table. it wasn't your fault that bile quickly crawls up your throat at hearing their voices.

you simply lost your appetite seeing them happy without you.

alfred pennyworth would never play favorite.

it was drilled into his head ever since he had sworn to serve the wayne family and its extended members— he is to serve anyone and everyone, regardless if they respect him or they do not; as long as they do not pose any danger within the manor, then he is to attend to them.

you'd think that in his decades of service for the wayne's - with all the contrasting personalities he had to deal with - he would maintain professional standards and tell everybody in the world, "i, of course, do not favor anyone within the family, i live to serve and that is truth." when in fact, he wouldn't hesistate to admit that he does, in actuality, have a favorite.

and no, it wouldn't be the eldest child, dick grayson, as much as he is alfred's pride and joy, nor would it be the youngest, damian wayne, who had been slowly correcting his mistakes. it wouldn't even be the head of the house, master bruce.

it would be you, (name) wayne, the infamous, yet forgetten child of the wayne family.

it wouldn't be a far fetch for alfred to admit that you weren't like the others. in all of the years that he served the wayne's, you were a contrast of the family.

the first few hours that he had picked you up from the police department upon the news of bruce's secret child, he knew you were more than just a child raised by the brutal streets of gotham.

you pose secrets that speak of the underground.

he remembers your seated form on the stiff chair of the interrogation room, pose unnervingly straight, as if you had solidified yourself against the metal seat. your fingers were the only signs that showed life, twiddling with each other as if it's some form of distraction.

you stared at nothing.

not even at the police as your name was called for pick up.

it took merely a signature of confirmation to dictate the future years of your life.

what's left of your belongings were given to alfred. the police officer, a woman with a kind smile then had to walk across the interrogation table to pat your back, gesturing for you to stand up and follow her and alfred on the way outside of the station, where the car was parked.

you hadn't uttered a word nor snapped out of your dreamlike gaze. not even when you were greeted with a thousand clicks of the cameras, the buzzing crowd that drowns the police station, or the hundreds of voices that yell at you to look at them.

(name) (last name), now formally adopted by bruce wayne, would be (name) wayne. it wouldn't be a shock that your sudden appearance as the child of a scandalous relationship between a prostitute and a billionaire would cause immense reactions. news would be spreading left and right, most of which were negative on your side.

he had to shield you from the crowd of photographers and journalists itching their way to the crowd to get a glance on you.

yet you didn't display any discomfort. you had only sat on the car obediently, fastening your seatbelts robotically and ignoring the lenses that unsettlingly tried to poke through the car windows to take pictures of you.

you were more like batman than you were bruce.

alfred had tried to get you communicate with questions like, "how are you over there, master (name)?" yet you would only mumble unintelligible responses to his questions without any ounce of emotion. he had to look at the rear view mirror to take in your stiff form. again, your eyes were set on nothing, even if they were casted down on the carpeted floorboards of the car.

when he had first met bruce, that child was overflowing with anger and vengeance for his parent's killer, yet you, who refused to explain your mother's disappearance, are devoid of anything.

the silence was defeaning throughout the ride. the only comfort that was provided was the rain that began to patter against the glass windows.

alfred throught you would retain the same behavior the entire day.

yet it was only when you first walked up the steps of the manor did your demeanor change, fingers immediately reaching up to hold the cuffs of his sleeves, pulling it as if you were hesitant to step in.

the first emotion you had shown him was concern, like a switch had flickered you out of your trance. it was the first time in a while that alfred had to do a double take to check if what was happening was real.

"can you... hold my hand?" and it was the first time he had heard you speak, voice unnaturally scratchy from the lack of water. you stared at him with wide, doe eyes that refused to blink, waiting for answers. alfred had to gaze at your entire body to finally notice that you were covered head to toe in sloppy bandages with blood seeping through the grime-filled gauze. your shoes were worn, your clothes were ripped, and other uncovered scars littered your body.

the most conspicuous color on your shirt was crimson red.

yet you do not display pain.

a child, five years of age, had been through more than enough anguish to know how to block their pain out.

you were unlike the rest, truly, you were unwavering of the world's cruelty.

the world does not deserve someone like you.

alfred takes it in himself to always hold your hand after that.

through the mansion doors, inside the kitchen, on your way to school; whenever and wherever, as long as he had time.

even if it were filled with scars and bruises, dirt and grime, he will always hold your hand if it meant guiding you through the darkness of the manor.

you may not consider yourself bruce's child, but you will always be alfred's.

another knock on your door had you snapping out of your trance. time passed by so quickly in the manor. well, it does when you have nothing to do but stare at your diary, draw on your sketchbook or scroll through your phone. yet time would always be the quickest whenever you drown in your own misery.

"come in," you croak out, aware that it would only be alfred who would come by your room. it was long ago since you had given up on awaiting for dick's visits.

a turn of the knob, then the door swings quietly; the hinges creak, you need them oiled sooner. alfred walks in, you notice he holds a tray that contains two cupcakes and a plate of your favorite dish, but you don't notice the small box with a bow hidden skillfully from the back of the tray. from over your seat, you could already smell the aromatic herbs that flutter in the room and see the colorful frosting from both cupcakes; an already lit candle sticking in from one.

the candle at least provides just a split second of light inside your dim room; the moonlight just like your family, absent.

alfred graciously places the tray on your nightstand, on the left of your diary. your room was still too silent.

you could only hear yourself.

"master (name), are you simply going to sit there and stare? or would you rather i spoonfeed you like i had when you had broken your wrist?"

you blink it out again, oblivious to your very own hyperawareness. alfred's still here. you hope that, in the presence of darkness, he wouldn't see just how much of a mess you are. how your hands could barely grip onto anything, hair unwashed, face stained with tears, difficulty breathing through the buildup of mucus, foot tapping up and down erratically— you wished he would pretend to be blind about your suffering for just this once.

"no—" came your sudden reply, "i can- yeah, i can eat by myself."

it's harder to lie to yourself than it is to others.

he looks at you with doubt, it makes you shiver.

despite you wishing for company inside the manor, you could never be used to attention. it would never be normal for someone like you. though, you wish it was. you wish you never hesitated when someone gives you attention.

you hear your mattress creak, there's a dip on your bed. alfred sits beside you, only then did you realize just how quickly you lean into his side, craving for warmth in the solace of your empty room.

everything hurts, it truly does.

you wish you were strong enough to cease the sudden burst of tears when his one hand circles your shoulder and the other holds the cupcake with a candle near your face. and you wish that you weren't so weak in the presence of another, trying to find a semblance of your worth in their attention.

you at least try to stifle your sobs—

"happy birthday, master (name)."

— but you were always weak, yet alfred never seems to mind, patting your back to console you from your wailing.

you blow the fire out with a single promise to yourself, crying a bit more when alfred had given you a gift box, laced with a ribbon of your favorite color.

it was one of the few gifts you would cherish, fondness seeping into the cracks of your heart.

though it wouldn't erase the bitterness that fills your being either way, knowing your family is still downstairs, unaware of the anguish the torment that they have put you through— it's still enough to let you hate alfred a little less.

"alfred?"

it was your meek voice, one that was always drowned out by the sound of the dishes clanking.

"yes, master (name)?" yet alfred could always strain out the sound of anything just to hear your talk. after all, you were a silent kid throughout your childhood.

"—if i move out of this place; would promise you wouldn't forget about me?"

... (name) wayne was full of surpises.

even at the ripe age of seventeen, and in the near fourteen years of raising you, alfred could never predict your words nor your actions.

you had always said things spontaneously, carrying an aura of awkwardness in your tone, reminiscent of someone who had their personal growth (moreover their social life) stunted.

but now, with the way you had said your resolve so confidently, it felt like he was looking at a different version of you; all the more confident and resilient.

except... you were behind him when you had said that - so he wasn't really looking at you - eating the first batch of his cookies whilst he was polishing the dishes with a cloth.

when he had turned around to look at you, though, you were still the socially inept child he knows and love, sitting on the breakfast bar and twirling around the stool as you attempt to not get crumbs everywhere. you were still so young in his eyes.

it's just, the way you had looked at him expectedly like you needed his approval that shocked him. it was always your eyes that had expressed the most emotions, glazing with anticipation for his response.

he knows it when you lie, and right now, you were dead serious in your resolve.

alfred had to relax the crease on his brows before he ages faster than he already is.

"well, master (name)," he continues, turning back to wiping the dishes clean before he could fully face you. "i would fully support you in your... journey, but what warranted you to be suddenly motivated on moving out?"

alfred had finished setting aside the dishes, but he still doesn't look back.

"i mean, i thought i already told you? i have a scholarship for college but it's on the other side of gotham and...

— i kind of don't want to be chauffeured by a limo around the campus everyday, you know? so the next best thing is to get a dorm."

alfred knows it when you lie. and right now, your hesitance tells him everything he needs to know.

you may have proved a point, but that point was an entire lie. with a person name wayne flaunting across a city whilst riding a limousine, you might find yourself into more trouble than anything else.

but he had always been the one to pick you up and drop you off from elementary and halfway through your highschool life— and you never seemed to mind until now.

it doesn't take a genius to know that you had already deviced a full plan of moving out and taken it into action; all you had to do was confront the only man in the manor who had cared about you enough to raise you about your worries.

it wasn't enough to convince him to let you go, though, especially not right after an incident that had occured prior to you highschool life. if he allows you to gain independence in gotham, he wouldn't know how long you would last.

but when he looks back at you again, he couldn't bring it in himself to oppose to your whims. you need a new environment; one that provides you a way to gain independence and, most preferably, social skills. staying cooped up in a manor with barely anybody talking to you does more harm than good.

and being ignored by your own family for almost fourteen years wouldn't be a great way to celebrate your already nearing eighteenth birthday.

alfred doesn't want to admit it, but if he keeps you here any longer, you would never grow up. one person could only do so much.

he whips out a sigh, looking at you with resignation in his eyes. but you know it in yourself that he swears his life on the promise.

"master (name)," he walks over to you, eyes darting at the cookie crumbs that litter around your mouth making a note to scold you on your manner later. he sits directly in front of you, hand patting your head as you merely stare at him expectedly.

"i have raised you for almost fourteen years, it's like you are my very own child. i would never forget you." he takes your hands in his. "but you have to also promise me to stay safe out there, master (name). call me once you're there."

alfred would find a way to get you to come back eventually, even if it meant utilizing your family's neglect, which was primarily the reason why you had moved out on the first place.

he just hopes you wouldn't connect the dots and pin the blame on him once you're back and safe in the manor.

and now, it had only been months since you had gotten away from the manor. he was proud of your development, of your choice and overall, you, but he wouldn't lie and say he doesn't miss you.

he misses hearing your voice directly, the line on the phone being too blotchy to properly hear you. he misses it when he would sit on your bed as your only audience whilst he watches you paint on your canvases, drawling on and on about highschool's latest drama. he misses it when you would always be the first to taste his dishes, face lighting up whenever the food was seasoned up; now he has to constantly remind you to eat a nutritious diet, even offering to send you money whenever you mention you were short on it.

in the good of your heart, you would always decline, even going as far to deny him of any liberty to track you down and bring you a meal himself.

alfred misses you.

does he regret allowing you your freedom? not really, no. but he knows it in himself that a greedy part of him prefers it if you were would visit the manor occasionally during your vacations, at least to bond with him. but you simply chose not to, even going as far to legally change your name once you had become eighteen so you wouldn't be associated with your father's last name.

but that wouldn't erase the past you had tried to meticulously cover.

(name) wayne may have been a name forcefully deleted off of the face of the internet, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have its conspiracies of its own. nobody knows who you are beyond the blurry, unsolicited pictures of you. it may have been a photograph of your back, or articles published in unknown websites and buried at the far end about a kid leaving a police station and entering through the fancy gates of the wayne manor.

and most importantly, you are a product of a one-night-stand.

but they don't know who the mother is, don't know your age, or where you come from, and what business bruce has with the woman to guarantee your adoption at the instance she had disappeared without warning.

your existence was a mystery most would like to solve. after all, it was your picture that was plastered all over the newspapers and articles, it was your name that journalists whisper and it was a silhouette of your face that the underground knows by heart. every known information about you was shared discretely yet efficiently like some sort of virus.

you were a target for interest, a large sum of money if they will. and alfred had taken it in his hands to make sure there would never be a repeat of what had happened before.

it was a clumsy mistake, one that cost you your memories, and one he swears on his life he'll never make again.

the first course of action he needs to arrange, which may seem difficult for most; he needs to confront bruce.

after all, your freedom is your doom.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, could only be described as this palace overflowing his its abundant history and fame.

it was a castle that houses a boy who had lost his parents and became gotham's very own vigilante who stalks through the night to lessen the very evil that devours its citizens. it was the training grounds where the robins, sidekicks dressed in colorful attire, opposite to batman, were raised to be worthy enough to stand by the dark knight's side. but most importantly, it was a home for troubled children who were in their journey of their very own personal struggles.

yet even in its exterior splendour, it would always be innately overcome with loneliness.

for someone like bruce wayne, he embraces this desolation just as he embraces his alter-ego, batman, who wears a suit of black and dons an aura that demanded fear.

even if he carries the persona of 'brucie wayne' a ditsy, playboy who enjoys galas and sleeping with women every other night, he prefers solitude over the sea of interviewers who throng around him like he was a piece of meat.

it would be the only time he could focus on his countless of stacked paperworks to sign and his plans to ransack another criminal's master plan.

before winter could cover gotham in its sheet of pure, white coldness, rain would always terrorize the skies. he finds this the perfect atmosphere; dark grey clouds prevent the sun from peaking through, droplets of rain would pelt against the vast windows that surrounds his study, and there was enough background noise to block out any sounds that would pass through the door.

bruce wayne was focused on his work, and that meant disturbance wasn't allowed inside the manor. thankfully, it was a quiet, uneventful afternoon today.

in fact, it was all too abnormally quiet.

his scarred hands work through signing papers effiently and effortlessly, practiced fingers signing papers after he would meticulously scan over the paragraphs of texts that scale from business deals to partnerships to buying a piece of land. then later, once the moon rises, he would have to patrol with damian and disrupt another drug trade that had been recently dealing with children on the alleys of gotham.

that means he has to sign or reject at least half of the papers before evening falls through, so he could have alfred send them over through the post office tomorrow morning.

he was at least a quarter way through his work, though, when his flow was disrupted by a courteous knock by the mahogany doors.

he didn't have to look up or ask who it was, knowing it was alfred, his butler.

"master bruce, i have your tea ready, along with news to bare," bruce could hear the tone of urgency and a tinge of sullenness in alfred's voice. it was rare for alfred to be emotionally distressed, as he was typically the most composed out of everyone in the family.

"come on in, alfred," bruce's vocal chords were gruff, raspy whenever he's too engrossed in whatever he was doing.

but he was piqued at the news alfred was eager to share, the butler expertly turning the knob and entering with a tray that holds a hot serving of tea.

bruce stopped signing the papers, putting down his pen as he watches alfred, composed as always, place the tray down on his desk, not a single clank that was produced from the metal sheets. he watches as alfred reflexively pours him a cup of tea.

it was only after that action that the two share eye contact, alfred stationing himself to the right of bruce's desk.

if he wasn't a detective, he wouldn't have noticed the furrow of alfred's brows, which was uncharacteristic of the composed butler.

he reckons he should address the elephant in the room.

"what is it that you want to tell me, alfred?" bruce swivels his chair to face alfred, fingers tapping the mahogany desk rhythmically.

"master bruce, i figured you should have known this for quite a long time ago, but your third child had moved out on their own and now lives at the opposite side of gotham. right now, they may have been struggling to make ends meet."

huh?

"what do you mean, alfred? you're aware that tim is currently living in the manor—"

"no, master, i am talking about your third, not fourth child; master (name)."

... (name)?

ah, his... other child.

alfred looks at his seated form, expecting the befuddled reaction from bruce.

it doesn't take long for bruce to recover from his thoughts, eyebrows furrowed the same way as alfred as he leans against his chair.

"and what of (name)? why was i not updated about them?"

alfred had to stifle a groan as he then glares at bruce with what he could suppose was exasperation.

"i had already told you about their leave months ago, master bruce. you had simply waved me off whenever the topic is of master (name)." the butler's glare hardened, reminiscent of the times where bruce was scolded as a child. and like a child, he doesn't know what he had done wrong.

"i feel it is time for you to take it into your hands to deal with master (name)'s situation right now. i do not have access to their location and just like you, they are stubborn and refuse to accept any financial aid that comes to them in any form—"

to make matters worse, alfred had the gall to stop midway into his explanation, sighing and blinking unnervingly which catches more than bruce's attention.

"they would rather not admit it, but if they were to fail to pay for this month's rent of their apartment, they would get evicted from their very own living space."

at pretty much the last sentence, bruce's gaze hardened. not at alfred, no, but at the thought of you; his... forgotten child. if it was money that you need, why had you not ask for any allowance in the first place? bruce would admit that, well, it had been too long since he had last seen your face, nor even... remember it—

but you were still a child of his and he wouldn't deny you of an allowance if it meant persuing your... highschool or college dreams...?

shit, what grade are you in?

why didn't he know you moved out in the first place? wait—

"alfred, how long has it been since they had last moved out?"

"roughly six or seven months ago, master."

"ah, but having a place of your own as a minor would be prohibited by law."

"master bruce, they're eighteen. they're old enough to live in their own apartment."

eighteen years old...? how long had it been since he had last seen or heard of you? if what alfred had said was true, that the butler had attempted to reach out to him about you, then why had he not remember in the first place? you were a quiet kid, sure, but for someone like bruce, people would always not be overlooked.

it wasn't in him to easily forget, but he hates how he couldn't muster up a single memory of your face— not even your hair color nor your eyes. did you even... exist in his eyes? there was not a single memory of you that he could come up in his head.

his child was eighteen now, how could he not have known in the first place? how could he not recollect a single birthday of yours? or any celebration or gala that had you in it?

alfred's sigh snapped him out of his trance once more.

bruce looked up, seeing resignation upon alfred's face. he simply stood there, posture straight as always, but bruce couldn't wash away the shame that cages his heart when there was not a single image of you that pops up in his mind— alfred's disappointment merely worsened

the tea in his desk had long since gone untouched, but bruce couldn't bring it in himself to drink a single drop of it, even if his lips were dried and his throat was begging for even a single droplet of water.

he denies himself of any relief.

"i figure i should leave you in your own, master bruce, to at least compose yourself before nightfall. please do take your child into consideration, though, enough time has passed since you have last seen them." alfred states, as if it was a matter of fact. and it was, bruce should've known about your leave, as your father and as the man who took you in, he should've.

so before the butler could even take a step, bruce hastily stands up from his seat, pen long since discarded on his desk and a quarter of the papers are now messily stacked upon each other, but bruce pays them no mind.

"take me to (name)'s room right now, i need to see things for myself."

if bruce couldn't even remember a single instance of you, then maybe a trip to your room would be enough for him to remember.

but if that doesn't work then... bruce would a find a way, he always would.

and as your father, he needs to at least support you, even financial no matter your stubbornness? even if the shame he feels right now is so immensely disturbing, and the migraine is quickly finding its way into his head— he needs to know more about you, his actual third child.

bruce wayne needs to see your face just once.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: 5k+ words. no beta, we die like jason todd with a crowbar. my least favorite part of writing the chapter is literally starting it. i had at least 5 drafts all lined up and it took me an hour in the bed to think about how should i start it. i literally hope you guys enjoy the chapter hehe, and start to yk, notice the patterns and the parallels between your perspective and bruce's perspective bec ur literally his child, u guys share some habits even if u never once talked to him lmao. the most emotionally draining scene was writing the birthday scene, i had to take breaks from typing it out hehe. bruce's descent to yandere-ism isn't as quick as dick's but it would be worst in the next chapter.

also, i hope you guys are able to notice the bad habits that the reader eventually collects because it's important for the next chapters. it would be better if anyone of u could... point them out in my asks or comments, i love rambling about it yk, and a lot of you are absolutely brilliant in making theories that are absolutely right. anyways, i hope u enjoy this chapter because this was one hell of a ride for me and i appreciate all the reblogs and comments despite me not replying to a lot of yall but u guys truly are my motivation so thank u lots :(((<33!

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku, @okaybutfullhomo, @trasshy-artist, @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa, @maicenitas, @ilovvmyhusband, @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony, @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts, @darling006, @starringyau, @rosecentury, @jaythes1mp, @pi1nkl0ver, @i-thirsty-boi, @sharks-r-cool-l, @silverklaus, @samanthathanes, @traumaramacenter, @maddimoon, @anxrq, @thedarknesslord, @h0rr0r-10ver-69, @lazy-idate, @googeecat44, @simpingfor-wakasa, @zvghfgn, @0patito0 (if i had forgotten to put any of u in a taglist please forgive me, it's hard to keep track !!)

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cntloup · 8 months ago

Text

18+ MDNI Price hiring Ghost to teach his bratty daughter, you a lesson

Part 2

He trusts him with his life. He knows he's a good man and would never really hurt you.

And he's a man. Not one of those boys that you sneak out with. He's a seasoned soldier. He's seen some shit. He's been through hell and back. He won't stand your bratty behavior one bit.

So basically Ghost is there to babysit a grown woman. And Price has given him the green light to do anything he saw fit with you.

Your mouth hangs open and your eyes widen the moment you set eyes on him. DAMN he's huge. And the mask is terrifying. And frankly a bit (a lot) arousing.

He threatens to get you on his lap the moment you act up and start whining which makes you act up even more.

"I need to go shopping. Where's my dad's credit card? I know I had it." "No you don't. And it's over, princess. No more access to his bank account."

You gasp dramatically and within seconds you're sobbing and squealing out incoherent words.

"Shh, princess. C'mere." he coos as he brings you to sit on his lap. He places your head on his chest, brushing his fingers through your hair as you bawl your eyes out until you pass out.

But him being soft with you does not last long as you get more comfortable around him and throw tantrums more often. And he's had it with the goddamn banshee screams.

That's when you end up on his lap almost every night. One hand holding your hip so you can't squirm away and one big strong palm hitting against your ass so hard, the sound reverberates through the room mixing with your cries and screams.

If you ever start whining about a boy, he just shushes you with a warning and goes on with his day, but if you ever try to sneak out, that's when you end up on all fours as he slaps your pussy repeatedly until you're a whining mess, both because of the pain, also the heat and slick between your legs.

And if you've been extra bratty that day, that's when he gets his cock out, slowly sliding through your folds, teasing you. Then he suddenly slams his fat cock into your soaking wet pussy as you let out sobs of pain and pleasure, muffled by the pillows.

And he starts moving without letting you adjust, hips slamming against your ass with full force, your needy little pussy stretched out so wide, the aching pleasure of his thick veiny cock dragging along your sensitive walls, so sweet and delicious.

And he cums inside. His thick warm cum filling up your womb. Not afraid to get you pregnant. Maybe you'll be less bratty then.

comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated ♥

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #cod ghost #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x reader

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lizzyiii · 2 months ago

Note

Hii, are requests open??

Yes, it definitely is!!!

The Dragon's Treasure

pairing | young aemond targaryen x niece!reader

word count | 6.7k words

summary | when you were but four years old, your mother had declared jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first. in truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, whilst her sons would not.

tags | FLUFF, FLUFF, targaryen incest, reader is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes (that's all), very very soft aemond, and after fluff comes ANGST, ANGST and more ANGST, also reader is a sensitive queen.

a/n | wrote this in 2 days 💪, and there will DEFINITELY be a PART 2

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 2 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 3

Duty and shame. These were the threads from which you were woven—not love, nor passion, but the heavy fabric of obligation and regret.

The firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen came into the world not as a son with dark hair and brown eyes, but as a daughter, blessed with ethereal lilac eyes that mirrored her mother's lineage and the shining silver curls that heralded her Velaryon heritage.

Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra Targaryen had fulfilled their solemn duty to conceive an heir. For Rhaenyra, each night was steeped in a prayerful longing to erase the memory of her wedding night—a night marked by discomfort and tears. The truth was evident to all: Laenor's heart was not inclined towards her nor any woman; his desires lay with men. Yet, their obligation demanded they play their parts.

After their hurried nuptials in a clandestine ceremony, they found themselves confined within a chamber, the weight of expectation pressing down upon them. When the act was done, the silence that enveloped them was shattered by Laenor's grief; he collapsed into Rhaenyra’s arms, his body wracked with sobs as he mourned the loss of his beloved, wishing loudly that he could be “normal.” It was in that moment, as she held him close, that the young princess, overwhelmed by the weight of her fate, found herself wishing she could shed her identity, to become someone else entirely.

But when Rhaenyra beheld her daughter for the first time, it was as if the world shifted. A spark of profound love ignited in her heart, banishing the shame that had once gnawed at her spirit during her pregnancy and the painful hours of labor. There had been moments when she had cursed the very life growing within her, moments steeped in bitterness toward the infant she carried. Yet now, cradling her sweet babe—her precious dragon treasure—Rhaenyra understood that she would willingly endure a thousand painful pregnancies for this singular joy.

What a delight you were, a soothing balm for Rhaenyra amidst the swirling intrigues of King’s Landing. It was your voice that first captivated her heart, from the moment your tiny lips could form sounds, you babbled with delight, engaging your mother in joyous conversations, even though she could scarcely grasp what you were saying. Your smiles were a sunbeam that brightened her darkest days; the first time you graced her with a radiant smile, it became a memory she would hold dear until the end of her days.

But as the tides of fate turned, life grew more intricate. Once Rhaenyra and Laenor fulfilled the sacred duty of securing an heir, they were free to pursue their pleasures separately, allowing Rhaenyra to take Harwin Strong into her bed. To Rhaenyra, her time with Harwin had never felt like a mistake, nor the first child they conceived together —Jacaerys Velaryon.

Yet, his hair—dark as the raven's wing— and eyes — brown as the earth—set him apart from Rhaenyra’s lineage, with none of her ethereal silver locks or striking violet eyes. Instead, he bore the unmistakable mark of his mother’s sworn protector, a truth whispered in the shadows of the Red Keep, even as Laenor publicly embraced him as his true son and the rightful heir of Driftmark.

Alas, Rhaenyra found herself repeating the same error. Another son came forth from her union with Harwin—a second boy with hair as dark as night and eyes of rich brown. Lucerys Velaryon. Whispers began to flutter through the court, dark murmurs and scornful jibes accusing her children of being bastards. It was the painful truth, yet Rhaenyra, fiercely protective as any mother, longed for her sons to live free from the burdens of her choices.

And so, Rhaenyra was faced with the most harrowing decision of her life, a choice that would weigh upon her heart for years to come. When you were but four years old, she declared Jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first, and had Laenor declare Lucerys the heir of Driftmark. In truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, while Jace and Luke would forever need her protection in a world that could be mercilessly unforgiving.

In the quiet confines of the Red Keep, a yawning silence enveloped the lesson, a silence only broken by the steady, droning voice of Septa Agertha. As a ten-year-old princess, you found your patience with such tedium wearing thin, particularly in the tedious recitation of the Faith of the Seven—each doctrine blurring into the next, sapping your spirit with every word.

Beside you, your beloved aunt Helaena sat in her own world, her delicate hands guiding the needle in and out of the fabric, her gaze distant as though the colors and threads offered more solace than the dull teachings of the Sept. You could see it in her eyes; the spark of interest had flickered away, leaving a solemn stillness where interest once danced.

Embroidery, you thought, was a most tiresome endeavor—how many times had you pricked your own fingers accidentally? It seemed the needle was always too eager, as if it shared your disdain for the task at hand. Your heart longed for the vibrant strokes of paint on canvas, the joyful freedom of creation, but Septa Agertha had sternly deemed such messiness unfit for a princess of House Targaryen.

"Focus, my princess," Septa Agertha’s voice broke through your wandering thoughts, pulling you back from your reverie. In that moment, you wished for nothing more than a dragon's flight, high above the clouds, far from the confines of the castle and the constraints of your title.

You glanced at your Septa, your expression hesitant as you mustered the courage to speak. “Septa Agertha,” you began, your tone dipped in respect, “mayhaps I might be excused to inquire if my mother has finished her labor?”

The Septa regarded you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness; her demeanor softened as you widened your eyes and pouted just enough to tug at her heartstrings. “Very well, my princess,” she relented with a heavy sigh, “our lesson shall conclude for today.”

A joyful smile bloomed on your face, and you offered a swift, sincere thank you, excitement bubbling within you. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss on Helaena’s cheek—a fleeting farewell—before darting toward the door. Your sworn sword, Ser Rowan, steadfast and vigilant, attempted to match your youthful enthusiasm, but your spirit was unbridled and wild, leaving him struggling to keep up.

You raced breathlessly down the corridor, your heart racing with exhilaration, until you reached your mother’s solar. As you reached for the door’s latch, you hesitated, hearing the comforting jingle of Ser Rowan's armor behind you. With a bashful grin, you withdrew your hand, glancing back to find him nearing, his breath coming in measured puffs as he opened the door with a respectful bow.

But as you stepped into the warm chamber, your excitement began to wane. A sudden twinge gripped your young heart at the sight of nearly everyone gathered within your mother’s solar, unbidden thoughts swirling as to why you had not been summoned.

Yet those troubling questions were swiftly banished as you cast your gaze upon your mother, weary and glistening with the exertion of childbirth. Ignoring the soft coos of the newborn cradled in your father’s arms, you dashed toward Rhaenyra, laying your small hand against her damp cheek. “Mother, are you well?” you asked, concern threading through your words.

A tender smile softened Rhaenyra’s features at your worry, and she grasped your hand gently, kissing your palm in a soothing gesture. “I am better now that you are here,” she replied, her voice warm like the sun breaking through the clouds.

You turned at the sound of your brother Luke's voice, a warm smile stretched across his face. "We selected an egg for the babe, and for you as well, sister," he announced, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Ahh," your mother’s voice came softly from your side, laced with affection, "Those look perfect indeed."

"I let Luke choose," Jace declared with a hint of pride.

With a nod and a grin, Luke acknowledged his brother's words, "Thank you, Jace."

"Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess," Ser Harwin Strong intoned, his hands clasped thoughtfully before him. "I deemed it fit to escort the lads."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her voice gentle, "Laenor and I thank you, Commander." Her gaze shifted slowly to you, warmth radiating from her eyes. "What do you think, my love?"

Your eyes were drawn to the two shimmering eggs nestled snugly in the hatching pot. You should have felt joy, perhaps excitement, yet a shadow of sadness draped over your young heart. "Why was I not included?"

An uneasy silence fell over the chamber, heavy and palpable. Ser Harwin broke it first, offering a sympathetic smile, “You were busy with your lessons, princess. We did not wish to disturb you.”

"But surely Jace and Luke were occupied with their dragon lessons as well," you replied in a soft voice, the undertone of hurt evident in your words.

Rhaenyra immediately noticed the glimmer of tears pooling in your lilac eyes and the tremble of your lips, as she rushed to uplift your spirits. "Look, my love, it is purple, your favorite color."

No sooner had Rhaenyra spoken than Laenor interjected enthusiastically, “I have a good feeling about this one, my darling. You know what they say—third time’s the charm.”

Third. This was to be your third dragon egg. The first, a vibrant orange, had turned to stone in your cradle, a cruel fate none could have foreseen. The second, a deep crimson egg, had been bestowed upon you with the birth of Luke, yet it too remained unhatched. As you gazed at the violet egg in the pot, hope eluded you, replaced instead by the grim certainty that this egg too would not awaken.

“Now I am certain you would like to meet your new brother,” Rhaenyra murmured, wrapping an affectionate arm around you.

“A boy?” you whispered, your eyes lifting to seek the babe cradled in your father’s arms.

“Yes, my love.”

“Oh.”

Rhaenyra could instantly see the disappointment which weighed heavy on your features at the prospect of yet another brother, and it became ever clearer in your silence. Rather than springing toward your father, you chose instead to nestle deeper into your mother’s embrace, seeking comfort in her warmth.

As you reclined against your mother’s side, you gazed at Ser Harwin, who now cradled your newborn brother, Joffrey. At merely ten summers, you could discern the affection in Ser Harwin's gaze as he looked at Joffrey—a tender look reminiscent of the affection he often bestowed upon your mother. It was a gaze filled with adoration, one he also offered to your other brothers, yet curiously, yet it never seemed to touch you. How curious this felt, a wonder mixed with a hint of sorrow.

When your father ushered your brothers from the chamber, it left a stillness that enveloped you, your mother, Ser Harwin, and the tiny new life nestled in his arms.

“Mayhaps you should return to your lessons now, my love,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft and melodic, turning her gentle gaze towards you.

A twinge of sorrow flared within you once again, and you glanced up at her, barely able to protest. “But—I just arrived,” you murmured, the longing in your tone betraying your desire to remain by her side.

Ser Harwin, ever the loyal knight, defended your mother, answering with a reassuring tone, “I am certain it is merely that your mother seeks rest, my princess.”

Reluctantly, you eased away from your mother’s embrace, turning slightly so she wouldn’t witness the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “I’ll go find Helaena,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

You heard her sigh, a sound laced with affection and understanding. Then, you felt her hand encircle your wrist, drawing you back to her warm side. She pressed a firm kiss to your forehead, her love wrapping around you like a cloak. “If you wish to keep me company whilst I rest, I shall never protest, my treasure.”

And so, you settled back against her, safe and cherished, while Ser Harwin gently rocked Joffrey to sleep. Your mother cast the same tender look upon him that Ser Harwin had, her eyes shimmering with a light of love—a look you noticed she had never bestowed upon your father. With this curious thought lingering in your mind, you surrendered to the soothing comfort of your mother's embrace, drifting gently into a blissful slumber for an impromptu nap.

“This one has rings...and two pairs of legs on each,” Helaena whispered, her voice a gentle hum as she held a slithering black insect close to her face, its glossy body glinting in the soft light.

“That makes two hundred and forty,” she concluded, her gaze fixed on the peculiar creature, while you regarded it with wide, curious eyes.

“Yes, indeed,” the Queen murmured thoughtfully from her perch beside Helaena.

You had awoken to find your mother still lost in slumber after drifting off beside her. With utmost care, you slipped away from her warm embrace, seeking out Helaena as you waited for the boys to finish their dragon lessons — and by boys, of course, you really meant Aemond.

“It has eyes...though...I don't believe it can see,” Helaena continued, bringing the strange creature nearer to you. Instinctively, you leaned back, wary of its closeness.

“And why is that so, do you think?" Queen Alicent inquired, her brow cocked in gentle curiosity.

Helaena merely shook her head, a mystique in her expression. “Some things lie beyond our understanding.”

“I suppose you are right,” Queen Alicent replied in a soft tone, a touch of wisdom in her words. “Some things simply are.”

"That sounds quite scary," you ventured, finally chiming in.

Both heads turned to your direction, and Helaena regarded you with a gentle curiosity. "Why do you say that?"

You offered a slight shrug, your finger gliding over the peculiar, scaly texture of the insect before you. "I suppose I’d feel so helpless, not being able to see anything. It would be a sad too, not to behold colors or shapes."

Queen Alicent regarded you with a softened gaze, her expression a mixture of contemplation and warmth. While her heart held a shadow of disdain for your mother, Princess Rhaenyra, and your brothers, who bore the stigma of bastardy, she recognized the innocence in you. A precious blend of Targaryen and Velaryon blood, you were a vision of purity akin to a delicate flower springing forth amidst thorns. It certainly didn't hurt that your sweetness was reminiscent of the ripest strawberry tart.

"Well, since it has never encountered colors or shapes, my dear princess, it has no reason to feel sad," she said softly.

Your brow furrowed, the Queen's words weaving through your mind like threads of a tapestry, before a radiant smile broke forth on your cherubic face in understanding.

The calm of the Queen's solar shattered abruptly as the heavy door swung open, revealing Aemond, forcibly ushered inside by a stern Kingsguard. All eyes, filled with concern, turned toward the commotion, “Your Grace.”

Alicent sprang to her feet, her voice laced with accusation. “Aemond. What have you done?”

You trailed closely behind the Queen, keeping a respectful distance as she unleashed her frustration upon Aemond, who stood there, cloaked in ash from head to toe. “After how many times you've been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?!"

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of your friend’s distressed expression. “They made me do it!" he pleaded, desperation lacing his tone.

"As if you needed encouragement," Queen Alicent rebuked him, her hands firm upon his shoulders. “Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding."

“They gave me a pig!” Aemond’s voice rose, indignation spilling forth, and you flinched at the raw hurt echoing in his words.

Alicent paused, her brow furrowing in confusion. “A what?”

He turned his gaze away from his mother, the shame evident, but when his violet eyes fell upon you, they swiftly darted back, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “They said it was a dragon… but it was a pig.”

The stern lines of the Queen’s face softened, and she spoke with conviction. “You will have a dragon one day. I know it."

“They all laughed at me,” Aemond murmured, his sorrow palpable in the air.

You yearned to bridge the distance and offer solace, for in that moment, you understood his pain more profoundly than anyone else in the room. Yet, you recognized that he needed his mother’s embrace more than your support. As Alicent enveloped Aemond in a tight hug, his violet gaze met yours once more, and all you could offer him was an understanding look, a silent promise that you would be there when he needed you.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting amber rays that danced across the ornate shelves of the Red Keep’s library, you found yourself seated beside your uncle, who had only just tidied himself after that unpleasant encounter. His eyes remained fixed on the pages of the book detailing Aegon's Conquest, but the tense silence between you weighed heavily in the air.

The heavy silence lingered, thickening the air around you. Restlessly, you glanced up at your uncle and whispered, "I am truly sorry."

He did not lift his gaze from the book, his tone icy as he replied, "Why do you say you’re sorry? You bear no blame in this."

Your heart ached for him, as you said softly, "I am sorry for what happened, for the pain it brought upon you. I will speak to my brothers about their behavior, I promise."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his lips pressing together in frustration. "I don't need you to save me, niece," he retorted, the sharpness of his words echoing in the quiet library.

Your heart sank, and you instinctively dropped your gaze. You could sense his turmoil; and you understood the pain and inferiority he was feeling. You had only wished to help, yet somehow, your kindness seemed to have been misread. You recognized when your presence was unwelcome, so with a small, resigned 'alright,' you began to rise from your seat, intending to leave him in peace.

Yet just as you turned, Aemond’s head snapped up, a wave of guilt crashing over him. He realized harshly that he had been unfair to you—his darling niece who was merely being her sweet, caring self. In a swift motion, he reached out for your hand, "Wait," his voice softer this time, “I did not mean to be cruel. I...I apologize.”

A warm smile crept across your face as you met his earnest eyes. “I accept your apology, uncle." You furrowed your brows playfully, a hint of mischief in your voice. "Come with me."

Before he could protest, your fingers intertwined, and you pulled him along with a gentle urgency. Aemond, caught off guard, found himself captivated by the warmth and softness of your hand in his. In the innocence of your youth, holding hands and being with each other everyday all day had felt natural, but with each passing day, as you both grew older, the simple act took on an air of unspoken indecency. Still, he let himself be led, wrapped in the comfort that his niece eagerly offered.

Aemond hesitated as you guided him into your chambers, pausing at the threshold, uncertainty written on his brow. However, any tension was quickly vanquished as you drew him inside. Your quarters brimmed with the elegance one might associate with a princess; the canopy bed was adorned with delicate pink linens and plump pillows, while vases scattered throughout the room overflowed with a lush assortment of pink and purple roses, their fragrance sweetening the air.

Yet, it was the object resting on the small table before the crackling fireplace that truly seized Aemond's attention. Nestled atop the table was a warming pot, housing a radiant violet dragon egg that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. "A dragon egg," he murmured, his fascination palpable.

You guided Aemond to kneel beside the table, where the two of you were drawn into the stillness of the moment. With a tender whisper, you began to recount the story behind the egg. "My brothers retrieved it when they sought an egg for my newest brother, Joffrey."

"Joffrey?" Aemond asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone as he met your gaze, "That name sounds far from Targaryen."

Your focus remained on the egg, brushing aside his remark. After a moment of contemplation, you finally shared the weight that had settled in your heart. "I fear it won't hatch."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his head snapped towards you, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Do not speak such things."

"It is but my opinion, Aemond," you replied gently, undeterred by his sharpness. You understood that his frustration was not truly aimed at you; it never was.

“Why do you believe such a thing?” His voice softened, a hint of curiosity threading through his concern.

You averted your gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “It is foolish,” you murmured, hesitant to reveal the depth of your fears.

“And so?” he pressed, his intensity unyielding.

Drawing a steadying breath, you finally revealed your heart. “In my mind, the egg shall only hatch if I do not care for it deeply.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, understanding dawning. “So, you do care, then?”

“No, I do not!” you insisted too quickly, casting a furtive glance at the egg as if it had heard Aemond's words.

Frustration etched across Aemond’s features, he clenched his fists tightly. “It is unfair that your brothers possess dragons while we remain without, since they are—”

“What?” you interjected softly, concern lacing your tone. “They are what?”

Your earnest look tugged at the fragile threads of his heart. He couldn’t assume you were unaware of the whispers that painted your brothers in shadows, nor could he believe you were deaf to the harsh truths woven through courtly gossip. Yet, he would never voice those words to you. Instead, he muttered grudgingly, “Not as special as us.”

A small pout formed on your lips, drawing his attention away from the dragon egg that lay neglected between you. “You do understand that it was most likely Aegon who orchestrated that prank, yes?” you pressed, your voice laced with a gentle resolve.

Aemond scoffed and turned away, the weight of your words lingering in the air like an unwelcome specter. “Are you truly defending them?” he challenged, though he felt the shake of his conviction.

“No, Aemond,” you replied, your voice as sweet as summer rain, “What my brothers did was wrong. But more often than not, you never hold Aegon accountable, despite him being the leader of their little group.”

His back remained turned to you, pride keeping him rooted as he mulled over your words. Deep down, he recognized the truth in them, though he loathed to concede, for Aegon was his elder brother. He longed for the bond that appeared so effortless between you and your siblings, and it felt far more convenient to direct his ire toward them instead.

As Aemond continued to brood, you glided closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, your presence as warm as the sun’s rays. “If my egg should hatch, perhaps we could share the dragon?” you suggested brightly, seeking to lift his spirits.

He let out a disdainful scoff, turning to face you so closely that your noses nearly brushed. “Now, that is simply absurd.”

“Aemond,” you admonished softly, undeterred.

“Never has there been a dragon with two riders,” he rebutted gloomily, his voice laced with skepticism.

“So we would be the first,” you retorted, rising to your feet with animated gestures. “There must always be a first, for only then can things be normalized. Just wait and see, Aemond—one day, a Targaryen will claim more than one dragon!”

He regarded you with an unreadable expression and replied matter-of-factly, “That is entirely selfish, niece.”

You huffed in exasperation, settling back down beside him, your patience wearing thin. At moments like this, Aemond’s stubbornness made him seem dreadfully dull. “You fail to see the vision, uncle."

It was curious how swiftly the tides of life could turn. You had often confided in your mother about your aversion to change, and her response was always the same: "Change is inevitable, my love." You were not certain what that meant, but you understood now, as the world around you shifted in the blink of an eye. The sudden sadness that gripped your heart was puzzling, especially since you were so young. Just like that, you had been whisked away from the familiar streets of King’s Landing to the distant shores of Dragonstone, all because of your mother’s choices, which felt like a shadow beyond your grasp.

Dragonstone loomed before you, ominous and strange. You had never set foot on its rugged shores, but a sense of dread weighed heavy in your chest, telling you you would despise it here. The library would be smaller, you thought—if Dragonstone even had one at all—and the gardens could not possibly rival those sprawling ones in the Red Keep. Most troubling of all was the thought of being separated from Helaena and Aemond.

Helaena, your sweet aunt, sometimes it felt as though you could almost imagine her as your sister. Though her peculiar musings often escaped your understanding, it was her delightful oddities that you cherished most, setting her apart from all the other court ladies.

And Aemond—nothing in this vast world could rival the bond you shared with your uncle. You both understood one another in a way that few could fathom. The two dragonless Targaryens united by the same unspoken grief, felt the weight of their inferiority hanging over them like a storm cloud. Yet within that shared pain grew a deep-rooted connection. Aemond was your anchor in a world that often felt lonely and overwhelming. With him, you never felt truly isolated; you were never alone.

As the time arrived for your departure, Aemond attempted to mask his feelings with indifference, but you could see beyond his brave facade. The glimmer of tears in his violet eyes and the strength of his embrace told you everything: he would miss you just as fiercely as you would miss him.

Once again, the sea had darkened, mirroring the heaviness in your heart. The next time the two of you would gather would be under the shadow of sorrow. Your Aunt Laena had passed, and your family was bound for Driftmark to honor her memory. Despite having never met her, a sharp ache coursed through you, all the more intense for the grief etched across your father’s face. Laena had been his twin, after all. Then there was the loss of Ser Harwin Strong as well, which weighed heavily on your mother and brothers. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t quite grasp, your own heart felt strangely untouched by sadness.

The funeral had drawn to a close. Your mother gently encouraged you and Jace to offer words of comfort to your cousins, Baela and Rhaena. But Jace spoke without thinking, a clumsy remark about how you all should have been at Harrenhal instead of Driftmark. You felt a rush of frustration rising in your throat, longing to assert that his pain didn’t lessen the tragedy of the day. After all, he was only voicing his own hurt.

With a quiet huff, you had marched away in silence, finding your perch beside a jagged stone wall, where you could observe your father from a distance. He stood in the shallows of the ocean, the waves lapping at his knees, as if being closer to Laena might ease the sorrow that weighed upon his heart. It pained you to witness him so downcast; the truth was, you had always thought your father impervious to sadness, having never seen his face devoid of a smile before this moment.

“How fares Dragonstone?”

A smile began to bloom on your lips at the familiar sound of Aemond's voice, bringing warmth to your gloomy thoughts.

"It is cold and windy," you replied quietly, shifting your gaze toward him.

Aemond paused, taking in the sight of you. It had been merely weeks since you left the Red Keep, yet in your absence, the loneliness had curled around him like a thick fog. Seeing you now felt like sunlight piercing through gray clouds after a long storm. He regarded you for a moment longer before nodding subtly toward your brothers. "My condolences for Ser Harwin. I assume that is what had your brothers weeping."

“The bond between him and my brothers was indeed strong,” you admitted, a furrow forming in your brow as Aemond stifled a laugh with a cough. “I am sad he has passed, just as I mourn Aunt Laena. But the sorrows I feel mostly arise from witnessing the devastation their losses have cast upon my mother and father.”

Your lilac eyes shifted back toward your father, worry etched across your youthful features. You bit your lip, glancing at the water below. Surely it had turned icy, “I wish I could help him, to see him smile once more. But I’m not sure what to say.”

This was a curious moment for Aemond. Throughout his life, he had cherished you as his dearest friend, his beloved niece. Yet, recently, he began to view you in a new light—the way your silver curls captured the sunlight, glowing as if spun from starlight, or how every gown you wore magnified the beauty of your lilac eyes.

He licked his dry lips and spoke gently, “I reckon there’s little you could say that would ease his pain. Instead, find a way to show him you stand with him. That might be enough.”

You nodded thoughtfully at Aemond's words, your gaze drifting toward Rhaena and Baela. "I feel so awful," you confessed, your voice scarcely above a whisper. "I could never imagine losing my mother."

"Me neither," Aemond replied softly.

After a moment of silence, you added, "I think I would die from the heartbreak." You could sense Aemond’s eyes upon you, a question hanging unspoken in the air between you. A small sigh escaped your lips as you said, "It didn’t hatch, if that’s what you were thinking?"

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Aemond's head lower slightly. "Oh," he murmured, disappointment lacing his tone.

You lifted your chin, trying to display strength despite the disappointment gnawing at your heart. "I suspect I am not meant for a dragon," you asserted, forcing a brave smile.

"Don’t say that," Aemond insisted, his voice firm yet gentle.

Turning to face him, you allowed your hopelessness to seep through your facade. "Three times, Aemond. Three times my egg has failed to hatch."

"There are many unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone," Aemond suggested with a hint of resolve. "Perhaps you could try with them?"

"At the risk of my life?" you replied, arching an eyebrow at him. But then, your lips curled into a playful smile as you reached out to take Aemond's hand in yours. "But really, why would I seek a bond with a dragon when my bond with you is far more precious to me?"

Your words made Aemond’s cheeks flush a deep crimson, his heart thudding like the wings of a dragon. Though you seemed to find comfort in his friendship over the absence of a dragon, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling of urgency. If a dragon was to be claimed, it would be up to him—the time had come, for both of your sakes.

He remembered that at this very moment, there was the legendary Vhagar, unclaimed and free, somewhere on the island, waiting for someone worthy to forge a bond with her. And he would do it in your honour.

You were jolted awake from your slumber, the sound of your name ringing insistently in your ears as someone gently shook your shoulders.

Opening your eyes with heavy lids, you frowned to see Jace’s eager face hovering over you, his hands gripping your shoulders.

“Jace, what is it?” you mumbled, pushing him away with tired reluctance as you struggled to sit up.

“Vhagar has been stolen! We must find out who did it!” he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with urgency as he tugged at you to rise from your bed.

“We?” you replied slowly, letting the word hang in the air. Your gaze drifted past him, landing on Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, who stood ready to storm out.

You groaned and collapsed back into your pillows, muffling your voice as you protested, “Can this not wait until the sun graces the sky?”

Once more, Jace insisted, pulling you upright, even as you felt something being slipped onto your feet. You turned your bleary gaze to see Luke kneeling beside you, fastening your boots with surprising urgency.

“No time for that! We needed a person of age to accompany us,” Jace declared, lifting you to your feet with determined hands.

You froze in place, fixing him with a look that was a blend of disbelief and exasperation. “Jace... I’m ten, and you’re nine.”

Yet your protest went unheard as Jace and Luke eagerly dragged you through the castle’s dim corridors, Baela and Rhaena leading the way with purpose. A terrible knot of dread twisted in your stomach, and you murmured under your breath, “Perhaps we could find a guard.”

“That would take far too long,” Rhaena replied sharply, her steps firm as the twins guided you deeper into the shadowy tunnels beneath the castle.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and your mouth gaped open as you caught sight of Aemond standing before you, his hair tousled and a cocky smirk dancing on his lips.

“It’s him,” Baela exclaimed, realization dawning on her.

Aemond's smirk widened, and he drawled, “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena said, her voice trembling with indignation.

“Your mother’s dead. And Vhagar has a new rider now,” Aemond shot back, his words sharp as a dagger. You flinched at the cruelty woven into his tone.

“You claimed Vhagar?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. Aemond’s gaze met yours, filled with an expectation of pride, but instead, he found only shock and hurt reflected in your eyes.

But before you could gather your thoughts, Rhaena’s voice pierced the air, filled with anger, “She was mine to claim!”

“Then you should’ve claimed her!” Aemond roared, his voice echoing through the tunnel. “Perhaps your cousins can find you a pig to ride. That would suit you better!”

Disgust twisted your features at Aemond’s taunts, yet your attention shifted as you saw Rhaena charging toward him. “Rhaena, wait!” you cried out, but it was too late.

In a heartbeat, Rhaena slammed into Aemond, pushing him with all her might. In response, he shoved her to the ground, and the chaos spiraled out of control. Everything happened so swiftly that you barely registered Baela darting past you until the sharp crack of her fist meeting Aemond’s cheek rang in your ears. He retaliated in an instant.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond roared, fury lighting up his features.

A gasp escaped your lips as you instinctively shouted, “Aemond!”

“She hit me first!” Aemond yelled back, his frustration spilling out around them like wildfire.

Just then, you felt a rush behind you as Jace charged forward, his own fury ignited. He struck Aemond squarely on the nose. In the blink of an eye, the fight erupted around you, with Jace, Luke, Rhaena, and Baela striking Aemond from every side.

It was only when you felt that surge of panic return to your mind and body that you tore yourself away from your stunned silence, sprinting toward the melee. “Stop it! All of you, stop!” you cried, your voice rising above the clamor.

But your pleas fell on deaf ears as the thrashing continued. In the fray, Jace’s elbow inadvertently crashed into your face, sending you spiraling toward the stone wall. Your head thudded sharply against the rough surface, pain blooming as darkness threatened to close in.

Time seemed to slow, and suddenly, the fighting ceased. Jace’s wide eyes met yours, filled with shock. “I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, guilt clouding his features.

Through the ringing in your ears, you attempted to open your eyes, focusing on the concern etched on your brother's face. “I know you didn’t mean to, Jace,” you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper.

Yet the fury of the confrontation did not relent; the struggle surrounding Aemond grew more fierce, spurred on by your injury. As blood trickled down your forehead, thick and unwelcome, Aemond's anger erupted. “You hurt her!” he roared, his voice laced with venom.

A throbbing pain radiated through your skull, swelling with every clash of voices and yells. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you finally opened your eyes wide enough to glimpse Jace, knife in hand. A pang of urgency surged within you, prompting a weak plea, “Jace, put that away.”

You longed to retreat into darkness, to let the cacophony fade away, but the din continued to swell. Jace unleashed a handful of sand, blinding Aemond momentarily, while Luke, with fierce determination, rushed forward carrying Jace's knife. “Luke, no!” you cried, though your words were nearly drowned in the chaos.

And then, before you could breathe another word, the world faded away into shadows, consumed by the horrifying scream that sliced through the air — Aemond's anguished cry as Luke struck at his eye.

To Be Continued...

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #hotd #hotd fanfic #ewan mitchell #hotd x reader

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rafesaddiction · 1 year ago

Text

It's not cheating when he's your best friend – Rafe Cameron x Reader

See here for part 2

Summary: You and your best friend Rafe want to watch some movies together, but your jealous boyfriend keeps calling you and makes you cry. Rafe takes care of you.

Concept: best friends, one bed

Warnings: mdni! – smut, fingering, sex, p in v, cheating (reader cheats on boyfriend), jealousy, hints at toxic relationship, name calling (reader is called slut), protective!rafe, but also kinda mean!rafe

Word count: 3.9k

“Now what has the dick done this time?”

“His name is Nick and you know that,” you punched your best friend against his chest, causing him to mouth an “ouch!” and rub the spot you had hit, pretending to be hurt, though you knew even if you'd tried, you could not actually hurt him. He was so much stronger than you. And hitting him with your fist, you just felt his hard muscles and actually hurt your own hand a little.

“Whatever. He's a dick for sure,” Rafe shrugged, reached over you to grab the popcorn. His arm brushed your chest, just hardly touching your shirt, and weirdly it made you shiver.

You frowned at Rafe who had already turned his face towards the TV screen again. You were sitting next to him on the floor in front of his bed. Sure it wasn't as comfortable as if you had been sitting on the bed, but it was kind of your thing. Yours and Rafe's. When you were kids you used to do that all the time, sit as close to the TV screen as possible, because “it was like going to the movies”, the screen seemed so much bigger. Now the screen was actually huge, it still felt bigger sitting on the floor and looking up. You kind of felt like kids again, even though you were both adults now. It was a feeling of nostalgia, something you hadn't known you had missed that much.

It had been a while since you had done this, just a movie night with your best friend since childhood. Though your college wasn't that far away from the island, you had hardly seen Rafe in the last couple of months. And you'd missed this, hanging out with your best friend. Watching a movie marathon – Rafe had picked tonight's movies: all four John Wick films. And even though you had rolled your eyes when Rafe told you, you had to admit the movies were actually fun to watch. And you enjoyed yourself, eating popcorn, sitting next to each other, chatting or just watching in silence when a scene got extremely exciting.

You enjoyed yourself more than you had in a while. And you were so glad that you had agreed to spending time with Rafe before you would have to drive back to college the next day.

Well, you had enjoyed yourself, until your phone just wouldn't keep quiet. You had it on silent, but you could see the screen blinking. And you couldn't ignore it, because it might be important.

It was your boyfriend who had been texting you. And you hated to leave him on read, so you replied. But he didn't stop. You told him – again – you would call him later, you were watching movies with your best friend. His answer wasn't what you had hoped for.

You were just typing back when Rafe asked you what your boyfriend had done.

You really didn't want to talk about it, you wanted to relax, not think about your boyfriend or college or the next day when you would have to return, not think about how much you had missed just being yourself in the company of your best friend.

But your phone kept ringing. Your boyfriend was now calling you. You sighed.

You saw Rafe glancing at you sideways.

You should just put your phone away, and ignore it. But you were already too upset to enjoy the movie.

So you got up.

“I gotta take this,” you told Rafe, pointing at your phone, and you didn't even wait for his reply, but went to the adjoining bathroom and closed the door behind you.

You took a deep breath before answering the phone.

“Hi babe, I—” But your boyfriend didn't let you finish. He started talking right away, though it wasn't actually talking, he was yelling at you. He was furious that you had ignored him. You tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen.

“Why haven't you told me who you are meeting?”

“I didn't think it was such a big deal. Rafe's my best friend, you know that. I've known him since forever…”

Your boyfriend went to high school with you, so he knew who Rafe Cameron was. And he had never gotten along with him. Which was okay, because you only started dating at college. And that was when you found out that he hated your best friend. But since you hardly ever saw Rafe, he was never really a topic in your relationship. Until now.

“Don't think I'm stupid, y/n. He's not just a friend. He's Rafe Cameron.”

“But he is my friend!” You had tried to keep quiet, but your emotions were in turmoil. You didn't know how it had happened, but you were almost feeling angry.

“A friend who wants to fuck you. But that's what you want, huh? You just wanna be one of his dumb sluts? He's using you!”

Tears filled your eyes and you couldn't hold them back at his harsh words.

“That's not true,” your voice sounded weak and you sobbed.

He wouldn't listen. He just accused you of these ridiculous things, calling you names, and then he just hung up. You tried to call him back, but the call went straight to voice mail.

Your mind was racing, your heart was beating so fast, you felt it would explode in your chest. Tears were running down your cheeks, but you didn't even care to wipe them from your face when you left the bathroom to return to Rafe's bedroom.

He was still sitting on the floor in front of the bed. The movie was paused, you noticed from the silence in the room, and it kind of touched you that he had been so considerate to pause the movie, so you wouldn't miss a scene.

He looked up at you, but you tried to avoid his gaze as you walked closer.

“I need to go,” you said, hardly audibly.

“What?” Rafe frowned at you. “Dicky calls and you come running?”

For a moment, you wondered if he was hurt. After all, you had promised to spend time with him, watch a John Wick marathon. And you hadn't seen him for so long.

“I can't do this now,” you sniffled and shook your head. You couldn't deal with your best friend's hurt feelings too now, even though you felt bad. But you needed to leave now, you needed to make things right with your boyfriend.

You reached down to pick up your bag that was lying on the floor next to Rafe, when he suddenly grabbed your arm and pulled you down. You let out a surprised gasp as you fell right onto his lap, where he caught you, where he held you.

You struggled and tried to get up.

“Let me go, asshole,” you punched his shoulder, but Rafe only held you closer in both his arms.

“What now? I'm the asshole, but he makes you cry?”

Rafe grabbed your jaw, making you look at him when you tried to turn your face away.

“Let me go,” you said, blinking tears away.

“Only when you tell me what's going on. What has he done to you?”

You tried to shake your head, struggling to get up, but he was stronger, so much stronger, and the way he held you, held you like he would never let go off you, you became overwhelmed by your emotions, no longer able to get your act together, instead of pushing away, you now clung to your best friend. You buried your face at the crook of his neck, and he held you. Tears were soaking his shirt and he caressed your hair. You were shaking and trembling and sobbing, and Rafe pulled you closer.

This side of him wasn't new to you, but no one else knew him like this, caring, protecting. And you had only seen him like this on few occasions. And it was like your body reacted to his. Though your feelings were still in turmoil, your shaking had stopped, your crying became quieter. Your hands were still clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

He was quiet and you could just feel his calm breathing, when you got quieter yourself after some time. He did not say anything, did not urge you. And you felt so comfortable. So safe. And you realized that you hadn't felt like this in months. You hadn't felt like this since you left.

You were only sobbing quietly after a while and moved your head back, to gaze at your best friend.

He looked at you, and on his lips was a little smile, as if he was looking at something precious.

You suddenly became very aware of his gaze.

“Don’t look at me. I look like a mess,” you cast your eyes down.

“Hot mess,” he said softly and you felt your cheeks flushing.

You tried to punch his chest, but he caught your fist in his hand, wrapping it around it, holding it. This time, you didn't try to struggle and pull it away, you felt this warmth from the closeness, not just surrounding your hand. You looked up from his big hand holding yours to his face, finding his eyes still on you.

“You're fucking beautiful and if he doesn't make you feel that way, he doesn't deserve you.”

An incredible heat was rushing to your face and you knew you were blushing crimson.

“You only say that because you’re my best friend.”

“I shouldn't say that because I am your best friend…”

Your lips opened at his words, but instead of speaking you only breathed in. And you could feel his breath on your face, on your lips. You closed your mouth and unconsciously your tongue touched your lips, as if trying to feel something there.

His blue eyes looked at you, so intensely, you could almost feel them on you.

His fingers moved and he was caressing your hand still in his. It was such a light movement, such a delicate touch, but it sent waves of electricity through your body. This tingling sensation made you restless and your body wriggled in his arms, making you well aware of the fact that you were sitting in his lap. You inhaled sharply.

“I should go,” you mumbled and tried to get up.

Rafe held you tighter, his hand around your fist pressed against is chest. His other arm around your back.

“Rafe, let me go,” you urged.

“Only when you tell me what he's done to you.”

“Nothing.”

You shook your head, but Rafe suddenly gripped your jaws again, and this time so hard, it hurt a little. He looked at you, his eyes narrowed, a frown on his forehead and his voice was so stern, so commanding, it made you shiver.

“What did he say to you? Tell me now.”

You looked down with your eyes but somehow you couldn't refuse his command.

“He called me a dumb slut and said you just wanted to use me.”

There was silence, a cold, icy silence. You watched his face.

His brows furrowed, his nostrils flared, his jaws clenched.

“I'm gonna kill him.”

You saw his eyes darken, his handsome features grew tense. And even though you were sure that he didn't mean what he said, you felt a shiver running down your spine, because he kind of looked as if he meant it.

He was about to get up, and you were slipping from his lap in that motion. But you clung to him.

“No, Rafe, don't!”

And even though you were weaker than him, your hands pressed on his broad shoulders and you somehow managed to push him down, so he remained seated and you found yourself straddling his lap now.

His chest was rising and falling, as if from exhaustion. His hands found your hips and you felt you were panting too. Suddenly feeling so hot and restless.

“I'm gonna go,” you said, but you didn't get up.

“I can't let you drive like this. You’re a bad driver anyway, and you'll surely crash into some tree or something when you drive in this state.”

You frowned at his words.

“But I need to get back to college in the morning.”

You felt his hands grip your hips firmer, even though you didn't try to move.

“You can just stay the night and drive in the morning after you've rested.”

It wouldn't be the first night you spent at your best friend's. Though it had been a while.

“Rose is redecorating the guest room – again. You can't sleep in there. But you can sleep in my bed, I'll sleep on the floor.”

“But –”

“No buts.”

And that and the stern look on his face shut you up.

You weren't in the mood to continue watching the movie marathon and it was late anyway, so you decided to go to sleep. Rafe gave you one of his t-shirts to wear for the night, and you went into the bathroom to change and wash your face. It was a warm night, so you only wore the t-shirt over your panties, it was way too big for you, but it was extremely comfortable.

When you returned to the bedroom, you found Rafe putting a blanket on the floor next to the bed, making some make-shift bed. He was just wearing boxer briefs, and even though the light was dim, you could see his well-defined body clearly. You'd seen him like this before, of course. Like when you had been at the beach or swimming in the pool. Yet somehow, seeing him in his underwear felt different, more intimate.

You stood there, hands clutching the hem of the oversized t-shirt at your thighs. And you looked at him when he straightened up and turned towards you.

You felt his eyes travelling over your body and you quickly started moving towards the bed.

“What are you doing there?”

Rafe tilted his head. You pointed at the floor.

“You don't have to sleep on the floor. Your bed is big enough for the two of us. This is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, maybe I don't want to get hit when you're tossing and turning in your sleep?”

“I did that once! When I was eight!”

“Once was enough. And it really hurt when you punched my ribs in your sleep. So, no thank you. I'll take the floor.”

Rafe took a pillow from the bed and was about to set it on the floor when you grabbed his arm, to get that pillow back.

“You're stupid. This is stupid!”

You frowned at him, pulled at his arm, to get the pillow, and in your struggling with him, he must have lost balance, because you suddenly found yourself on your back on the bed and Rafe was lying on top of you. That pillow still in his hand, your hand around his wrist, with his arm and yours above your head on the bed.

You looked up at him, your face just an inch away from his. You could hardly see his features, but you felt the proximity, felt it so intensely. Felt that heat that was radiating from his body, felt it crawling over your skin. You felt the weight of his body on yours. And your breathing got harder.

You felt him shift, just a bit, on top of you, as if trying not to crush you and you inhaled and his scent filled your lungs.

You felt a light touch on your cheek. The fingertips of his free hand caressed your face.

“I'll sleep in the bed with you, if you promise me not to cry over that douchebag anymore,” his voice low, as he spoke those words, moving his lips so close hovering over yours. His eyes held your gaze. You nodded softly. And he got up and you exhaled a breath you didn't know you were holding in.

You kept lying on your back, just for some seconds, unable to move, still feeling his fingertips on your cheek, his body's weight pressing you down, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.

But then the bed tilted and you looked to the side, seeing that Rafe was getting into the bed, and you moved to make room for him.

You lay on your side, facing him as he pulled the blanket over you. His face once again close to yours, just for some seconds.

“Night, y/n.”

“Good night, Rafe.”

He turned on his back and switched off the lights. You turned to the other side and closed your eyes, focused on his breathing. You felt your own heart beating so rapidly at first, but after some time, you got calmer and were able to relax.

You must have fallen asleep, because when you woke up, you felt Rafe's body close behind yours, his arm loosely wrapped around you. You smelled his dark scent so intensely, felt his heat getting under your shirt. You felt his breath at the back of your head and a light shiver was running down your spine.

“Rafe?” You softly whispered his name, but he must have been fast asleep. He didn't answer, didn't move.

Carefully you placed your hand on his, your fingertips feeling along his long fingers.

He didn't move. His breathing still so calm.

His chest was pressing against your back and you could feel his regular heartbeat. It felt so familiar. You felt so safe.

And yet you couldn't stay still.

You bit your lips and moved, just a bit, arching your back, moving your butt back, pressing it against his crotch.

His breathing remained calm, telling you, he was still asleep, still unaware of what you were doing.

And you moved your butt just a little bit more and you felt him, felt him so prominently, you gasped in surprise. That tingling you felt turned into something hotter and you felt your core pulsing all of a sudden. You were breathing through your opened mouth as you felt this heat rushing through your body.

But Rafe was still breathing calmly, he was still asleep.

You felt him stir behind you, felt how hard he was, poking against your ass.

His palm was on your lower stomach. You felt it move under your hand. His calm breathing so close to your ear.

His hand moved down, moved over the fabric of the t-shirt you were wearing, and the pressure made you gasp and push back a little more.

You let go off his hand, but grasped the sheets. You tried to calm your breathing, but you were panting as you felt his fingers move under your shirt, felt his warm touch on your burning skin.

You couldn't see anything but you pressed your eyes shut nonetheless as his fingers slipped into your panties. They touched your heat, touched your most sensitive parts.

You let out a small whimper and your back arched further.

You listened, but he was so calm, so still, as if he was still asleep, and only his fingers were moving. And they moved between your legs. His fingers gently parting your folds.

You pressed your mouth shut, but you were sure that embarrassingly whining sound could be heard in the darkness of the room.

His fingertip rubbed your pearl and your body reacted, tensing up as you felt this incredible hot need literally throbbing.

You felt his breath so close to your ear and it sent a different kind of shiver through your body.

One finger slipped inside you, and you clenched around it hard. But he pushed deeper and you gasped. And you didn't know how but you were so wet, it made it easy for him to add another finger, though you pressed your legs tightly together.

For a moment, his digits just remained there, inside you, not moving. So very still like the rest of his body.

Then you felt his hard cock pressing against your ass, the length between your cheeks. And as if following some instinct, you rocked your hips, rubbed against him, creating more friction, creating more heat that made you shiver.

His fingers started moving inside you, pushing deeper, curling, and finding a spot that made you outright moan, and unable to suppress that sound.

His thumb pressed hard on your pearl, teasing you and sending hot bolts of pure need through your body. And your body was on heat, there was no other way to describe it. Every cell of your body was aching for his touch now. And he touched you, so good, so intensely, so determined.

You were moaning and whimpering as his fingers opened you up, made you spread your legs, urging him to go deeper, pushing against his thrusts, and pressing against his hardness.

You felt your climax building up quickly as his fingers pushed harder, moved deeper and more ruthlessly inside you, taking you.

You felt his hot lips on your neck as you pushed your head back, your body convulsing. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, but you weren't sure if you were trying to stop him – or if you even could.

His thumb rubbing your most sensitive pearl, making you clamp your walls around his fingers, you couldn't have stopped it, it was almost as if he was forcing that orgasm into you and you gave in, gave in willingly and with everything you had, everything you were, letting that wave of pure pleasure roll over you. Moaning shamelessly, your body trembling as his fingers fucked you through an overwhelming climax.

You lay there, panting, sweat covering your body, and you were still feeling dizzy from the aftermath of that amazing orgasm, when you felt a shiver of cold. He lifted the blanket off of you. And before you could ask why, you felt his hand on your thigh and he lifted up your leg. And before you could wonder what he was up to, you felt his fingers push your soaking wet panties to the side. And before you could really grasp what was going on, you felt his hard cock push inside you from behind.

You cried out as you were stretched by his thickness.

His hand covered your mouth, muffling your cries, as he pushed deeper, pushed his whole length into you. You felt like he was splitting you in two, he was so big, pushing so hard, but at the same time this was all you wanted, all your body was craving for.

Your body shook from his hard thrusts, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close, making you feel his rapid heartbeat, making you feel him, so intensely, you forgot where you ended and where he began. You felt as if you were melting into him as he took you with long hard thrusts, took you as if you were only his.

And when you felt his hot cum spilling inside you, your body convulsed so hard around him, making him gasp into your ear and you came again, and he was fucking you through another high, this time not as fierce, but even more intense as you felt this connection with him, something you had never felt before.

You were still panting and your body was trembling as he rolled you around and took you in his arms. His lips kissing your face, tasting your sweat, tasting your tears.

“You're one of my sluts now.”

You froze as you heard his dark whisper.

“What?” You moved your head back to look at him though it was too dark to make out his features.

“I said, go back to sleep now,” he said, softly. And kissed your forehead, before cradling you in his strong arms. Your head resting against his shoulder, as he held you. Held you close.

a/n: Thank you for reading. This was probably much sweeter than what I usually write. I hope you enjoyed it. All feedback is very much appreciated.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe fanfiction #drew starkey #rafe cameron x reader #dark rafe cameron #outer banks #obx #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #smut fic #outer banks fanfiction #rafe x y/n #rafe obx #rafe fic

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writtenapoiogy · 4 months ago

Text

patience running thin; jacaerys velaryon

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x f!reader

summary: 'You two were to be wed by the week’s end. He was getting impatient. You were both getting impatient.'

word count: 1.3k

warnings: nsfw, 18+, smut, MINORS DNI, porn w/o plot, somewhat canon compliant, hot HOT make out, fingering, hair pulling, groping, high valyrian used w translation (if it is wrong i obviously don't know hv please forgive me), jacaerys is feral.

a/n: i had to write and publish something about jace pronto i hope everyone enjoys! i may write a part 2 😁 (this is so minimally proofread it is 1am)

READ PART TWO HERE

“What are you doing here my love?” You said as Jacaerys walked you into your bedchamber and shut your door with his foot.

His eyebrows furrowed. “What can I not see my betrothed?” Jace leaned down crashing his lips upon yours. He needed this every day. Feeling your lips against his helped center him during this crazy war. He wrapped his arms around your back pulling you completely against him.

You two were to be wed by the week’s end. He was getting impatient. You were both getting impatient. He’s wanted nothing more than to be inside of you since the date was set. Every time you two went to share a kiss there was nothing but heat behind it, a simple peck would lead to deeper kisses. Pushed against walls. Hands anywhere they could reach. Hushed moans drowned out by kisses.

He brought his hands from around you to cup your face and yours went to unpin his cloak. It fell to the floor alongside his sheathed sword they both fell and a loud clank resonated around the room.

“I missed you today.” Jacaerys ran his nose from behind your ear down to your collarbone. Taking in your scent. A warm vanilla, he could moan at your smell alone. You had just had your nightly bath.

He walked you towards your bed until the two of you fell on top of your bed cover. He kneeled over you, his mouth was all over your neck and the parts of your chest that were exposed.

Your hands were entangled in his exquisite curls. Gasps and moans left your mouth. You spread your legs and he ran his hand up one, piling your dress around your waist.

“I do not think I can keep my honor intact much longer,” Jace spoke his hand entirely too close to your small clothes.

You let out small gasps reaching your head towards him, wanting nothing more than to grasp his lips yet again.

“Jacaerys.” You whined desperately against his lips. “I cannot wait.”

He groaned and pulled away from you shaking his head. “Do not say that.” He sat on the backs of his legs looking down at you. “I cannot hear that. We marry in less than four days and every day we get closer, I am finding my honor on a very very thin line. I cannot be in control of what happens if I hear that.”

“Does it really count as dishonor when we marry so soon?” You smiled.

“We cannot.” He began to look at your frame. He could see your hard nipples through the thin material of your sleepwear. Looking at your beautiful legs. All the way up to where your dress was just barely covering your most intimate area. You looked so beautiful in front of him.

“We can.” You sat up running your hands up his chest. “And you are wearing too many clothes.”

“We canno-.”

“Jacaerys! Do something, please. Anything I’ll take anything you’ll give me… please.” You couldn’t take it anymore. These past few weeks, you’ve become touch starved for your soon-to-be husband. But touched starved in a place you have never felt him. Between the promiscuous kisses against walls in empty corridors. To the heated make-outs in each other beds. It was simply too much for you. You couldn’t handle it anymore.

You saw something flash in Jace’s eyes at your words. He was on you in seconds. Pulling your night dress down just enough to see the swell of your breasts. “I do not wish to spoil myself of your entirety before we are vowed to each other. I wish not to ruin the anticipation. To see my wife in all of her glory.”

You moaned at his words. He took your lips, pushing you back down on the bed, moaning into your mouth. He was kneeling over you. Your hands were tangled in his hair. This was all too much for both of you.

His cock screaming for release inside of his tight pants. You felt your stomach twisting in such delight. Your skin was ablaze, feeling his hands and mouth all over you. He brought his mouth down to the tops of your breasts, groping one through your clothes with his slender hands.

“Ja-Jacaerys. More. Please.” You struggled to get out through gasps and groans.

Jacaerys pulled his mouth away from your breast. He dragged his hand down from your breast slowly down your side till it was past your dress and going up the inner side of your thigh.

You felt your breath get stuck in a lump in your throat as you anticipated his next move. His eyes never left yours. Beautiful browns. So deep right now they almost looked like were brown mixed with blood red.

He brought his other hand down with him to pull your thin undergarments off of your body. His body had a visceral reaction to the smell of your arousal, which filled his nose as soon as he removed your small clothes. “Ao jāhor sagon se morghon hen issa.” You will be the death of me.

You not being of Targaryen blood, you did not understand what he just said. But him speaking the ancient language of High Valyrian did something to you. “Jace.” You whined.

Jacaerys brought his finger forward rubbing it through you wet folds. You jerked when his finger lightly touched your clit.

His eyes sparked mischievously, “Do you find that pleasurable, my love.” You mewled when he circled his finger over it. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He continued to play with your clit as you threw your hand to the back of his head, rocking your hips against his finger. You whispered in his ear that you needed him to put it inside of you.

He quickly slipped his index finger inside of you and groaned at your tightness. He began to pump his finger. All he could do was look at you in pure awe. Your breasts struggled to free themselves as you arched your back at the pleasure. Sweat droplets pilling up on your forehead. Your mouth was wide open as you let out wanton moans and cries of his name.

“Oh, you are perfect. Please look at me.” Jacaerys spoke when he curled his index finger inside of you, trying to see what made you tick. Looks like he hit it right on the spot. He couldn’t help but smirk, feeling a bit arrogant.

You opened your eyes as you let out a loud whimper. Jace immediately crashed his lips to yours in an open mouth kiss full of tongue and spit and lust. He pulled away, keeping his finger curling into the soft spot inside of you.

You looked down at the tent in his pants and couldn’t stop yourself from reaching your hand out to touch your prince but he immediately protested.

“If you touch me there that line of honor I have will snap. Do you rea-,” Jacaerys began before he was cut off by a knock at your door. Jacaerys stopped what he was doing and looked at you with wide eyes. “Tell them to go.” He leaned down and whispered against your lips.

“I am feeling a bit unwell. Please could this wait till the morning?” Jace smiled at you and then took your lips again. His hand resumed its actions as well.

“Little prince, I know you’re in there. Your mother is waiting for you at the painted table.”

Both of your faces blanched as you recognized no one other than Daemon Targaryen on the outside of the door.

Jacaerys removed his finger from inside of you and you hissed. He gave you a quick kiss before getting out of your bed to straighten himself up.

After he donned his cloak again, he gave you another kiss. “I will see you in the morning, Princess.”

You smiled at him as he helped get you situated under your covers. He was out the door before you could help him fix his hair. You laughed at the thought.

READ PART TWO HERE

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jacaerys targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd

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selineram3421 · 10 months ago

Text

Deer Demon Child Headcanons

Requested

Alastor & Child Reader

Warnings? ⚠

⚠ implied death, mention of blood, mention of cannibalism, weapons-gun ⚠

It was a surprise to everyone that a child wandered into the hotel.

A little deer demon.

That's you

Climbed up one of the bar stools and stared the cat man down until he finally noticed them.

"Uh..hey? Kid."

"I want juice!", you pointed at a bottle behind him that was on the shelf.

"That's not juice."

While distracting you with magic tricks and cards games, Husk called Charlie to let her know that a new guest had arrived.

The Princess ran to get to the lobby and rushed over to the bar.

"Hi! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!", Charlie sings out before noticing the little deer. "Oh."

Everyone is called into the lobby.

"Ok!", Charlie claps her hands together and introduces you to the group. "Everyone, be nice and say hi."

Later on you are asked by Vaggie and Charlie how you got to the "red place."

Mostly everyone left and it was only you three. Four.

"Before I woke up here I was with my moma.", you said while coloring your drawing. "Dad had a shiney toy in his drawer and showed it to me a lot of times. It made fun clicking noises. I wanted to play with it, so I took it out."

As you were explaining you drew out the shape of a gun.

"I wanted to show Moma but she looked scared. And when I tried to make the clicky noise it came out different. It made a bang and then Moma fell."

You drew your mother covered in red.

"I tried to wake her up but she wouldn't get up. I got sad and started crying."

You didn't notice Charlie and Vaggie looking sad.

"Then Dad came home and started screaming at me and took the toy away. And then everything went dark for a while."

Picking up your paper, you showed the girls your drawings.

"And then I woke up to the red sky!"

Charlie hugged you after and said that she'll make sure you go to Heaven.

Oof sad backstory.

Husk literally growls at Alastor everytime he mentions venison for dinner.

Alastor has joked to others that he'll eat you but stopped once he grew fond of you.

"Little fawn.", he smiles as he greets you. "Would you like gingerbread cookies?"

To be honest, everyone is worried that Alastor might kill you. But surprise, surprise! They are shocked when he takes care of you instead.

You're the favorite hotel guest.

Anyone that tries anything will be taken care of.

Charlie did a talent show day and you sang, surprising everyone with your angelic like voice.

You're a curious little deer and the hotel guests and staff find you in odd places.

Once Angel found you upsidedown behind the couch that was against the wall.

"What are ya doing back there?", he asked after pulling you out.

"Niffty said there was treasure!", you smiled.

Alastor finds it adorable that you go to him when someone you don't know/scary person is in the hotel.

Sir Pentious is told to put all of his weapons away.

Everyone dubs you as Alastor's child. Even the Radio Demon himself.

Vaggie threatens Alastor after he jokes that you'll be a cannibal like him.

Of course he'd never do that but its funny to see Vagatha's and Husker's pissed off faces.

Alastor keeps up with the human news and learns that your father went to prison. So the Radio Demon waits for the man to fall.

Art will be provided. (Later)

~Seline, the person.

Part 2

Art

Taglist@

@ducky-died-inside @scary-noodlesblog @c4rved-pumpk1n @stolas-thebirb @naelys-the-aster @biromanticboba @kiraisastay @faioula16 @pooplyface1423 @lbcreations-blog @+?

ML for Alastor🎙

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luveline · 28 days ago

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hiii, could we please get bombshell!reader x spencer finding out they’re pregnant with baby no. 2 xxx

Hi thank you for requesting! fem, 1k

The second time, it catches you completely off guard. You still remember the afternoon you’d spent at Spencer’s apartment before you realised you were pregnant with Amy, your first, that nagging feeling of otherness that plagued you for days, and finally got too much to ignore. How Spencer had offered his hand, had sat you in the chair next to him despite it being a tight squeeze. You’d been more scared than you let on, quite hopeful, but you knew in a way before you took the test that it was already happening.

You figure you have a pretty good idea of what being pregnant feels like, and when your period doesn’t come, you don’t pay it any mind. They’ve been spotty since Amy, on and off and on again. Spencer stopped trying to log it for you a long ago.

“Mama?”

You smile. It’s a rare day when Amy calls you ‘mama’: she didn’t spend long in the mama-dada region of time, moving on quickly to ‘mommy’.

“What’s up, love bug?” you whisper.

Amy —Amanda, Spencer’s idea, meaning ‘worth of love’— tilts her head back. Spencer swears she’s all you, but you can see both of you in her face, threads of your families. “Daddy’s sleeping?” she asks, her lips screwed into his pout, her eyebrows pulled into your worried pinching.

“He got home late last night, remember? He’s just tired.”

She frowns at his face turned into your thigh. “Wake up?”

“Let’s let him sleep, okay? Sleep is important, it keeps us healthy.”

“You’ll play?”

“I can’t, he’s sleeping in my lap.”

“Push.”

“We don’t push.”

Amy, perplexed by this, clambers onto the couch despite her father’s entire body being in the way, and Spencer, so used to this mistreatment, doesn’t so much as stir. Amy slides into the space between his chest and the back of the couch and leans down to grin at his lax face.

“Gonna give daddy a kiss?” you suggest in a murmur.

Amy gathers the curls from his face and kisses his forehead, smack dab in the middle.

Spencer’s breath starts to quicken. Amy senses a change and begins patting the back of his neck. “Shhh,” she says, uncoordinated fingers trying hard to be gentle as she pets her father. “Shush, daddy. Sleep.”

Spencer spends hours sleeping in your lap, until eventually Amy tramples him one too many times and his stomach growls its protest. He wakes, turning back, his hair crushed to your thigh, and when he sees you he gives you the same lovely smile as always.

His teeth peek from behind his lips. “That’s a pretty sight to wake up to,” he says.

It’s this sleepy afternoon together that means later, when you’re sitting on the closed toilet with a pregnancy test taken from four parts curiosity and one part responsibility, you’re unafraid of the result. You think of Amy’s small hands stroking Spencer’s hair from his face, her head under your nose as you’d cuddled, and you think of Spencer’s dozy smile and his months spent pouring over baby name books, and you know it’s all gonna be fine.

“You alright?” Spencer asks when you make it to bed some short minutes later. His nap has left him wide awake.

You climb into bed and turn out your lamp, laying down, curling in, a secret smile playing on your lips as he drags the blankets to your neck. “I’m good.”

“What’s making you smile?” he asks.

You gesture for him to lay down with you in the middle dark. Yellow from Amy’s hallway night light bleeds under the door, illuminating the hints of his features. You don’t need it to know what he looks like, where his cheek is in the dark as you lift your hand. “Love you,” you say.

He pulls you in for a gentle kiss. “Love you,” he says into your lips, hand slipping to the nape of your neck. He squeezes it, groaning at the very back of his throat as he adds, “Missed you.”

“I missed you too. Sleep well, sweetheart.”

He wraps an arm around you and cradles you against him. “Yeah, okay. Goodnight, angel.” His nose presses to your temple. His lips brush your eyebrow.

You linger in the quiet for a while. Spencer nearly falls asleep.

“Spencer?” you ask.

“Mm?” He doesn’t sound tired at all, but he’d been content to lie with you in the quiet.

“Just, by the way. Just so you know,” —you rub your face into his chest, breathing in his smell— “I’m pregnant again.”

Another lapse of silence. Then Spencer springs up and turns on his bedside lamp to your squinting ire, eyes alight with shock. “You’re what?”

“Pregnant.” You turn your face into the pillow to hide from the unwelcome light. “With a baby,” you say, your voice mildly muffled, “maybe two or so months.”

Spencer slips a hand under your cheek and turns you back around. He holds your face in both palms, a rueful sort of acceptance about him as he leans down for a good look at you, though underneath it you can see the same thrumming contentedness you’d felt seeing the double pink lines. “And you’re telling me now?”

“Didn’t you always say you expected to be the last to know?” you tease. “I did a test a few minutes ago. Clear Blue. Very accurate, or so you’ve said.”

Spencer laughs and presses his face sharply into your own. Your nose throbs after a while, but you say nothing. You smile when he sniffles, raking your hand through his mousy brown hair.

“I didn’t have an inkling of a suspicion,” you confess in a whisper.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say, laughing under your breath as his hand creeps down to your stomach. “It’s the same as it was yesterday, I promise.”

“Well, it’s not.” Spencer’s face falls into the nook of your shoulder, hand slipping from your stomach to behind you, where he holds you like you’re at risk of escaping him. You have no such inclination.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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dilatorywriting · 6 months ago

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Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 5.2k

Summary: Teaching a Siren to read is perhaps the best or worst idea that you've ever had. If only you were half as capable of reading between the lines.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

‘U-G-L-Y’

“Wow,” you drawled. “What a wonderful use of your new talents.”

The fish you were cooking landed upside down on the hot stone with a crackling sizzle of skin that you could feel as a jumping prickle of heat all along your arm. You poked at your impromptu stovetop with your impromptu stick-spatula and prepared your impromptu leaf-plates. A true culinary connoisseur, you were. When you were rescued, you were going to argue to Riddle that you deserved a promotion to the kitchens. Though, apparently not everyone appreciated your talents.

‘UGLY’ the Siren poked again, jabbing his talon into the sand.

“Then bring me prettier fish,” you returned, pointed. “It’s not that hard.”

His sharp, black claws came up to point at you next alongside his wonderful, two-syllable insult. Then back to you again, with four fingers this time. Both hands going for it. There was a tight, irritated expression on his face that you refused to call a pout because firstly, surely this vicious king of the seas could never pull something so childish. And secondly, because in these past few days you’d developed a terrible habit of just chattering each and every one of your thoughts aloud. And if you called him bratty, or dared imply such pouting was coming from his regal visage, you were just setting yourself up to get drenched by his flailing tail all over again.

“You can’t hurt my feelings,” you said, bland. “Ugly is the nicest thing you’ve ever called me.”

He huffed and smacked his fins against the sand. The trailing, dark tips cracked against your leg and you kicked him right back. It didn’t actually hurt, no more than a pinch to the side, but you’d spent enough time with this asshole now that not fighting back like a toddler pitching a tantrum wasn’t an option anymore.

Just over two weeks, now. Fifteen days and counting.

Those first few days had been spent in a nervous, prey-like panic, of course. Watching him circle the bay with his shredded fins, crying at the top of his lungs until your goosebumps had goosebumps. And then you’d helped untangle him from the mess you’d made, delicately working salt-brined twine away from weeping wounds. Sure, there’d been that whole hoopla of him pinning you in the sand after your act of Great Chivalry and promptly threatening to rip your throat out with his teeth, but you’d moved past that. The offering of home-cooked meals had softened his scaly hide, and then the even greater move of handing him your species’ alphabet like some great, guarded secret of old had sealed the deal. Cheers all around. It’d only taken you nearly being eaten, disemboweled, and drowned, but you’d made peace with your roommate. What a success story.

And now instead of trying to murder you, he just called you U-G-L-Y.

So, you know, baby steps.

The thin, pointed end of his tail whipped up from where you’d kicked him to twine around your ankle and give a sharp tug that had you sprawling face first into the sand with an oomph. Your great tumble sent all those pretty letters of his scattering in the breeze, and you spat out a mouthful of grit.

“Here’s a new one for you,” you chirped, digging your fingers into the muck. F-U-C-K—Y-O-U.

The Siren yowled, which you’d come to recognize far too well as a prickle along your nape and that forever echoing tug, tug, tug somewhere in your head that could never return the call with its corresponding answer. His tail flailed out again to smack at your hands. It was thick, and scaly, and all smooth, powerful muscle. The fact that he hadn’t crushed your poor fingers into a sad, bony paste by now beneath its wrath was a miracle. If you were a more optimistic person, you’d say he was being extra gentle with you on purpose. But even you weren’t delusional enough to think he liked you that much.

“Okay, okay,” you grouched, spitting out another mouthful of pebbles. “Fine. Just not around the food. Unless you want to have to go hunting for dinner all over again.”

The Siren huffed, rolling his eyes like it was a professional sport, and settled himself prettily back against the butt of his tail like he’d never even tried to beat you to death with his fins at all.

You sighed and pulled yourself back out of the sand, scrubbing it from your salt-sticky skin as best as you were able. You returned to poking at your fish. They weren’t too terribly singed, despite your distraction. And the Siren seemed to like the edges extra crispy either way, so it wasn’t any kind of loss. You were in the middle of balancing your impromptu stick-spatula against another impromptu stick-spoon to try and flip the fish without destroying it entirely when you felt a gentle poke, poke, poke against your arm.

You looked back and the Siren stared down at you, lips canted in a sharp smirk that was all pride.

U-G-L-Y—A-N-D—S-T-U-P-I-D, the sand said.

He’d been struggling with applying the whole -pid noise to the proper lettering, because of how similar it was to -ped. And the spelling had been tripping him up (with much obvious frustration) for the last day or so.

“Well done,” you sighed, not even too terribly upset that it had taken you months in Riddle’s impromptu classrooms to learn what he was picking up over the course of a few, harried sessions delivered with broken bits of sharp sticks and an ever changing canvas. “Try this.”

You scribbled another message in the sand. An insult, naturally, because he seemed to like those. You sounded out the letters as you hopped the tip of your finger over them one-by-one, and the Siren stared down at the inscription with the sort of intense focus meant for ancient tomes or sacred texts. You watched his lips move silently as he sounded it out alongside your mini-lesson, and then he was reaching forward to trace over the letters with the curved tip of a claw—knuckles bumping yours for a moment before shooing your hand away.

You returned to your dinner—finishing up the poor, murdered fish as best as you could and doling it out as usual. You reached out to hand pretty boy his leaf-plate, which he took like a lord accepting a meal from a lowly servant. All upturned noses and pointed disinterest. He set it beside him and nibbled on the offering as he continued to study the new task you’d given him—grand, purple fins splayed out at his sides to brush against your hip like a habit. And this was your life now, apparently. Sitting and frying lazy, shallow water fish over a heated stone while your Siren student studied curse words in the sand. If you managed to survive this, no one would ever believe you.

The wrecked ship called to you like, well, did you even have to say it.

(It felt like a low hanging pun at this point. You’d never be able to use the expression again for as long as you lived without thinking of narrowed, purple eyes nearly rolling up into the back of a too pretty head because you were apparently that annoying.)

Every day when you ventured towards the western side of the islet to feed your teeny, round octopus friend, you couldn’t help but sit and stare at the shattered hull. It’s not like it was in any sort of shape to actually get you off your little, sandy prison, but it was… There was something about it that was familiar enough to scratch an itch in your brain, but just alien enough that figuring out what was itching was outright impossible.

Silver songbirds.

‘Not safe,’ the Siren had demanded, with an almost frantic look to him. Not safe.

Every time you tried to venture closer to get a better look, it was like he could feel it. And he’d be pacing the shoreline like a blood-frenzied shark—rattling off muted, angry complaints the whole time that popped against your skin like soda fizz. So, lesson learned. Keep away.

It was a particularly sweltering afternoon today. Not a cloud in the bright, blue sky and nary a breeze to be seen. Sweat was beading unpleasantly along your brow and all down your back, and you hated it. At least on the Rose Queen there had been shade. And the lower decks of the ship submerged in the waves had always felt at least a little chilled. You could practically feel the damp, cool wood against your cheek. The smell of salt and pine oils in your nose. But here, on this stupid not-island with its barren trees and nothings, you just had to suffer in silence. The memories of your ship had you thinking of the washed up Songbird all over again, and you were in the middle of a heated, internal debate over making a swim for it again when something cold rained down over your face in small, scattered droplets.

You blinked back into focus to see Mister Merman at your ankles. You’d been sitting with your heels in the water, but no deeper. Because the shallows were still his territory, and while he hadn’t tried to hold you under in a while now, it was hard to forget something like that so easily. You didn’t really want to chance it if a foul mood struck him, no matter what sort of fragile truce seemed to exist between the pair of you lately.

Last you’d looked he’d been sunning himself on one of the wide, flat rocks—as he was wont to do. Lavender-tipped hair splayed out along his cheeks in a pool of soft gold and fins spread at his hips like the finest, plum silks. How he never seemed to burn with that delicate, ivory skin of his you had no idea. Maybe it was a Magical, Mystical, Merman perk yet undocumented. Or maybe he was just Like That. But he’d been snoozing away on his favorite boulder, and now he had rolled in with the tide to lounge by your toes. His fingers were spread, still dripping with sea water from where he’d flicked you in the face. You frowned at him—partly curious, but also pissilly blinking salt out of your eyes that stung, because come on dude.

He flicked more water your way and said something that you couldn’t manage to catch the shape of. When you didn’t respond with anything other than a pointed scrub of the water dripping down your cheeks, he reached out to wrap a clawed hand around your ankle and give a gentle tug.

“What?” you frowned, confused, and he tugged again.

He canted his head towards you, and then out to the cove behind him. He slipped back with the soft, frothy roll of the waves—just a foot or two—and clearly meant to pull you with him. You slid against the sandbar with a yelp and dug your heels into the muck to keep from getting yanked all the way in.

“No way,” you snipped, kicking a mess of water into his face. He didn’t even blink, just frowned down at you with a twisty sort of petulance. “I thought we were over this. If you drown me you won’t get any more cooked food, y’know. And I, in turn, would very much like to not be drowned. Win, win.”

That frown of his went stiff, and his lips twitched down at the corners. His amethyst eyes darted away and for a moment you swore that those gemstone irises flashed with something almost like guilt. He rolled forward with the next curl of surf and pressed a claw into the damp, dark sand at your hip. He scratched out a careful message, stubbornly refusing to meet your gaze all the while.

Won’t, it said.

“Forgive me for not believing that,” you returned, dry. “You’re oh-for-two now, I think. And, you know, fool me twice, and all that.” Though maybe the first one didn’t really count, seeing how you were both tangled together and sinking to the bottom in a mutual sort of destruction. But whatever. You were keeping it.

The Siren’s brow pinched in the middle and he reached forward to dig his claws in again.

Accident.

Your own brows jumped nearly to your hairline. You were just about to politely point out that dragging someone to the bottom of the ocean until they were bubbling from the nose and flailing wasn’t really an accident,but then you remembered the startled look on his face. The way he hadn’t stopped you from clawing your way back to the surface and how he’d carefully helped tow you back towards the shore after. And… maybe he hadn’t really meant it. It had to be strange, probably. Being able to thrive so easily below the waves and then be faced with someone who would die if they were left facedown in a puddle.

“…Fine,” you huffed, and his eyes jumped back up to yours with all cat-in-the-cream smugness. “But just because I’m about to drop from heatstroke. Not because you asked.”

The Siren rolled his eyes at you and returned to dragging you by your ankles into the shallows.

The bay really was very lovely. It was crystalline clear and the sort of brilliant blue that you’d never even known existed until you’d left the land for a life on the open ocean. The sand below your feet was soft and white, with barely any pebbles or broken bits of shell to dig into your toes. You watched a few crabs scurry out of the way as you were led deeper and deeper, but most of the cove’s occupants were spoiled and slow. Unbothered by this weird, fleshy, bipedal creature stepping past because they’d never known anything else. Once you hit waist-deep, the Siren let go of you to sink more fully into the water. He swam around you in a languid, looping circle—plum fins cresting the surface to flick water against your arms and scales shining like polished glass in the sunlight. It was still far too shallow for him to move around in earnest with how massive that tail of his was, and how wide and trailing his great, beta-like fins were, but he was still elegant. Still fast and flexible as he swam rings around you like an orbit.

“Show off,” you scoffed, but couldn’t quite bite back the grin twitching at your lips.

Because creature from the deep trying to devour your crew or not, Sirens really were so impressive, weren’t they? Straight out of a storybook, and deserving of every song and tale attributed to them.

You reached out before you could help yourself to run your fingers along his tail. The scales were smooth, and sleek, and cool against your palm. The wispy ends of his fins caught along your fingers, but other than a bit of a tangle, you almost managed to run your hand along the whole of it. And what was it? Eight feet? Ten? Bigger than you at least, that was for sure. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. No fish, or whale hide, or shark. Something entirely of its own.

You realized on the next loop when your fingers danced over a patch of still healing scales that you’d felt already that he had most definitely realized your err in personal space, and was letting you poke about on purpose. You glanced up, embarrassed and warm faced, to see the tail end of a smirk quirking out from the water’s surface. Preening bastard.

You turned up your nose and waded deeper. There was a ripple in the water around you, like a chuckle, and he returned to his looping circles. Occasionally his tail would brush up against you to get you to jump, but otherwise he kept his hands to himself and—as promised—did not attempt to wrestle you down to the sandy floor and your subsequent watery grave.

Once you’d made it up to your chest, the Siren was able to start his dance in earnest. He darted away to make a wide arc around the edge of the cove—sunshine catching on his scales like a glare on the water. He shot from one end to the other, so fast it was nearly dizzying to try and keep up with. And then he was back to circling your ankles all over again—tangling your legs in his fins and curling his talons against your calves to try and drag you deeper.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, paddling after him until you were well and truly above your head. The bay wasn’t very deep, but there were a few areas that dipped down to at least fifteen feet. So soon enough you were bobbing like a top in the gentle surf as he looped around your idly kicking feet—brushing up along your ankles and tugging at the frayed edge of your shirt with his claws when he passed by.

When he next rose above the surface, you’d already taken in a big mouthful of water in preparation, and shot it right into his face. The Siren’s whole expression shriveled up like a hundred-year-old prune and you laughed so hard he had to curl his tail around your waist to keep you from dipping under the waves and choking yourself. You let him drag you around and only grabbed at his fins a little. He would dive below your feet and you’d sink after him. Not nearly as agile or adept, but competent enough to follow his little game of tag without losing completely within the first few seconds. It was—it was nice. Genuinely. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d swam for the fun of it. Way back when you’d first joined up with Riddle’s crew, maybe. It’d been a hot day, just like this one, and you’d been anchored in a safe, shallow inlet off the coast of an archipelago. Deuce and Ace had jumped in first, already brawling, and you’d dove in soon after. It’d been a mess, and Riddle had nearly hung the three of you up by your toes for it. But it’d been fun. Familial. Warm. Something you’d never forget. And while this moment didn’t feel entirely like that one had, there was something similar about it. Sure, you weren’t trying to give the Siren a bloody nose and there were no rock wars, but it was… well, it was nice.

By the end of it, he was swimming lazy, looping shapes around the cove, and you were being dragged alongside him like a raft—kept afloat by the curling press of his tail and relaxing in the afternoon sunshine with the cool ripples of the ocean water to keep you both comfortable in the heat.

“Do you do this a lot?” you asked, as you relaxed in the gentle lull of the surf. “With your pod, I mean.”

The Siren stiffened beneath you, but after a moment he nodded. Slow and rigid. Which—

Oh. Right.

“…sorry,” you mumbled, gaze darting away.

Because he was missing his family just as much as you were missing yours, wasn’t he?

All that frantic pacing at the start of your mutual stranding had just seemed to… fade away as the days passed. He would still circle the entrance of the cove some mornings, singing towards the skies and tilting his head—fins pricked as he searched for an answer. You’d feel it in your nerves, see the gulls overhead dipping in a trance and watch the crabs crawl up onto the sand like they were being dragged out by their little claws. But most of the time now he just… didn’t. He spent his days mumbling over the letters you showed him, or carefully preening over his healing fins and resting in the sun. Catching fish for you to prepare and roast, and taking his meals at your side as you both snipped at each other with sandy curse words. It was pleasant, this routine you’d fallen into together. But all the same, he never really stopped checking the ocean waters. And you could see a spark in his eyes, an itch. The same one that lit yours, no doubt, every time you caught yourself squinting for the outline of ships on the horizon.

The difference between the two of you, of course, was that in a few more days his scales would be healed enough to face the dangers of the open water alone. Life as a rogue mer was notoriously perilous. The lone Sirens were those that poachers were willing to risk battle with for a trophy. They were the ones caught in fishing nets, and found mauled by rival pods. But your Siren was smart. He was big, and strong, and impressive. He’d find a way to survive it, no doubt. One morning you’d wake up and he’d have darted off into the deep to search for his family. To go home. And you…

You would still be trapped here.

Alone.

Forever.

Rotting under the sun with no one to take you swimming in the afternoons. Or bring you clawed up fish to cook for dinner. Or to use your writing lessons just to insult you with scribbled words in the muck.

Which—that was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? At the start of all of this.

And it was only fair, in the end. He was the better of the two of you, after all. Born and bred to thrive in the depths of the sea that would swallow you whole without a thought. And if either of you was going to survive, to find your home again, it was always going to be him. Maybe you’d be a story, like he would have been for you. The strange human with no ears, just like the rest of the pirates whispered about. Who taught him that fire could make fish extra tasty and that leaves could make perfectly serviceable plates if you tried hard enough.

You sighed, and bubbles of salt water frothed along your mouth.

The Siren raised his head from his own lazy sprawl to arch a brow at you in question, and you did the very mature thing of spitting water in his face all over again.

You ended up being dragged through the cove in a flurry of spitting, Siren rage. Laughing and laughing until he huffed and hauled you back to shore to keep you from swallowing any more seawater like the idiot that you were. And it was fine, really it was. He wasn’t so bad, not really. And if he was able to reunite with his pod once more after all those days of hollow wailing and pacing, pacing, pacing that had made something deep in your soul itch like a freshly scabbed wound that you just couldn’t stop picking, well, that wouldn’t be such a bad ending after all.

The next afternoon while you were out on your daily Octopus Wellness Check, you came across a piece of pale, purple sea glass mixed into the rocky shore. It was smooth to the touch and frosted over by the endless tumble of the tide. You held it up to the light and it sparkled just like the Siren’s scales.

“What do you think?” you asked the octopus as it grabbed shredded bits of fish with its chubby, little tentacles. “Do you want it? Or should I give it to—”

You blinked, startled, and realized all at once that you’d never learned the Siren’s name. Or given him yours. You’d just sort of been calling each other a variety of derogatory pseudonyms and hoping for the best. Which, huh. You hadn’t even realized you’d wanted to know his name. It wasn’t yours to take, of course. Let alone from someone who would no doubt be leaving so soon. But it was a thought.

“You always give the best advice, you know,” you told the teeny creature, and it hid from you like you were a great, looming monster of old. “Whether you meant to or not. Thanks for that.”

So on the way back to your cove, you picked through some tufts of beachgrass to find the longest, driest spikes. You began winding them together as you walked, and settled down in your favorite little corner of the inlet to continue your weaving. The Siren, naturally—being as nosy as he was—was immediately hovering over you like a child watching someone hold a bag of sweets just out of reach. You clutched your little project to your chest like a secret, and it had him puffing up in irritation and smacking his fins against your sides like your refusal to share whatever had caught your attention was a crime beyond comparison. He arched up as tall as he could to try and peer over your shoulder, and, in failing at that, just outright tried to snatch the thing from your hands.

“I won’t give it to you if you keep being a pest,” you warned, and immediately he was slipping back to rest on his stomach in the damp sand with a starbright curiosity in his eyes, chin pillowed atop his interlaced fingers and gaze following the movements of your hands like a cat tracking a mouse in its hole. Clearly the promise of it being a treat for him was mollification enough to keep him from hovering.

Once you’d braided a sturdy enough chain, you carefully twined it around the sea glass in a little, crisscrossing cage of fibers. Just knotted enough to keep the ocean-worn trinket safe and in place without hiding the shine of it. With that, you held up your trophy with a dramatic wave, and the Siren was popping up all over again. His amethyst glare tracked the swinging pendant with startling focus and a surprisingly wide-eyed spark of confusion.

“Here,” you said, reaching out to drop the makeshift necklace into his lap. He caught it in his claws, eyes still far too round with shock. “It made me think of your scales. I thought you might like it.”

He was staring down at the gift in utter silence. And not the normal sort of quiet either—where your broken eardrums simply refused to pick up on all his petulant grousing against your person. This was actual silence. His lips were parted like they were caught on a breath, but he wasn’t saying anything. Not even a complaint about how plain and ugly it was. He curled his claws daintily around the woven chain, as if he was afraid of tearing right through it with an accidental prick, and then held the sparkling bauble aloft like he was utterly entranced by the soft gleam of it.

After a long, long moment of that near eerie silence and a pool of dread filling your belly that screamed you’d clearly fucked up in some way (overstepped some weird, Siren tradition. Accidentally insulted his father. Handed him a bad luck omen on a string. Something), the Siren was twisting around to show you the back of his neck. He held up the woven chain so it draped along his shoulder blades, and he pointedly shook the ends at you.

When you just gaped back in shock, he turned to sneer over his shoulder at you and jabbed a claw at his throat, then the necklace, then you, then his throat again. Which, oh. Oh! That—that you could do.

So you reached out to pluck the ends of the grass-woven thread from his talons and he immediately shifted around again to make himself comfortable. Curling his tail firmly against the sand with his plum-lined fins spread out in all their glory like a spill of purple ink along the shoreline. He set his shoulders square and firm, and looked straight ahead with that same, queer sort of focus to him as before.

You tied the ends of the necklace in a bow against his nape, making sure it was securely fastened in place and not snagging any of the softer, shorter hairs at the back of his neck. Once it’d been fussed with to his liking, he turned back around and stared you down until you could feel goosebumps prickling up all along your spine. You wanted to meekly tell him that it was just sea glass. Just a little trinket you’d found in the sand that you’d thought was pretty enough that he might like to have it. But the words died on your tongue. They felt wrong somehow. And you’d put your foot in your mouth plenty of times throughout your life, but this definitely felt like it would have been the biggest boot of all.

“…You like it?” you tried instead, because that sentiment at least seemed less like something that was ready to clog up your throat.

The Siren nodded, firm, his eyes still drilling into yours with that unnerving level of focus.

You coughed into your fist and awkwardly attempted to shift away to give yourself a bit of room, and—Huh. When had his tail come up to wrap around your leg? That made running away a bit inconvenient. You’d just have to try and wriggle your way out and hope he would take mercy on your far inferior musculature, and—

There was a poke at your hip. Tap, tap, tap. One, two, three. And you glanced back up at him with a pinched frown, confused.

The Siren pointed to a scrawl in the sand. Tap, tap, tap.

Acceptable.

You gawked, and then swallowed a laugh so fast it nearly choked you. Because he was still himself, wasn’t he? No matter what. Sassy, asshole fish. Gods, you were going to miss him.

You wiped at the bubbling, giggling tears prickling at the corner of your eyes and reached out to pat at his tail in good humor.

“I hope you find your happy ending,” you beamed, and meant it.

The Siren just looked at you with one of his familiar, lemon-sour puckers. He pointedly reached up to flick at the necklace around his throat, like that had anything to do with him finding his family again at all. Like it wasn’t just some silly trinket you’d gifted him in hopes that maybe one day he could look back fondly on the little human that he’d found himself stranded with. To not just forget you outright. To make your fleeting presence in his life something tangible, rather than just a mess of already fading scars and memories that would too easily be swept away in the depths of the sea.

“At least it’s acceptable,” you said finally around your giggling, and he huffed at you in a way that almost looked fond. You stood from the sand and brushed the mess of grit and salt off your pant legs. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner and I’ll teach you some nicer words tonight. So you can give me a real compliment next time.”

There was spray of water all along your back from where he’d no doubt dove back into the shallows behind you and walloped you with his fins to the best of his ability. And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be bothered by it at all.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #vil schoenheit #Mermay #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #vil shoenheit #Siren!Vil #Mermaid!Vil #Fantasy AU #Monster Mayhem Vil Part 3

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moonstruckme · 5 months ago

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Thanks for being patient with me! This is edited on about four hours of sleep so apologies for any errors <3

part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.6k words

Water sizzles on the stove. You reach over to turn down the heat, your side heating from its proximity to the boiling water, before spinning back around to keep speed-chopping onion. This is a result of poor planning.

It’s possible that some of your nerves could be reinterpreted as excitement. Giddiness, even. You’re finally—finally—doing something to try and repay all the kindness James shows you. You’ve felt like such a mooch, eating his cooking and stealing his time with his friends, but last week had been too much for you to take. He’d discovered the stomach bug you were weathering, and James had completely devoted the next two days of his life to making sure you were looked after.

Your fever had gotten so out of hand he’d very nearly followed through on his favorite threat (going into your phone while you’re sleeping and phoning your mum), and though you’d done your best to downplay it at the time there are admittedly gaps in your memory wherein you think you were simply too out of it to know what was going on. It’s not a very comforting thought when you’re harboring a humiliating crush on your roommate; you may well have been just as talkative as James always is, you don’t know. At least he hasn’t said anything.

He had, thankfully, managed to avoid catching it. You’re not sure how he managed what no one on your shift at work did, but you assume it has something to do with all that kale he eats. Which is why you’re doing your best to make the thank-you meal you’re making him as healthy as might suit his standards.

You hear his key in the door, and a little frisson goes up your spine.

“You’re early,” you accuse as he walks in.

“Since when do you know when my training ends?” James asks. You sound like you’re sniping at one another, but as usual the joviality in his tone is unmissable.

The sounds of his entrance are familiar, perhaps more ingrained in your mind than they ought to be. Keys jingling as he hangs them on the hook, shoes toed off and left by the mat, heavy footsteps headed for wherever you are in the apartment.

When he finds you in the kitchen, you both speak at once.

“What happened to your shoulder?”

“You know how to cook?”

“Hurt it at training,” James answers, shrugging with the shoulder that doesn’t have an ice pack held to it. He’s probably too nice for it to occur to him to withhold his answer until you’ve given yours, as had been your first thought. “What are you making?”

“How did you hurt it?” Worry pries at your tone. Your hands have stilled on the cutting board.

“We had a scrimmage, and I got shoulder-barged.” He gives you a smile, a shadow of the real thing, but gentler. Reassuring. “It’s not bad.”

You frown. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Didn’t expect you to, love.”

“Why do you need to ice it if it’s not bad?”

There’s a look in James’ eyes that’s wavering between smugness and softness. You balk at the sight of it. “I need to be a bit careful with it,” he hedges, “but it’ll be good by morning. Now, you’ve distracted me. Do you mean to tell me you’ve known how to cook this entire time?”

“Yes,” you concede with a laugh. “I’ve always said I cook for myself when you’re not around.”

“And here you are, doing it right before my eyes.” James leans on the counter with his good arm. He looks immensely entertained. “I’m honored.”

“This isn’t just for me,” you say, looking down to resume chopping onion as your face warms slightly. “It’s for—” Another remonstrative hiss from the stove, and you whip around, moving the pot off the hot part entirely. You’re a bit relieved for the excuse to face away from him. “It’s for both of us. Also, I just want to provide a disclaimer right now that I never said I was good at cooking, only that I knew how.”

James’ laugh rumbles behind you, just as you knew it would. He’s too easy. You can practically feel the force of his smile hitting your back, like the sunshine brought inside.

“Here,” he says, taking a couple of steps toward you, “let me help.”

“No!” You whirl again, stopping him before he can actually enter the kitchen. “No way. James, I’m trying to do something nice.”

“And it is very nice,” he says, earnest. “It just seems like you could use a hand.”

“I’ve got it,” you insist. Your hands are up to ward him off, but you put them at your sides when you realize how close they’re hovering to his chest. “It doesn't count as doing something for you if you do it yourself. Anyway, you’re incapacitated.”

“I’m…” James looks confused, but then he glances down to his icing shoulder. “Oh, come on. I’m hardly immobilized.”

“For all intents and purposes, you are.” You do your best to infuse your voice with conviction. You’ve found that’s usually the way with James. If you show any hesitation, he’ll turn on the charm and have you eating out of his hand before you know what’s happened. You herd him away from the kitchen. “Go sit down. Dinner will be ready soon.”

You can’t help but be aware of him as you finish up, knowing he has to hear the sizzling when you accidentally spill things onto the stove or the one mumbled curse you’re not quick enough to bite back. All evidence that you’re not nearly as practiced a cook as James. You can practically feel his grin from a room over. Still, when it's done you’re fairly proud of yourself.

James is beaming as he accepts his bowl. He hikes his knees up so you can pass between the couch and the coffee table, making a show of sniffing the steam rising from the food.

“Is this risotto?” he asks, waiting for your little nod before his mouth drops open in astonishment. “You are so sneaky! I didn’t know you could cook at all, let alone fancy shit like this.”

“It’s not that hard to make.” You look down at your fork as you raise it to your lips, blowing.

“Sure it is! Loads of people have a hard time with it.”

“Do you?”

James grins, caught. You feel your own smile tugging at your lips as you take a bite.

He follows suit, forking a bit of the risotto and blowing to cool it before taking it in his mouth. His eyes dip closed, head lolling back, and he moans.

“Oh my god, this is good. I’m never cooking again, now that I know you can do this.”

You take another bite to avoid a response. You’re fairly sure the heat from your face could power the apartment for a month.

James makes a few more over-the-top compliments of your culinary skills, which you deflect as best you can. As always, you eat mostly silently while he chatters, but when you look over your attention gets snagged on his shoulder.

He’s only using the one hand to eat, bowl resting in his lap while you hold yours up closer to your face. His ice pack sits beside him now that he can’t hold it on anymore. You catch yourself gnawing on the inside of your lip.

“Does it hurt?” you ask.

James looks over, following your gaze. “Yeah,” he admits. “Nothing I’m not used to, though.”

You feel your eyebrows pinch. “You get hurt often?”

He smiles bemusedly. “It’s rugby, love. Getting a bit roughed up is part of the deal.”

This doesn’t sit right with you. Though you hadn’t pondered it much before, you realize you’ve sort of been thinking of James, with his muscles and constant smiles and easygoing manner, as somewhat invincible. He seems like such a source of light in the world, it hadn’t occurred to you that anything bad could happen to him. You don’t like the idea of him being hurt. In any capacity.

You realize this is likely playing out on your face when you notice James watching you. His eyes are soft. “As much as I would love to milk this for attention and maybe a sponge bath,” he says, setting his fork in his bowl, “it’s really not that bad. See?”

He pulls down the sleeve of his shirt, and the effort to placate you is wasted. You take in a quiet, horrified gasp at the deeply colored bruise on James’ shoulder. One of your hands raises as if to touch it. It hovers in the space between you.

“That’s not that bad?” you look at James in alarm. “It looks broken.”

“It’s not,” he laughs. It’s a bit awkward, as close to self-conscious as you’ve ever seen him. “Trust me, I’ve had a couple broken bones in my time. It’s only bruised, and the muscle’s a bit strained.”

The muscle, you’re noticing now, is quite substantial. Your focus is on the bruise, but the shoulder beneath it is eye-catching as well, hefty and taut-looking, presumably from the strain. That, or James is flexing.

You raise your gaze quickly to his. Brown eyes tinged with smugness.

“You’re worried about me.” His lips stretch into a grin. Not your favorite one in his arsenal. “Aw, sweetheart, I love you too.”

You direct your attention back to your food, face hotter than hot. “I have justification for worry,” you say, the teasing tone you were going for undercut by the unintentional softness of your voice. “You’re voluntarily participating in a sport that seems like it’s trying to kill you.”

James takes a self-satisfied bite of his risotto. “I don’t know, I was pretty worried when you fainted in my arms last week.”

You side-eye him suspiciously. “I didn’t actually do that.”

“Guess you’ll never know.”

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moondirti · 5 months ago

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood.

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge.

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself.

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank.

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.)

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb.

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch.

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form.

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat.

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep.

Only sleep does not come.

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands.

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click.

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree.

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold.

“Ghost?”

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels.

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side.

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.”

“I’m c-cold.”

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.”

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision.

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality.

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.)

“What are you–you doing?”

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off.

He does not.

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter.

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion.

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard.

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised.

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms.

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes.

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm.

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up.

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.”

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this.

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.”

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths.

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.”

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could?

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers.

“Let me go.”

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.”

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again.

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse.

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.”

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips.

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two.

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source.

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat.

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you.

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?”

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–”

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?”

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.”

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.”

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.”

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit.

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.”

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.”

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt.

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog.

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good.

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner.

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then.

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency.

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his.

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks.

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk.

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft.

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits.

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service.

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue.

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce.

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises.

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure.

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response.

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return.

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise.

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.”

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough.

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside.

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox.

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils.

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer.

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form.

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn.

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting.

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin.

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor.

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink.

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else.

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat.

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.”

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here.

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off.

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence.

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet.

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.”

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that.

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.”

“I don’t–”

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.”

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.”

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead.

And he does. He does.

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums.

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.”

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation.

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word.

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens.

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.”

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery.

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself.

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma.

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten.

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.”

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.”

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it.

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker.

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void.

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end.

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you.

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet.

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds.

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.”

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor.

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

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