#Fury of Lone Fire

[valeria-fortnite]

She knew she had no real right to sit at his desk or flit through whatever papers were left on top of it but destroying the guest room with her distracted hunger for an understanding of the island had begun to give her cabin fever after only mere hours. The office and his desk were a different kind of solitude and the kind that sat heavy in her lungs as she leaned back in the chair after finishing off a glass of the opened whiskey that she knew was in the desk's drawer.

It was plush and well worn but not withered into needing repair by any means. The texture of the arm rests soothing on her palms at first until she began to scrutinize it and the desk in front of her, their age and growing flaws from simply being used.

She wondered how long Midas had them, how many years they'd been in use, gods, was the desk older than Jules? Older than even her? How long had Midas sat at this same desk? Longer than she'd even been alive? What about the rest of the crew? How many crews has he gone through in his lifetime? How easy was it for him to replace them? He could replace her--

The sudden swing of the door snaps her out of her racing thoughts and if the prince managed to catch his eyes on her face in that moment he'd see nothing but an upset and tired woman. But, Valeria is a business woman and a very good one at that so in those seconds she quickly puts herself together and her expression only shows an annoyed curiosity to his arrival.

Though the placement of the crown on the desk does visibly soften her expression she stays silent as he talks, finger swirling around the rim of her glass as her face hardens again at the demand. Sure, it was technically Midas asking to look through his own desk but she knew he'd make a complete mess of it and she opened her mouth to say just that.

She never gets the chance as the moment the first syllable leaves her mouth suddenly she's not about to talk down to a prince but the king. The facade she put up for the younger man instantly melts as she stands up quick enough to throw the chair back against the office wall, hands hitting the desk to lean over it.

Conflict in her emotions is clear as day on her face, eyebrows furrowed with a mix of relief and despair, lips jutting out but not quite into a pout and eyes burning with fury, glassy with tears that she won't let spill.

Valeria isn't sure if they want to be mad at him for something that isn't his fault or smother him with their wailed relief that he's back. Ultimately, scorned for losing control over the one thing she thought she could ensure certainty in, she picks the former.

"The kind you like to keep around, huh?"

✨Congratulations, Your Majesty!✨

You have made it through your youthful curse. The Prince will be sent home, and the King will return. Hopefully, you have learned something from this.

✨Welcome back, King Midas.✨

The Prince entered the King's office with a sudden push to the door. He was aggravated and just wanted to dig through his future self's affects to see if he could find anything useful towards sending him home.

However, he saw Valeria sitting at the desk when he opened the door, and his shoulders slumped. He was in no mood to have another back and forth with anyone, no matter how beautiful. However, again, she could be helpful. If he could manage to play this conversation right.

He closed the door behind him and stepped to the desk, taking off the crown from his head and setting it in front of her, "Valeria, I'd very much like to go home. The version of me you all think so highly of must have something that can help with that in this desk. So if you wouldn't mind letting me where you are, I'm going to look through it."

He didn't like the look she gave him, but just as Valeria went to speak, she and everything else seemed to freeze in place.

He then heard a voice coming from everywhere, expressing congratulations and a return to home.

"Oh, thank the Gods!" He shouted before there was a flash of light that came from his own body--

--When the Prince opened his eyes, he found himself staring into another set. One gold, and one white. They were his eyes, only...older. Tired, dark underneath, and obviously angry.

"You have made quite the mess for me to clean up." King Midas said to him.

The Prince blinked, taking in the dark tattoos wrapping around his neck and disappearing under his clothes, the scar cutting down from his forehead across his eye, and his hair. Longer than the statue, but still far too short. The Prince cleared his throat, "The company you keep should learn how to speak with royalty. Have you no respect for your own title--"

"Enough." Midas put a hand up to silence him, the Prince's eyes quickly scrutinizing the gold covering it, "You make a mockery of it, you have insulted people I care a great deal for, and have thoroughly embarrassed me. I am so very glad to have outgrown you."

They glared at each other a moment before the Prince, just as the King made a move to step, said, "Do you...do you have any advice for me? Before I go back?"

Midas paused, eyeing the other again before sighing, "No. You aren't going to remember any of this anyway."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I just do, alright? I don't have the patience to explain, but whatever it was that put this curse on us...it would never be so kind as to give me the opportunity to fix my mistakes. No...you're going to go back with no memory of being here. Nothing I say to you now is going to matter."

"Then..." The Prince shifted where he stood, eyes locked onto the gold covering the other’s skin, "Say it anyway."

Midas looked at the young man with deep sorrow. Regret, guilt, anguish, all mixed together in his mind as two gold eyes stared hungrily at the precious metal covering him.

He reached forward, gilded hands gently taking the Prince's shoulders, "Be satisfied. Recognize that what you have...your life, your love, your future daughter, they are all enough. Please, please do not throw it all away for power or wealth. Appreciate everything."

He could see in the Prince's eyes a desire to pull back. He knew there must have been an intensity to his own gaze that would make the younger man uncomfortable. However, the Prince did not pull away. Instead, he swallowed hard, and he seemed to steel himself. He nodded somberly.

Midas did not want to let him go. Part of him thought, horrifyingly, that killing him would prevent every mistake he ever made. But, it would also prevent everything else. Every friendship, every love, every accomplishment and joy. Jules, Valeria, Tina, Marigold...all of it.

He slid his hands from the prince's shoulders, nodding himself. Both of them took the step to pass each other, both stepped towards the lights that would take them home.

King Midas stopped just before reaching his. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his younger self reach for the light, and disappear. He hadn't looked back. Of course not. Deciding not to look back, not to reflect...That was always his problem.

Not anymore.

The King turned to the light once more, and next found himself snapping open his eyes in his office. Valeria sat in front of him at his desk, his crown on its surface. He picked it up with hands covered in gold, and replaced it on his head.

“I’m back, φοίνικα μου.”

[samuelsdean]

Stitch Me Up

pairing: dean winchester x reader

summary: for dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

genre: angst

word count: 0.5k

author's notes: i wrote this at 3 am on my notes app while simultaneously rewatching spn because i'm insane and i'm a huge advocate of touch-starved!dean.

THE METALLIC TANG OF BLOOD WAS DEAN'S CONSTANT UNPLEASANT FOREWARNING THAT DEAN HAD RETURNED—HE WAS HOME. Sprawled on the floor, another injury marring his flesh, and he sees you right there in front of him. He could see the anger in your eyes, could feel the fury that bubbles in your gut is ceaseless, a familiar dance with the ever-present terror.

For Dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

Dean loves it when you touch him, when you lay your hands gently on his skin, careful not to cause him more pain than what he is dealing with at the moment. He loves it when you clean his wounds while going off on another tangent as to how he should be more cautious—threatening him that next time, you would not be there to treat him; yet, every time, not one did you miss his homecoming, when he comes home bloodied, the first thing you do is come running and restoring him to full health. He craved your tirades, the harsh scoffs, and thinly veiled threats that were your flimsy shield against worry. Each rant was a desperate battle cry, a plea for him to be careful.

Yet, Dean could not help himself. He reveled in your ministrations, the gentle contrast to the fire of your anger.

Dean loves it when you tend to him because it is proof that you care.

And he craves it—craves you—your presence, your touch—everything. He thinks it is sickening how much he has grown to crave you. Because he thinks he does not deserve you, and he knows that the universe always tries to play a sick joke on him.

It was a warped version of his affection born from a life spent in the shadows. Love, for him, was a dangerous dance, a promise of heartbreak waiting to happen. People he cared about had a knack for disappearing, leaving him with the cold comfort of solitude. Hunting was a drifter's existence. A life with no room for roots or dreams. Letting someone in, and building a family, was a recipe for disaster.

It is a lonely life being a hunter. One could never have the chance to put down roots because there is always a monster to hunt, a demon to exorcise, and a case to solve. Loving someone and having a family is just a foolproof way of getting yourself hurt. Yet, here he was, craving the very thing he swore to avoid. It was a sickness, a yearning that gnawed at his soul.

Because the truth, the terrifying truth, was that Dean could not bear the thought of being truly alone.

The sting of disinfectant was a cruel reminder of his twisted reality. As you patched him up, his eyes, usually alight with mischief, held a touch of vulnerability. At that moment, Dean gave you a glimpse of his plea for something more than just mending—a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place in a world that felt increasingly fragile, right beside you.

But the question remained, a silent echo in the tense air: could you give him what he craved without sacrificing your own heart in the process?

[rpclefairy]

𝐁𝐆𝟑 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

a selection of lines from the various companions' banter quotes (not cut scene dialogues!) from baldur's gate 3. these are generally spoiler free and non context specific so they can apply to different settings and dynamics! feel free to change names and the like to customize the prompts.

“Death can't have me. Not yet…”

“Calm yourself. There is plenty of me to go around.”

“Realmspace is vast. Countless worlds to be mapped, kingdoms to be conquered.”

“I have missed this. The adventure. The danger. The kicking of butts!

“Let me guess - you need something.”

“Such attention.. I never realised I was so popular.”

“Let's cook with fire, baby.”

“Do you intend to vocalise every thought?. Or just the most obvious ones?”

“Wherever we go, ye gods let there be something green.”

“Careful, or I will take your toy away from you.”

“Watch your elders and learn.”

“Perhaps try attacking the enemy?”

“So much we don't know, lingering in the furthest reaches of existence.”

“All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.”

“The shadows are my friend.”

“Yes, yes, have your fun. It isn't you they're trying to kill.”

“Feet planted firmly on Faerûn, please.”

“Admirable stamina, yet terrible priorities.”

“Well you certainly have the 'omnipresent' part down, don't you?”

“I am ready, whatever may come.”

“My faith protects me.”

“Need a throat slitting?”

“Death greets us all - but not today.”

“You need my expertise?”

“Can you feel death's cold grip?”

“So many stars, so many mysteries yet to be discovered.”

“Death comes quietly.”

“And I thought we were going to be friends.”

“Locked tight, but there must be some way to open it.”

“No, you can't die. Get up, damn you!

“You had my attention, now you have my fury.”

“From silence to suffering.”

“So many worlds out there. You'd need a thousand lifetimes to see them all - more.”

“I hope this is important. For your sake.”

“Let them gaze deep into their own abyss, and wonder just what it is they are trying to achieve.”

“I ought to just burn this whole thing down.”

“We have slightly more pressing matters to attend to.”

“You have still have time to surrender.”

“Every kicked buttock, another step on the path.”

“Weave save me. I can't take much more…

“You are right to fear me.”

“Let me look around. Might be something that'll help me crack this thing.”

“Incredible, to think how many worlds exist beyond this tiny speck within a speck I call home.”

“I really wish I could cast a Hold spell on you.”

“I can fawn over my face later.”

“Ready for another round?”

“Keep your blade close.”

“I can't unlock it from here, but there must be a switch or a button somewhere…”

“No, that's not moving. There must be a way to open it somewhere.”

“Battle favours the fearless.”

“Sleep with one eye open, evil. Maybe both.”

“Gotta be something around here to unlock this thing.”

“Why do beautiful people taste better?. It hardly seems fair on the ugly - they have such wonderful personalities.”

“Oh, calm down. I'm happy to see you too.”

“Just go for the Magic Missile and fire away. Never fails.”

“Still standing, no matter what you heard.”

“Enough waiting. I crave blood.”

“Hang on - I won't allow this. You aren't dead, go it?”

“GODS, it's HOT in here!”

“No rest for the wicked, I see.”

“Better to hide than fight, sometimes.”

“Would that I could hide from you, too.”

“Are you feeling lonely, perhaps?”

“There is no right or wrong, only truth.”

“Battle is afoot - you can poke me once we are safe.”

“What good all this ethereal eladrin blood if I can still get pimples?”

“I should've been a drow. They have such stylish armour.”

“I am armed! Armoured! And entirely sick of your foolishness.”

“Let's have some fun.”

“War is an old woman's game.”

“No rest, be you wicked or wise.”

“I'm getting too old for this nonsense.”

“I would poke you back, but I fear that's what you want.”

“You have my attention - now do something with it.”

“You are insistent, are you not?”

“Do what must be done.”

“Your suffering will be spectacular.”

“Lest I sit down for a rest and not rise again.”

“Better to look evil in the eye. Even if it be very small.”

“I'm not built to crouch.”

“I think I could go another round.”

“Always the same old song.”

“Is perfection too much to ask?”

“Eyes on victory, tummy on dinner.”

“So many places to be.. and I chose Baldur's Gate.”

“I'm not opening that. Not from here, at any rate.”

“What is the point, if not victory?”

“Won't last much longer like this.”

“Let's hope the locals are friendly.”

“Let us show them how it's done.”

“Weapons high. Standards higher.”

“Must everyone be so exhausting?”

“What I would not give for a chunk of fresh honeycomb…”

“Which way to the nearest library?”

“Now this is my happy place.”

“Who shall I silence?”

“Stop, or die.”

“Wear your scars proudly.”

[asumofwords]

Watercress - Chapter Four

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, injury of a child, attempt at murder, choking, arguing. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Word Count: 7.2k oops....I'm so sorry....

Notes: Hello my angels, apologies for such a slow release on this one, I was so incredibly sick that I was bedridden for a week! I wrote this in my delirium and also on my journeys to work, so I hope you enjoy!! <3

“What have you done?” 

She startled, it had been so peaceful in the cottage that she had forgotten about the silver haired man’s existence in her bed.

The needle and thread she worked with this time was different to the one she used on injuries. Instead of pulling together a wound, she pulled together the seams of white linen and leather. 

It had occurred to her earlier on that she should probably get him clothed, but he had been so acidic, so scathing in her attempts to help him that she thought that keeping him vulnerable in her bed would humble him. 

It hadn’t. 

From the seat by the fire she glanced her eyes over to Aemond, who sat rod straight in her bed, long fingers grasping at his silver locks.

Ah.

“What. Have. You. Done.” He spat louder this time, the silk tresses falling between his fingers as his eye locked onto hers. His pale cheeks flushed in anger, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Saved your life.” Came her deadpan response, looking back down to his leather riding jacket. She was suddenly thankful for the way in which she had cut it off of him; it made it easier for her to go through the original holes of the leather with her needle rather than having to pierce new ones.

“You were fevered,” The healer said simply, without remorse, “Your hair was tangled, matted with blood. I had to—”

Aemond moved. Staggered from the bed, a wash of grey taking over his skin where there had just been colour. It had surprised her so thoroughly that she stared at him before jumping into action, body in autopilot. She stood to come to him, to get him to sit back down.

But then he surprised her again.

This was a man she had watched lay in her bed for weeks, too weak to stand, too weak to hold himself, but here he was, standing from the bed, furs tangled beneath his feet. He swayed, yes, and she could tell that his adrenaline was taking over, but underneath all of that, it was sheer will. 

Sheer spite. 

She worried that he would fall as she went to his side, that he would burst more stitches, un-align his leg, puncture his lungs. She was so preoccupied with worrying over his condition and potential to worsen it that she hadn’t thought for one second the sudden danger he imposed over her. She was by his side in a second.

And then he moved again. 

Too fast, too hard, ignoring the pull of his wounds, ignoring the agony screaming through his body.

His fingers found her throat and she froze.

She blinked as he gripped her, forcing her gaze to his. His hand trembled—not with weakness, but with the sheer force of his rage, and she felt the weight of him against her neck, as if he was using her to keep himself standing. 

All with the grip he had on her neck.

Her eyes looked onto his lone one, not daring to flick over to the empty socket on the other side. The violet eye she had grew accustomed to narrowing at her, flashing with anger, was now almost entirely black, his pupil having swallowed up all remaining evidence of humanity, leaving only the barest hint of a ring. 

“You had to?” He hissed, his voice low, deadly, “You had to strip me like a common dog?”

Her chin lifted, and though her pulse thudded beneath his fingers, her voice was even, “You would rather have rotted in your own filth?”

His grip tightened.

“Yes,” He snarled, the word cutting like a blade, “Better that than,” His voice dipped lower, the shadow of the firelight darkening his sharpened features further, “this.”

He was ruined.

Defiled.

Like a man shorn for punishment, like some domesticated drunk.

Like Aegon.

The realisation struck him like a blow, like a fresh wound split open, deep and raw. His lips curled, sickened.

“You’ve made me look like him,” He spat, his voice dripping with venom, “Like that wretched, slovenly oaf.”

A humourless laugh, sharp and bitter, scraped from his throat.

“Tell me,” He sneered, eye flashing with cruel mirth, “Shall I take to drinking next? Stumbling through brothels, pissing myself in the streets?” His lips twisted cruelly and she felt a pang of pity for him in that moment, “Is that what you’ve made of me? Turned me into a common, useless drunkard?”

“Only you have the power to do that. Though from what I’ve heard, your blood runs thick with it.”

Aemond’s grip flexed, his fingers twitching with the urge to hurt, to punish. She tried to inhale deeply, but he only allowed her the barest slither of air. And that was when she realised he would not kill her in that moment, not that she wouldn’t have fought him. He merely wanted an audience.

She liked her odds regardless; another hit to his ribs, a kick to his leg and she knew that she would be freed. But there was something new about this rage, something different. 

It was shame. 

“You’ve taken my hair,” He said, his voice like steel drawn slow from a sheath, “Defiled my birthright.” His breathing came heavy, ragged with fury, “And you expect me to thank you?”

You have no birthright, she thought, not anymore.

His fingers flexed against her throat, his other hand fisted at his side. She saw this as a good sign; if he truly wished to kill her, surely he would have had two hands at her throat. She tried to swallow, feeling her throat bob beneath his hand, to which he only tightened it further. Her head spun.

Opening her mouth she breathed raggedly, “I expect you to live.”

The words were plain. Cool.

Always so cold.

So detached.

And he hated it.

Where was her anger? Where was her fear? 

Where was his respect?

He had seen the fear briefly, flickering through her eyes as she had watched him stand. But it wasn’t fear of him, not at that moment it hadn’t been, it was fear of what he would do to himself. Fear that he would injure himself further. 

He hated it.

Hated that she cared.

But there was fear, the moment his hand had wrapped around her throat and squeezed her, he had seen her eyes flash with surprise, and then fear, but now, now she seemed so sure that he would not harm her. So sure that he would not lift his other hand and squeeze the life from her in the cottage where she gave so much life. 

She gave.

And he would take away.

Aemond exhaled sharply, a dangerous sound.

“It will grow back.” She said, unshaken, her eyes looking over his head, looking to the shoulder length hair he now had, small waves dancing behind his ears. 

It was pretty, his hair, especially now with the way the light caught it. It was so pale, so unlike anything she had ever seen before that it seemed to absorb light itself. 

“No,” He whispered, voice laced with something dark and bitter, “It won’t.”

Not in the way that mattered.

Not in the way that it mattered to him.

She didn't understand. How could she?

Aemond Targaryen was reduced.

“I had no choice.” She spoke again, and he felt her throat bob beneath his palm, and for a second he had to fight the excitement that coursed through him. 

She was under his control now.

He could control her. 

But there was something more. He looked down his long nose at her, and watched how she continued to look at his hair. How she continued to look at what she had done to him.

She was watching him with something more than cool observance.

“You are still a Targaryen.” She said with confidence, and his fingers twitched against the soft expanse of her neck, “There is no denying that.”

Aemond was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged motions. The pain clawed at his ribs, at his leg, at the raw stitches she had only just put back together. His fury had made him reckless. And now his strength waned.

She watched as his grip flexed, as though torn between crushing her throat and throwing her away from him entirely. His fingers twitched, then fell away, his strength faltering. And she watched as his eye darted down to her lips momentarily, the angry look on his face faltering as the pink of his tongue wet his lips.

It was fleeting.

He swayed.

The healer remained still, waiting. She knew better than to reach for him now. Knew that his pride would not suffer her hands upon him, not after she had already stripped him of so much.

Aemond let out a sharp breath, stumbling back a half step, the pain flashing across his face even as he tried to smother it. His fingers curled into fists, trembling with the effort to hold himself upright.

She cast her gaze downwards, ignoring the way that his member had seemed to swell slightly, and kept her eyes evenly on the wound that had healed somewhat on his chest and hip. Blood had welled to the surface and had begun to slowly leak from the wound staining the dressings.

“You’re bleeding again.”

She wished he would just lay down and stay quiet. Perhaps she could dose his food with milk of the poppy to keep him lucid.

His eye flicked to his side, where the fresh stitches had already begun to seep red into the bandages.

He swayed again.

Her voice was soft, placating, “Get back in bed.”

Aemond let out a breath, half a scoff, half a curse, “I’ll stand.”

“You’ll fall.”

His eye snapped back to her, gleaming with ire. But the truth of it was undeniable.

And then—his body betrayed him.

His balance tipped, his muscles clenched, and in the next moment, his knees buckled beneath him. She moved faster than he could stop her, stepping forward as he collapsed into her grasp, hands beneath his arms. 

Agony shot through his ribs. 

He let out a snarl, the sound vibrating in his chest as her hands pressed against him, steadying his weight.

“Don’t.” The Prince hissed, but his voice wavered, his body too weak to make good on the threat.

She ignored him, adjusting her hold with practiced ease, bracing her shoulder beneath his, “This is your own doing.” She muttered, bearing his weight as she guided him back toward the bed.

His muscles stiffened against her, “I won’t—”

“You will.” He tensed harder, and so she corrected herself “Or you will fall.” 

Her voice was soft this time. Softer than he had ever heard her. And it almost startled him. Since when did she have the capacity for meekness? To be quiet and polite? When had she ever shown that she could be more than cold or biting to him?

It was worse he realised, hearing her. This new her he had never seen before.

It was warmth. 

He seethed. 

She could feel his anger rolling off of him, sharp and smouldering, could hear the grinding of his teeth as she manoeuvred him step by step.

But he had no choice.

The healer felt the moment his body truly gave up—when his rage could no longer hold him upright, when his limbs sagged, when his grip on his own pride slipped and his own hands moved to her upper arms, clutching her tighter than he had ever clutched her throat.

She knew then that he would likely never actually harm her.

His breathing turned shallow, his weight heavier, and by the time she lowered him onto the furs, he had no more fight left to give.

She stepped back.

Aemond was still, his eye burning into the ceiling, jaw clenched so tightly she thought he might shatter his teeth.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then—his fingers lifted to the uneven edges of his hair, his nails scraping against the jagged strands.

The healer sighed, she was tired of his moods, “It will grow back.”

His eye snapped to her, cold and cutting, “You ruined me.”

She huffed out a humourless laugh, crossing her arms, “You men and your vanity. You’re worse than a young maiden.”

Aemond’s lips curled, “You do not understand.”

“No,” She agreed easily, moving to the table where her supplies were laid out, “I don’t.” She turned, looking at him over her shoulder, “But if I had left you to rot with the filthy state your hair was in you would have gotten an infection, and you wouldn't be here to worry about your appearance.”

Aemond exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into the furs.

She knew he was seething, drowning in his own shame, his own fury. But she had no patience for it.

Not now.

She dipped a cloth into warm water, wrung it out, and turned back toward him. “You can either sulk like a child,” She said, her tone firm, “Or you can rest, recover, and learn to walk again without having to lean on me.” She wiped gently at his stomach, throwing a fur over his length so it wasn’t in eye shot, “You will either learn to live with your leg as you did your eye, or you will learn to live as a cripple. It’s your choice.”

Aemond’s eye burned into her, sharp as a blade’s edge. He was still seething, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, as if he were keeping his fury caged only by force of will.

"Always so bold," His voice low and venomous, "You’ve defiled me.”

She scoffed, pressing the damp cloth against the sweat-slick skin of his brow. He flinched but lacked the strength to swat her away before she moved to the dressings.

“I saved your life.” She hummed amused.

“You humiliated me.” His lip curled, disgust and something deeper—something darker—twisting his features, "I should have woken with a blade to my throat, not a butcher’s hands in my hair."

She hummed, unimpressed, "You shouldn’t have woken at all. I should have let the fever take you. Or left you for the wolves and snow. The Gods have given you another chance, and yet, here you lay," She wrung the cloth out again, her expression unshaken, "Sulking."

Aemond’s jaw ticked, his fingers curling into the sheets, "You think I will forgive this?" His voice was silk-thin, fraying at the edges, "That I will forget what you say to me just because you tend to me?"

"No," She said simply, meeting his eye without flinching, "I think you will heal. And if I have to chain you to that bed to make sure of it, I will."

His breath hitched, his nostrils flaring, but his body betrayed him—always betrayed him-- exhaustion dragging at his limbs, pain licking up his spine. He could do nothing but glare, his pride bleeding out between them like an open wound.

"You made me look like him," He spat suddenly, the words ragged, raw, "Like a common drunk. Like my pathetic, soft-bellied brother."

She tilted her head, gaze flicking over him, unbothered, "It becomes you."

Aemond snarled, but the sound was weaker now. His body was failing him, the anger taking too much from him when he had so little left to give.

She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Rest, my Prince. If you ever hope to kill me as you promise you must rest."

Aemond turned his face away from her, but not before she caught the flicker of something in his eye—not just fury, not just loathing.

Something like defeat.

-

The usual silence of her cottage had been shattered often and violently since the man’s arrival. The air was thick with animosity, each interaction a silent war waged in glances, in barbed words, in the heavy quiet that stretched between them. She wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to having her patience tested so often, or being pushed so completely to the edge.

She could feel it now—the irritation, raw and insistent, scraping at her nerves, burrowing deep, wearing her thin. It was beginning to crack her resolve, piece by piece.

Her sleep had suffered. The floor had become a constant ache in her bones, no matter how much straw or fur she gathered to soften it. She had tried, at first, to offer some measure of comfort. But comfort was a foreign word now, an elusive thing she would have gladly traded for a moment’s peace.

What she would’ve given for her own bed. What she would’ve given for a guest who did not make her wish for solitude.

Whenever she moved about the cottage, she felt his eye follow her—heavy, burning, unrelenting. She had tried to ignore it, tried to lose herself in her work, but he was a shadow, always there, lurking. Watching. The only reprieve was when others came seeking her healing hands, or when she ventured out for supplies, just to breathe something other than him.

But even then, he was waiting.

For her.

At first, she had tried to answer his sharp-edged questions, had tried to dull their bite with reason. But it became clear; he wasn’t asking for answers. He was asking to provoke. To fill the silence that stretched between them like a battlefield left abandoned.

And in a way it was. To him anyway.

Every day, she tended to him—bandaging wounds, feeding him, bathing him when he could not manage. Though he would never admit it, she saw how his pride rebelled against even the smallest mercy. His body may have been broken, but his stubbornness was unyielding. He refused kindness, even when he was burning with pain. 

There was something more fragile about that than any wound.

And because of this, her patience had worn thin. She no longer bothered to hide her irritation, no longer masked her words in civility. But beneath the frustration, there was something else—something she could not quite name.

Curiosity, perhaps.

What lay beneath all that anger? The sharp words, the bitter arrogance—what was he running from? What had broken him before she ever laid a hand on him? Before he had ever fell from his dragon?

She could not afford to wonder for too long. Because they both knew neither could hold out much longer. The pressure was suffocating, thick as smoke and filled her small cottage, throats clogged with it.

But where she found quiet in the silence, Aemond found madness.

The stillness there was unbearable. It pressed in on him, vice-like, suffocating.

Aemond had known noise. The thunder of battle, the screams of men, the roar of his dragon’s wings. He had known chaos all his life training with the blade, flying, escaping his brother. But here, in this gods-forsaken place, there was nothing. No war to fight. No enemy to strike down.

The world had moved on without him, and the quiet of it stung worse than any blade.

And she—she was a constant reminder of everything he had lost.

Her voice, blunt and emotionless, cut deeper than steel. She spoke of his failures with no pity, told him of his cause’s collapse, of his brother’s death, of the loss of his dragon. But it wasn’t the words that hurt most. It was the silence in between. The absence of anything else. No loyalty, no affection, not even hatred.

She did not see him as a Prince. She did not even see him as a threat.

She made him feel like nothing.

And for that, he hated her.

The firelight flickered against her face as she worked, grinding herbs with steady, practiced ease. The sound of mortar scraping stone gnawed at his nerves, over and over and over again. Always the same.

Never ending.

His body ached—not just from his injuries, but from the weight of it all. The stillness. The powerlessness. The sitting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

She was small. Insignificant.

And yet she carried herself like one who had never known fear. Or perhaps, she had known too much of it.

He hated it. 

The silence. 

He couldn’t bear it. 

His fingers curled into the furs beneath him, his voice low, dangerous.

“You are enjoying this.”

She didn’t look up, “Enjoying what?”

“Watching me rot in this hovel while you play at being a saviour.” His words dripped with venom, “Don’t pretend it doesn’t please you.”

She sighed, an exhale of quiet boredom, “Ah, this again. You give yourself too much importance.”

Her calm made his blood boil.

“You should pray I never leave this bed, healer.” He warned, voice thick with fury.

She did not so much as flinch. She only ground the pestle harder into the bowl, that same grating sound, “I find our silence preferable,” not dignifying his threat with a response, “You’re far less irritating when you’re not speaking.”

His jaw tightened.

“You forget yourself.” 

She let out a slow breath, as if barely restraining a yawn, “Do I?”

His breath came sharper, his rage coiling tight in his chest. Heat flooded him.

“You are nothing,” He spat, “A peasant. A nameless healer with no purpose beyond mixing herbs in this shack. Likely born of a whore and a drunk. And yet, you dare speak to me this way?”

She did not look at him. She kept grinding the pestle. The same grounding grating noise over and over.

She was grinding his resolve.

Crushing it into dust beneath her practised hands.

“Mmm,” She hummed, inspecting the herbs with feigned interest, “That may be true. But there are other truths.” She paused, then added, voice mild, “You are crippled. Like your brother before you. And your father.”

Aemond’s vision darkened with rage.

“I should kill you.”

At that, she finally looked at him. And then—she smiled.

It was not mockery. It was not fear. It was small, knowing—almost as if she had already decided something.

“Then so be it.”

Before he could speak, she moved. Across the room, to where his belongings lay abandoned. His tunic, still bloodied but sewn together. His boots, streaked with dried mud. And his sword—untouched since she had dragged him here half-dead.

She picked it up without hesitation. It was too large for her frame, but she carried it with ease. Almost too easily. 

What Aemond did not know, was that it took great effort for her to hold herself steady, but she did it out of spite.

They were both full of so much spite that she felt it almost suffocating her. This anger. This hatred. The rage. All of it. She felt it from him. She felt it within. It was drowning her.

She was drowning. 

She turned back and held the hilt out toward him.

“Take it, Prince. Since the first attempt did not go as you planned.”

Aemond inhaled sharply, eye longingly looking at a blade he had spent so much time with. So many hours in the training yard holding it. Always attached to his side.

He longed to touch it again.

“You mock me.”

The healer shook her head softly, “I only give you what you ask for.”

His fury burned hot and bright. He wanted to stand, wanted to wrap his hands around her throat, wanted to demand her respect.

She stepped back. Not offering it—challenging him.

“If you can stand without my help,” She said, smile still on her lips, “Then you may have your sword.”

Incensed, Aemond shifted, furs sliding from his shoulders. He forced himself up, every muscle screaming in protest. His skin paled, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp pants. But still, he stood.

He stood, Gods be damned.

Her eyes swept over him, not with the detached calculation of a healer—but something else. If he were not so insufferable, she might have blushed.

But he swayed. His leg trembled. His ribs protested, agony slicing through him like a hot blade. But he persisted.

Aemond reached for the sword.

The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, she let it go. In that moment, that moment that was so brief, he felt the first wave of calm wash over him in weeks. He felt the first piece of strength, of pride, slide back into place.

This was what he was made for. This was what he was capable of. But that moment was all too fleeting as her hand dropped away.

The weight of the unsupported blade yanked his arm down—too heavy, too much too soon, the pain in his ribs exploding through his chest, but his stubbornness won out. He did not let go of the blade to save himself the pain, instead his hand tightened to it, and with that came the fall. His body twisted with it, his wounded leg giving way beneath the weight of him.

She watched as he fell, didn’t move to stop him. Didn’t move to catch him as she had the last time. Just watched as he toppled, blade still clutched so tightly in his hand she thought it might break.

She had warned him he would.

Had told him he would.

Aemond Targaryen crashed to the floor.

The pain was indescribable. Black spots bloomed before his vision, his face scrunched tightly in agony as he wheezed an agonised breath. He couldn’t breathe. It felt as though his lungs seized within his ribs. As though if he even tried to suck in a breath, it would be useless.

What had the healer said about punctured lungs? Was this what it felt like?

The moment stretched unbearably, silence thick with his humiliation.

And yet she did not move to help him. She only stood over him, watching. Watching as his face grew more and more paled and ashen. Watched as he struggled to suck in pained breaths, his hand still clutched to the sword as the other clutched his middle. 

A shadow passed over him, the firelight momentarily being blocked.

And then—soft, calm, almost amused,

“Tell me, kinslayer,” She murmured, his eye blinking rapidly open to see her. There was a soft halo of light around her head, warming her features. She was pretty. So very pretty and yet she did nothing to show it. She did not dress pretty, only comfortably and smartly, nor she did not make effort to style her hair or wear jewels. She was plain. Unassuming. But in that moment, all he could focus on was how pretty she looked, just as pretty as a blade, and just as sharp as one too, “What use is a dragon without its fire?”

There came the final blow. And the warm light around her head suddenly looked like the seven hells. 

Like damnation.

Like-

A knock sounded at the door.

The moment was over.

And Aemond watched as her face moved away from his. He felt the absence of her then. The absence of her warmth. Of her fire. She rose without hesitation, stepping over his fallen form as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture in her way.

From the floor, Aemond saw her open the door, revealing a thin man wrapped in a heavy cloak, his face lined with age and worry. A child clung to his side, perhaps six, perhaps younger, he cannot remember what Jaehaerys or Jaehaera had looked like when young. How old had they been? Lucerys had been five or six when he had taken his eye, so small yet so deadly. Tiny really. He blinked, the girls arm was cradled against her chest, her face pale and tear-streaked.

He could not hear their hushed words, but he saw the way the healer’s expression softened just slightly, how she nodded once before stepping outside.

“Not in here” She told the father,  “A man has the Shivers.”

That was all she offered, and the eagerness to enter her home vanished from the fathers face. He stepped back, his retreat swift, his gaze never even flickering toward Aemond’s crumpled form on the floor, as if viewing him would be contagious. 

Aemond had caught a glimpse of the child’s arm—swollen, bruised, likely broken. The healer moved quickly, guiding them further from the cottage. Her steps were careful, practiced. 

Gentle.

She was a paradox.

How could she be so gentle yet so unyielding? So sharp yet so tender?

If it weren’t for the pain making his head already spin, it would be now. Just one moment ago she was crouched in front of him, mocking his ability to stand, to hold a blade, and now she was as soft as the silks his sister used to wear. As soft as how Helaena had been with her own children. As soft as his mothers hair. Yet these people weren’t anyone that the healer knew. They were strangers. And yet she was so soft to them.

Aemond yearned in that moment to know her kindness for once. Not her ire.

He wanted her softness.

Outside, her voice was a soft hum, soothing, steady. The father’s murmured reassurances wove through it, the girl’s sniffles growing less panicked, less frequent. And then, to Aemond’s surprise, a small laugh. 

Even in her pain, she had managed to make the girl laugh. How she had done this, Aemond did not know.

He felt she really might be a witch.

Was she bewitching him?

No.

He hated her.

His fingers curled into fists, his body still half-curled on the floor. He tried to push himself up, but the pain in his ribs was sharp, so sharp it darkened the edges of his vision again and he slumped back to the cold and hard ground. His limbs felt foreign, his breath ragged, the wood of his splint dragging painfully against the floor as he tried and failed to get his leg beneath him and comfortable. But he couldn’t.

He was stuck.

He was pathetic.

Useless.

He had watched her work for the gods only knew how long. Watched the way she moved, how the father and young girl looked at her. As if she were something holy.

She was not.

She was nothing.

Nothing.

Rage twisted in his gut like a coiled viper.

Through the gap in the door, he watched—spiteful, seething—as flickers of movement passed through the firelight, watching as she tended to the child, as the father hovered behind them watching with nervous eyes. 

Always watching.

When at last she returned fully into view, the child’s arm was bound, and the father’s relief was evident as he lifted his daughter and pressed a kiss to her forehead, hand holding the injured arm inspecting it. 

Aemond wished he could see the healers face. See how she looked at the two people at her door. Would she be smiling softly at them both? At the girl? Or staring indifferently the way she looked at him. 

Gods the way she looked at him.

Indifferently.

And then sometimes not.

Like he disappointed her.

As if she knew he could be better.

His mother didn’t look at him like that anymore. 

Wouldn’t ever look at him again.

He could be better.

He could-

The father spoke to her, and Aemond strained to hear it, trying to shift on the floor to angle himself better to hear what is being said, but he couldn’t move. Every time he tried to shift himself he felt ill. He hadn’t felt so helpless since he lost his eye, and that made his heart race in his chest all the more.

Small. Innocent. And yet half blinded. 

His half sister, estranged yes, but calling for his punishment after her bastard had attacked him. Blinded him.

Her face, his own blood, calling for his punishment.

His punishment was coming.

It was always coming.

Always coming for him.

He groaned softly as he tried to move, panic winding up his throat, and was surprised to see the healers face turn to him. To check on him. To see if he was okay. And that small piece of care, small piece of worry made his heart slow, and the panic he felt lessen. 

She wouldn’t punish him.

She couldn’t.

She-

At the movement, the father reached into his cloak, the sound of coin in palm loud amongst the quiet. He placed the coins into the healer’s hand but to Aemond’s surprise she tried to take her hand back. She shook her head. Refused. Refused payment for her skill, for her time, for her help. It made Aemond furious. But the man insisted, and to Aemond’s disgust, she accepted only half of what was offered.

Half.

The father nodded his thanks before ushering his daughter back into the cold. And Aemond watched as the healer came back inside, dropping the coin carelessly into the front pocket of her gown.

The door shut. 

Silence fell.

She was back.

She came back for him.

She-

-turned back to the table, washing her hands with methodical ease in a wooden bucket. As if nothing had happened. As if Aemond were not still sprawled on the floor, humiliated. In pain.

Waiting.

She did not look at him.

She did not even glance at him.

It struck something inside of him.

How she would see him.

How she would not look at him.

He already knew what he would see.

Her voice, when it came, was soft, “Let me know when you wish to try again.”

All indignation on her behalf died.

All curiosity was burnt to ash.

Aemond wanted to kill her.

But it was more than that, Gods help him. He had never wanted to survive more.

—

After that night, Aemond had expected fear. Deference. Even hatred.

Instead, she simply… existed. Moving through the cottage as if he were nothing more than another broken thing to mend.

She never bowed. Never used his title. Never even flinched when he threatened her life. She had walked over to him, snatched the sword from his hand and leant it against the fire where it had been prior before helping him back onto the bed and tucking him in the furs. 

Each morning, she left without a word, disappearing into the woods for what felt like hours. And when she returned, her basket would be filled to the brim with herbs and roots—sometimes even rabbits or birds caught in her traps, and fish. 

Always fish.

He hated fish now.

Aemond watched her, seething at his own uselessness as she skinned the catches with quiet precision, prepared broth with effortless ease. And on occasion forgot herself as she moved to feed him. 

He resented her for it. For the way she cared for him despite everything he had said, everything he had done. He had tried to kill her. She had brought his sword to him as what he could only assume was a test, and he had grabbed it and tried anyway. 

And yet still, she tended to him.

She did not punish him.

Her willingness to forget the sword unnerved him. Set him on edge. It made him feel as though something was coming. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

That perhaps she was waiting for something. Waiting for him to grow complacent, to let his guard down, and then she would strike. Then she would attack him the way he had tried to do to her.

Four days had passed since the sword incident when she ventured into the woods again. She had set traps earlier in the week—though it was not out of necessity for food that she went. She simply could not bear the thought of an animal left suffering for days.

The healer was no stranger to pain. She had seen it, felt it. But she had always sought to prevent it where she could. Especially for those smaller and more helpless than herself.

The rabbit had struggled when she found it, panic in its small, shuddering frame. A swift cut of her knife ended its suffering.

The second trap was empty. The third, too. She reset them, then turned back toward the cottage.

The moment she stepped inside, she felt it.

His gaze.

He was sitting up, leaning against the wall, watching her.

She hated when he watched her.

It unnerved her.

He unnerved her.

She felt like prey in her own home. A creature being stalked, studied. Her every movement, her every reaction watched. Observed. She knew that as he healed, his threats would become more than words. He would regain his strength. And then, one day, she would no longer be safe.

Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he would kill her.

A smarter woman would have turned him over to a nearby Lord. Let them deal with him. But the thought of sending a man wounded and half-broken to certain death made her stomach turn. It was not who she was.

She was a healer. And what kind of healer would she be if she knowingly condemned a man to die? 

Even him.

Even after his cruelty.

When she told him that evening as the sun had set low in the sky that he needed to stand, he had thought she was mocking him. Thought that she wished to see him flail, humiliated. Stand above him as he no doubt fell once again to the floor.

He had refused, spat his usual vitriol at her, cheeks reddened. Life flowing through him.

But then she had ripped the furs away and his eye had widened. Was this it? The moment he had been waiting for? Perhaps she would cast him into the cold outside instead. But she hadn’t, and only moved to to hold his arms as she softly pulled him to the edge of the bed. 

It wasn’t without pain, despite her gentle hands.

Nothing was ever without pain.

His lashing out was never without pain.

Pain to his pride.

Pain to his solitude.

Pain to her.

It was over quickly.

He had stood, and she had helped him, telling him to not put weight on his broken leg, had pulled an arm over her shoulders despite her being shorter than him, and held the brunt of his weight. He had barely lasted before pain overwhelmed him, the edges of his vision fraying. But she had not laughed at him. She had held him aloft until he could stand no longer.

She had murmured quiet words of encouragement as she helped him to sit back down to lay. Had told him that the more he stands the easier it would get. That the more he did it, the sooner he would heal.

She had been as patient as the day he met her.

And Aemond had sneered. Because her care for him made his head spin.

It made him feel out of control.

And yet, the more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to know. She seemed to know much about him. Yet he knew nothing of her.

Even now, as she sat at the table, preparing another stew, frustration burned through him like an open wound. The cottage was too small. The silence too thick. He was caged, restless, filled with something dangerously close to loathing.

He felt like a caged animal, cornered and alone. Nowhere to go. He bared his teeth. Snapped his jaw. Bit. Clawed. Tore. And yet still, she persisted.

The hand that cornered him persisted. And he bit the hand that fed him viciously and repeatedly without repent.

The words left him, sharp as a blade.

“Is this all your life is?” Aemond sneered, and for once he immediately regretted it. The peaceful look on her face was gone, and the cold wall he had grown accustomed to slid into place, “Tending to the weak, the sick, and the worthless?”

His words stung himself.

She did not look up. 

Her voice was flat, unimpressed as she cut through vegetables at the table, “I prefer it to pretending I’m something I’m not.”

Aemond’s teeth clenched. The insult was clear.

"You think you’re better than me?" He spat, he couldn't stop himself, it was like watching himself from the ceiling, "A peasant who hides behind a façade of kindness?"

She exhaled softly—whether in amusement or exasperation, he could not tell.

"Better than a Prince who has nothing left but his pride."

The words struck deeper than they should have.

His fists curled. 

He was still Aemond Targaryen. Still the blood of House Targaryen.

But the worst part?

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

His voice dropped, low and edged with warning, "You think your kindness will change anything? It’s weak. It’s meaningless. You have nothing."

Finally, she met his gaze. Her eyes were cool, unwavering. The wall of ice thick between the both of them.

"It’s more than you’ll ever have."

Aemond inhaled sharply. He wanted to wound her. To find the crack in her armour and cut just as deep. But he knew nothing of her.

Not her age, though he could guess they were roughly the same. 

Not her life. 

Nothing. 

She turned from him, already moving to add the vegetables she had cooked to the pot. Food she would feed to him later.

And Aemond, for the first time, had no choice but to sit in the silence she left behind.

Aemond hated her.

He hated the way she moved through the cottage, unbothered by his presence, as if he were nothing more than another broken thing to mend. Hated the way she never flinched at his words, never cowered when he spat threats like venom. Hated that she did not treat him as a Prince, did not bow her head, did not offer the reverence he was owed by birthright.

She was insufferable. A ghost drifting through the dim light of the fire, tending to her work with quiet hands and steady patience. Always watching him—not with fear, not with admiration, but with that infuriating, unreadable gaze. As if she were waiting. Waiting for him to prove her wrong. As if she knew something he did not. 

It made his skin crawl.

And yet—

His jaw clenched as his eye tracked the subtle grace in her movements, the surety of her fingers as they sliced carrots into chunks, the way the dim candlelight flickered against the smooth curve of her cheek. She never hurried. Never faltered. There was something assured about her, something unshaken. He had seen knights on the battlefield waver more than she did in the face of his anger.

He despised that about her.

But he couldn’t deny there was something compelling about her certainty. The way she met his gaze, unwavering, unafraid. The way she never raised her voice, never allowed his rage to provoke her, as if she had already decided he was not worth the effort. It burned him from the inside out, that quiet dismissal.

And her hands—gods, her hands. He had felt them, too many times now. Pressing against his ribs, cool against his fevered skin, smearing salve over the bruises that littered his body. They were careful, practiced, but firm. They did not hesitate. Even when he had sneered at her, insulted her, she had continued without pause.

The scent of her still clung to him, faint but unmistakable—herbs and something softer beneath, something warm, something that made his pulse press against his throat too tightly.

Aemond’s fingers curled into fists.

He was being ridiculous.

She was nothing. 

She was nothing.

She was a wretched peasant, a woman who knew nothing of war, of power, of the weight of a name like his. She was insignificant, a speck of dust in the grander scheme of things. And yet, here he was, watching her as if she held the answers to questions he refused to ask.

His stomach twisted, a sharp coil of frustration.

He hated her. He loathed her.

And what was worse—what was far worse—was that even now, beneath all that hate, there was something else.

Something he did not have a name for.

Something he would rather burn than acknowledge.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze away.

Yes. He hated her.

And that was all there was to it.

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[miguel-owhora]

dragon!price who's an alpha—a lonely alpha. he's been alone for quite some time now, his nest barren and empty, no mate to sing dragonic songs back to him miles away, no mate to rekindle the embers in his heart.

his hoard—sorry, the 141—help him fill these empty spots. soap's rambunctious attitude and gaz's encouragement and ghost's dryly amused comments fill in the lonely parts, bringing him down from the soaring heavens and back to the ground, where price hears the thumping of the earth's core if he falls back into his dragonic instincts deep enough.

dragons are rare to come nowadays. most spend their lives in secrecy, in some rural land most would struggle to pronounce the names of, spent hiding in either solitude or with their mates—and in certain cases, families.

so imagine price's surprise when laswell drops in a new member into his little hoard. she says it's temporary, but there's a glimmer on her eyes when she says it, one that makes sense when price sees you—another dragon.

an omega, price's alpha brain tells him, awakening with glee at another dragon hybrid, at someone who could complete him. a potential mate.

price's alpha instincts are purring when he introduces himself, and he must look like a fool, when he hears his boys sniggering in the background. something lights up something in his chest, instincts roaring to life, when you smile at him and shake his hand. your hand makes his burn, hotter than anything else, hotter than the fire he hatched out of.

it comes to no surprise to him when you're even more reserved than ghost. dragon hybrids are already secretive as they are; omega dragon hybrids are worse. but eventually, price worms his way past the walls you've put up and the fun part comes: courtship.

for every type of naturalborn hybrid that roams earth, they each have their own courtship rituals. for many of them, alphas must prove their worth to their potential mate. werewolf hybrids will bring back game, will defend territory; harpies—depending on which region they live in—will also prove their worth by bringing back prey and helping to build nests.

price can recall the number of times soap had dragged in the corpse of a deer, still warm and fresh to ghost, or how gaz had proudly weaved a wall of brambles and sticks (nevermind the nails and sharp blades) outside ghost's private room. it amused him to no end, seeing them fall prey to their instincts.

but price isn't laughing when he succumbed to his own instincts.

your introduction to the team and you letting price get close to you already had his dragonic alpha mind reeling with excitement. even moreso when you approved of him courting you.

now, dragon hybrids were something else. oftentimes, they were more older than the other hybrids, more ancient and forged deep within the earth's core, connected to mother earth like no other. as such, their courting rituals were more.. barbaric, in other words.

price feels alive when he has to fight you, when your claws dig at his skin and his teeth at your shoulder, near your bite mark. when you roar with fury and punch him away, when your omegan sex has his alphan sex pumping with life. when you both tear up the training room, your set of wings flapping and glittering underneath the artificial lights, when price finally pins you down, when you give a purr of approval.

price finds the prettiest items and gifts them to you, when he dances between feeling overjoyed when you accept it, feeling like he's been stabbed when you reject it. gift by gift price feels pride bloom within him when he sees your little gift hoard grow. when he gifts you a pack of his cherished cigars and gives you his signature hat, he has to go outside and do circles in the heavens when you accept it with gentle hands and carefully guard it.

all of his hard work pays off when you tug him by his scruff and take him to your bedroom, where your bed is carefully nestled with different blankets, with clothes that reek of him. he feels like the luckiest man when you strip yourself of your clothes and lay on the bed, letting your wings—gorgeous things they are—spread out underneath you, take up the bed. your cock, hard and leaking and big, lays on your belly, cum pooling like ichor.

you spread your legs, the scent of an omega ready to mate and take what's theirs, registering in price's brain. it's all he needs before he's racing to tear his clothes off and climbs on you.

he's purring loudly when he touches you all over, dipping his head to kiss at your body, thankful that you gave him the chance to prove his worth. your scent is thick and heavy, musk strong. it makes the embers in his chest flicker and grow to a small fire.

the fire grows when he slips his cock inside, shuddering at how tight and hot you are, burning him. you don't help him, content to lay back and let him figure it out, but price is more than happy to do it by himself. anything for you.

he gets you to cum several times, spilling all over your belly, makes you whimper his name, dig your claws into his back and pull him close to kiss him hard.

price is only ever given permission to cum when you decide he's worthy. your claws dig into your chest and rip it open, an ancient heart beating, cracks of old magic glowing an unusual color. price knows what's to come, but he still grits his teeth when you also rip his chest open.

his knot is forming, catching on your hole, when the two hearts—ancient and waiting for each other after so many years—intertwine together. price pushes his knot in and finally cums, fuck, he shudders and moans, in pleasure and in pain when he feels your anal barbs dig around his cock and knot, making sure he's secured for a while.

the world seems brighter when he collapses on you, open chests bleeding together. he gives little nudges of his hips, cockhead kissing your womb, brushing against your prostate. he feels you sigh contently, and price's heart is a wildfire.

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb: Luck of the Lamb Part 4: Reap the Whirlwind

The physical body does not exist within the afterlife, instead the land is inhabited by the souls of the dead or departed. Resurrection repairs the mortal coil, but godly wounds ceaselessly weep. Thus, a god cannot survive death without the healing properties of a conduit crown. Despite this many have tried, though normally its not someone else's power keeping them clinging to the margins of life. A power now bonded through the sheer force of will to share a lonely throne. ~Previous/Next~ ~Start~ ~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

Rage. Betrayal. Vengeance.

Their fight filled the afterlife with destruction and violence. Two gods wrestling for the key to their power. Blade and blood met flame and fury.

Narinder was an old god, powerful beyond measure even in his imprisonment. He had commanded life and death, and weilded curses effortlessly. Una would not be the first god he'd killed.

Yet fate had other plans.

She crackled with divine energy, dancing around his attacks effortlessly.

Lucky.

It felt like ages, and yet before he knew it, it was over. Her blade, made of his crown, plunged into his chest, and his eldritch form crumbled. A god defeated, reduced to nothing.

And then...

Pain. Nothing but searing hot, agonizing pain. Narinder felt lost in a sea of torment, his body suddenly awash with screaming flesh. Through burning nerves he distantly noticed the world around him felt different, the brittle bone meal landscape of the gateway gone. Instead, he felt stone, grass, and chill air against his skin. His eyes felt like hot coals shoved in their sockets, and even trying to open them felt like a dagger to the skull. The sensations were nothing but a candle to the raging inferno of suffering. In another time, he wondered if this was what the mortals he damned in the afterlife felt like. Perhaps that was his fate now. Eternal pain. Fitting. Yet as he laid there, squirming weakly in the depths of agony, something approached. "Nrdnr?! Hly Shtt!" Muffled words reached his ears, soft hands scrambling over his skin. Some demonic tormentor, come to perpetuate or relish in his state? "Hld Stlll! Fgk Fgk!" It was impossible to think over the agony, and they pushed away his hands as he feebly tried to fend them off. The cold ground under him suddenly felt warm and sticky, the silken robes he wore suddenly wet with something. "Hre! Ths iz phor thg baain." His attacker grabbed his head, shoving some vial of something against his lips. The biter oily fluid hit the back of his throat, a spasm of coughs making his body jerk and flail, each one feeling like barbed wire was being flossed through his bones. This really was hell. Hands yanked his tattered robes off, exposing his skin to the cold air. Some kind of cloth wrapped around his arms, pulled tight against the angry nerves. More on his chest, pushed against the spaces in his ribs where an echo of betrayal now bled. Two betrayals. Twice now he'd trusted and lost for it. At least the last time he hadn't been alive to feel what dying was like. "Hold still! Where did all this blood come from?!" A sudden calmness entered his mind, and the fire of agony faded into a foggy, numb abyss. Narinder opened his eyes. Stars met him, the half moon's pale light shining down. He tilted his head up, the movement feeling like lifting a boulder. Some figure hunched over him, their hands covered in inky black liquid as they quickly unrolled another bandage and began wrapping it around his chest. Almost instantly the white fabric turned black. The fog around his head grew thicker, eyes fluttering heavily as consciousness became fleeting and fickle. The figure glanced at him, red meeting red. Despite his injuries, Narinder still possessed enough strength to recognize them.

"Narinder," Una's voice poured with grief. "I'm so sorry, please just hold on. Its going to be okay."

Another empty deceitful lie. "Una..." he muttered, voice a mere whisper through his scratchy and weak throat. "Narinder?" Her eyes wept a river of tears, the guilt in her words echoed across her face. The traitorous eye of his former crown gazed down from atop her head, watching with unending apathy. Rage bloomed in his oozing chest, a small surge of fury granting him some measure of energy. He summoned all of his remaining power, defiance filling his fading mind. "Fuck you." Darkness.

[thereweredragonshere]

I don’t typically make ocs in already existing media cuz I’m not one to add characters to shows, but oh my god httyd dragons are just so drawable. I’ve had my girl Prosper for about 5 months now and I cannot describe how much I love her? This fictional lesbian reptile has my heart. (And her mate Hark, but I’ll make a separate post for her :) )

She’s 56 years old, had her right wing completely torn off in a massive battle (she’s left wing politically, ahaha get it left wing because she only has her left wing so-) with the parents of Viggo and Ryker Grimborn that sent the night/light furies into hiding. (Which is my personal hc on how there are ‘no night furies left’). She is the leader of this ‘hidden colony’ of furies, and is basically just the wise, lonely grandmother to them all. She’s also just extremely sad in general. She in in constant pain and can’t fly. I mean I’d be sad too.

She’s also like extremely very heavily against humans, so in my delusional little brain when Hiccup and Toothless somehow stumble upon the hidden colony that’s in a cave (think Minecraft lush cave) she isn’t a very big fan of them funnily enough. Although she does hesitate to immediately fire upon noticing Toothless’ prosthetic tailfin, mainly cuz she’s like “yo tf what yo tail red for? Who is this red tailed child?”

I could ramble for hours about her swckjhisuchuweichiew and she ends up getting a prosthetic wing ‼️

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Follow You Anywhere 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: slept like crap last night but we got this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Sy is nice enough but you're still put off by your meeting. He carries a bag gallantly to a large black truck and pulls open the back door to place it on the seat. He turns to you to take the next. You hug it, wondering if you should settle for half your load and run for the hills.

Still, you can't help but feel beholden to him. The pin on his hat and the way he looks at you. He just seems a bit oblivious to how unsettling his approach Is.

He takes the bag and you just stare. You feel hollow and your ears are on fire. You just keep going along with this and that voice in your head is screaming at you to stop.

“Here,” he shuts the back door and pulls the passenger's open.

You look at him then into the truck. Are you crazy!? You can't just go with this man in his vehicle…

You grab onto the interior of the door and climb up into the truck. He touches your lower back gently as if to help you. You drop into the seat and thank him, trying not to let your fear bubble over.

He shuts the door and your stomach plummets. Are you being kidnapped? Are you letting yourself be abducted? Oh, you're gonna end up on a podcast.

He gets in the driver's side as you sink into the horror movie unfolding in your head. You look over at him as he unfolds a pair of dark sunglasses and puts them on to block out the sun's glare. He's so calm it's frightening. He knows exactly what's coming and you can't even begin to imagine the sheer terror awaiting you.

Maybe a nice basement cell. Worse, a field and a hole six feet deep. Your heart feels like it's stopped. Your vision is hazy and your ears are ringing.

The truck rolls backwards and lurches you back to reality. You blink and look over the hood. Sy pulls out of the spot smoothly and cranks the wheel to straighten out.

“Y'okay, sweetie?” He asks as he comes to the exit.

“Mmm, yeah,” you eke out as you grip the inside of the door. “I'm all good I just… I never expected to meet a follower.”

“Yeah, I uh… you know, I only ever dreamed it. Being over there, the days… well you don't know if you'll see the next, or even the night,” he lets out a deep breath, “I didn't put real thought into it til I got back and… it's so fu– so, er, lonely, you know? You're the only thing that was the same.”

“Oh,” your cheeks twitch as you attempt a smile, “that's very sweet. I… you know, I kinda just do the streams to get my thoughts out, it's not really… I don't know.”

“I like it. It's peaceful,” he drives down the street as the passing buildings spike your concern. “Don't get much of that.”

“Sure, I… I can imagine.”

“Hey, if it means keeping sweet things like you safe, I'll do it,” he chuckles. 

Before you can respond, he slams on the breaks and his tires skid. A car in front of him flashes their tail light. He snarls and you watch the fury furrow above his brows.

“You fu–” his booming voice catches and he bites down on his words, growling instead. “Ugh,” he exhales, “that guy… coulda got hurt…”

“Yeah,” you clasp your hands together.

"Or he coulda hurt us!" He throws a hand up.

“That was close," you mewl, "but we're okay, right?”

He inhales and looks at you. He closes his eyes and nods, “you're right, sweetie.”

You bite down, fighting not to show your fear. There's something in him that threatens to boil over. You can see it in the vein popping out along his forehead.

“So, I know a place, they got good bacon, probably some good french toast,” he leans on the pedal again, “get some whip cream on top?”

“Well, I appreciate it but I really should get home,” you say gently, “but maybe another time–”

“It's my treat, sweetie,” he insists, “it's been a long time since I got to sit down to eat with a pretty girl.”

“Oh,” is all you can muster. You don't want to push him. You know the tenuous tightrope walk. Just do what he wants, keep him happy.

“I didn't say… you look real nice today. That's my favourite of yours,” he keeps one hand on the wheel and points towards you, “the overalls.”

“Thank you,” you murmur and twist your fingers, letting out a rocky chuckle.

“So cute when you do that,” he rumbles and rests his hand on the corner of your seat, “that lil laugh.”

“Um, yeah, sorry, I… it's  a habit.”

“Nah, I like it,” he assures you and rescinds his hand to flip his signal on.

He turns into another plaza and you see the bright painted sign above a diner. A white cup on a teal banner. You've never been there but you pass it on the bus. He pulls up right at the front of the lot before the windows. You can see people inside as waitress carry trays between tables.

“I don't know about you but I'm starving,” he drawls and undoes his seat belt.

You sit in the seat, paralysed and helpless. He comes around your side and you click the button on your own belt. You turn and he offers his hand to help you get down. When you ignore it, he grabs your arm to ease your landing.

He swings the door shut and you shuffle past him. You have no choice but to keep going. Get through this and you'll go home and block him. Maybe even delete your whole account.

He reaches around you as you come up to the door and pulls it open. Be sweeps you inside with his arm and follows you through. A waitress in a black blouse greets you and you look to Sy over your shoulder.

“Table, thank you,” he says.

She leads you to a table for two and you sit, arms crossed as you rock nervously. He orders coffee as he slides off his sunglasses and the waitress turns to you. You push yourself straight. 

“Um, chocolate milk, please,” you request.

“Right away, hon,” she leaves you with the menus as you unfold your arms and pick at your thumbnail.

“So cute, chocolate milk,” he comments as he takes the laminated menu from the table, “oh, look,” he flicks it, “French toast. Can get berries with it.”

You look down and lean forward to see past the sheen of the plastic sheath. You narrow in on the French toast but your stomach rolls. You're too nervous to be hungry.

“Yeah, looks good,” you say, “um, I gotta use the bathroom.”

“Sure,” he smiles as he browses the menu.

You get up, wobbling slightly before you get your balance. You search for the sign to the restrooms and head down the short hall behind the kitchen. You dip inside and lock yourself in a stall.

You really can't afford to abandon your groceries. Worse, you don't dare anger him. He's nice but you don't know how nice he'd be if you ran out on him. Just get yourself together, it's just breakfast. You'll get through it then try to forget your stupidity.

You should've known better but you didn't have enough followers to worry  it never even occurred to you but it should be. It's your own fault.

You take a few minutes to mellow out. You don't quite get there but the longer you stay, the longer he has to get suspicious. No, you're not going to run. You don't think you'll get very far.

You come back out and return to the table. As you sit, he sips his coffee and his eyes crinkle at you. Your chocolate milk is waiting beside a wrapped straw. As you tear through the paper, you sense him watching you.

He clinks his cup down, "ordered your french toast. Extra sugar... since you're so sweet."

You issue a brittle chuckle. You stare at him. He's taken his cap off, revealing a shaved head above his thick beard. His shoulders are broad, all of him is. He's so thick and his arms are bulging with muscle beneath his tee shirt. His eyes are a brilliant shade of blue, a contrast to the rest of his rough exterior.

"You don't gotta be shy," his voice gristle in his throat as he leans forward, elbows on the table. "What do ya wanna know?"

"Pardon?" You croak.

"Well, I know everything about you," he grins, "you barely know me."

You gulp, wavering like you've been knocked upside the head. You part your lips and peer around. His self-awareness if almost there but not quite.

"I..." you don't know what to say or ask or do. He toys with the handle of his coffee cup. "What do you take.... in your, uh, coffee?"

He chuckles, "really? Why's that? You planning to bring me coffee in the mornings?"

You meet his eyes again and he winks. You giggle and move your lips like a gasping fish.

"Teasing, ya, sweetie, I don't wanna rush you," he says, "I take it black, but I don't mind some cream on Sundays."

You nod, embarrassed, and poke your straw into your cup, leaning forward to slurp up the chocolate milk. His eyes linger on your lips as you do. You pull back and take a napkin to wipe your mouth.

"Erm... well, what... how did you... find my page?"

He sits back, gripping the edges of the table as he sighs, "I was just scrolling around but I'm starting to think it's something bigger than us, you know? I was goin' through it. I needed something and there you were, showin' off those new boots you got with the flower."

Flowers? You got those boots over a year ago. You remember that stream. He's been watching you that long.

"Oh, ha, right," you murmur.

"There aren't many people out there like you left, you know? I've seen the worst in people but in you, I saw the best," he explains, "the way you just take everything in. Looking at the flowers and the birds and... you just know how to appreciate life."

You smile and nod. What else can you do as the world crashes down? He was there yesterday. That blurry figure behind you in the photo, the shadow creeping just beyond your sight. You don't doubt it was him.

“I try, er…”

You sit back as the waitress approaches. She puts a plate before you, French toast with a side of fruit salad, sugar and whip on top of the bread. She lays down Sy's plate, mounded in eggs, home fries, sausage, and two types of bacon, with rye toast. You would guess that is just barely enough to fill him up.

“Dig in,” he says as he grabs his cutlery.

You sit forward and take your fork and knife. You cut into the eggy bread and stab the small triangle of the corner. As you raise your fork, Sy growls, “get some cream too, sweetie.”

You flinch but do as he says. You swipe the bread through the dolloped cream and shove it through your lips. You stare at your plate as you chew. You wish he wouldn't watch you. You don't like eating in front of others.

“Is it good?” He asks.

“Very,” you swallow and cover your mouth.

“Don't worry, I think it's cute you got cream on your lips,” he plucks up a piece of bacon with his fingers, “didn't get good fixings like this in the sh– over there,” he bites into the strip and chews.

“Yeah, I wouldn't think…” you twirl your fork nervously, “do you have to go back?”

“Mmm, not anytime soon. They're tryna get me on a desk,” he shrugs, “might be a good change but I don't know if I'm suited to it…” he tosses back the rest of the bacon, chewing thoughtfully, “but I'm about that age. Gotta settle down, so I figure, makes sense.”

“Right, right, yeah, fair,” you garble mindlessly.

“Besides, when you got someone at home, you don't wanna run back into the bull– into war,” he smirks.

You take another bite, even as your stomach churns. You don't like how he's talking, as if you're together. As if he knows you. It's strange.

He scoops up a forkful of home fries and shovels them back. You can't fault his table manners, he was probably eating out of cans for the last few years. Not that you would say anything. You're much too scared for that.

You fall into a trance, focusing on the simple task of cutting into the toast, chewing but not tasting as your heart tamps behind your ears. You sense a shift and look up, your cheeks full of food as you make eye contact with Sy’s phone camera. You swallow painfully and nearly choke.

“What are you doing?” You squeak.

“For your Instagram,” he smiles, “I’ll send you the pics…” he frames his phone with both hands as he admires the screen, “you look so cute.”

You shudder and grip the knife and fork tight. You look back to the stack. You think you’ll ask for it to go. If you eat any more, you’re definitely going to be sick.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

There Was Love Here

When Skies Are Gray, Chapter 9

Series Masterlist             Next Chapter

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: Frank’s life has reached a crossroads: he can either continue to seclude himself and pursue a dark, lonely future, or he can open himself up to connecting with someone again and maybe achieve happiness. Being the grump that he is, Frank has already committed to the lonely path, but his curious new neighbor might just turn that around. 

warnings: Frank's fragile mental state, heart to heart between friends, swearing, mentions of a cemetery, Frank angst, but I promise it's going to go somewhere positive y'all.

a/n: Thank you all for putting up with my sporadic updates this year! I had some time to write, and then decided to adopt another cat...so... Anyways, his name is Wilbur and he's an angel. I have chapters 10-12 finished as well for this fic, so I'll be posting every few weeks to get those published! As always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! Tell me what you want to see next!!!

w/c: 3.6k

Despite his best efforts, sleep was evading him. Rolling his shoulders as he lay against the thin, lumpy mattress, floaters danced across his field of vision as he stared blankly at the ceiling. Any amount of shifting caused the jagged edges of the box springs to further prick at his skin, no doubt leaving small marks in their wake. His right pointer finger tapped aimlessly against his abrasive sheets, his mind flooded with thoughts and yet eerily silent at the same time.

Maybe that was because every new idea flashing across his brain, every synapse that fired, just contributed to the crippling guilt he felt. For growing soft, and allowing himself to want things again. For using you to get what he wanted. And for putting you through hell when he tried to backpedal, to retreat to the safety of loneliness and grief.

A growl rubbed at the inside of his throat, barely loud enough to be audible when it slipped between his lips. It would be so easy to let rage overtake the discomfort he was wading in. To get angry with you, with himself, with every force in the universe that caused the two of you to meet. It would be much less painful to write off your outburst last night as the musings of a drunk, bratty woman and avoid taking any accountability for his hand in your fury.

But every word out of your mouth was honest. And he didn't disagree with most of them.

He'd been the one to send mixed signals. It wasn't deliberate, but it had happened. After you stumbled into his life, he was so charmed by your sweetness and positivity, it didn't occur to him that he was pursuing something more than friendship with you. He’d been swept up in your sparkling current, carried halfway to hell before realizing that he couldn’t see the shore. Suddenly, “platonic” didn’t begin to describe his need to be near you and your beaming smile; the pain guiding his every breath had been abruptly left behind and he’d been too smitten to notice its absence. 

And when his mood inevitably turned, the lack of suffering became glaringly obvious. The darkness within him scrabbling for the penance it always sought out, his family’s horrified faces playing on a loop, haunting him. He didn’t deserve comfort, or peace, or love. He was destined to wither away with no company but his own regrets and the mangled corpses of any douchebag he could drag down with him.

Which is why, when you’d surrounded him with your presence rather than allowing him to wallow in his losses, he’d opted for a watery burial. 

Maria, Lisa, Frankie, Billy, the countless innocent civilians he’d taken from their families when he’d served…the list of bodies he’d left behind was innumerable. All of them turning to worm food because Frank fucking Castle was too thick to see through the lies he’d been fed by faceless men in tailored suits. Why not add another to that list? 

He was a selfish piece of shit. Taking for granted everything you gave so readily and turning on you without cause. As if you were the reason he couldn’t handle when his mind was quiet. Directing his emotions at you in a frenzy instead of growing a pair and sorting out his own shit.

The words you'd used–calling yourself a mistake, a regret–far too vile to ever address you. But those weren't pulled out of your ass. He'd put those thoughts there. He'd implied that he'd made a mistake getting to know you, that he regretted your time together. And in the moment, he'd meant it—just not in the way it had come off.

The mistake was leading you on. Moving too quickly, maybe moving on at all... But you? You were not a mistake. Nor were you a regret. He savored every minute he'd spent with you, it was his own damn fault that he couldn't accept them anymore.

Gripping his hair between trembling fingers, he ripped through the slick, knotted curls with a solicitous grunt. His gaze wandered to the volume of poetry hidden in the stack of books on his nightstand.

Doesn’t everyone want love?

The faded memory of Gluck’s hollowhearted depiction of love bubbled up in his consciousness, piling another heaping of guilt onto his fracturing shoulders. He was no better than Hades. Plucking an innocent girl from the lush meadows she knew, dropping her into a secluded cavern to serve as his plaything. No more than an object to channel his affections until he tired of you, casting you aside like the burnt husk of a match. 

He deserved to feel this fucking awful for what he'd done. For hurting you so abruptly, for placing you in harm's way when you were offering him another chance. Not even the god of the dead was that malicious. 

Fuck, he needed a fucking drink. 

Curtis took a sip of his coffee, savoring it as he swallowed. With a puff of an exhale, a thought abruptly sparked and he lifted his pencil, pressing the graphite tip into the respective squares to write the answer to the Crossword clue. Chuckling softly to himself at the author's obvious mischief, he shook his head. 'Eggbeater' what a dumbass answer for the hint 'whirlybird'.

As if the universe wanted to punish him for solving the puzzle at such a brisk pace, a pounding knock on his front door jolted his heart like an electric current. Blood rushing in his ears, he crept toward the door as quietly as his ancient floorboards allowed. Reaching his front hallway, he opened the rightmost kitchen drawer, palming the gun he stowed there and taking the last few paces to the door.

Leaving the security chain in place, figuring it would at least buy him a second to empty the clip into the intruder before they knocked him to the ground, Curtis cracked the door. Relief flooded his rigid body as he took in his visitor.

“Christ, Frank. You couldn't have called first? I was about to put a bullet in your chest,” He scoffed. Closing the door to undo the remaining lock, he yanked it open to grant the obnoxious man entry.

Rather than striding past him with his usual rageful arrogance, Frank hesitated. The moment was brief, but present enough to set off alarms in the back of Curtis' brain. Nodding tersely, Frank stepped over the threshold, allowing his friend to shut and bolt the door behind him.

The other man’s posture was tight, teeth clenched and eyes bloodshot. His clothes were rumpled and clearly a few days old. His face was pale and wan, exposing his obvious lack of sleep. Perhaps more worrisome, he hadn't even grunted in acknowledgement of Curtis' greeting.

“Where and how bad is it?” Curtis sighed, turning towards his kitchen to rummage for his first aid kit before an arm blocked his path.

“It's not—I ain’t here for a patch job, Curt.” Frank's voice was hoarse, quiet, and wrought with emotion. Meeting the Marine's unwavering gaze, Curtis took a step back.

“Then why the fuck are you turning up on my doorstep at 6am looking like flaming shit, Castle?”

Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, Frank's face fell. “Fuck, I dunno, I...I fucked up.”

Barking out a frustrated laugh, Curtis spun away from him, heading back to his seat. “Of course you did. Of fucking course you did. Too good to come to group, but you can ask me for a favor at 6am on a fucking Sunday. That's what I'm here for!” He muttered, collapsing back onto the cushioned chair behind the table.

“I'm sorry, Curt.” Frank grimaced, still standing awkwardly in the hallway. “I didn't—”

“No, you didn't.” Curtis scolded. “I know you've been through some shit, Frank, but you can't just turn your back on everyone to fuck off and go shoot a bunch of people, expecting me to help you clean it all up when it falls apart.”

“That ain't why I'm here.” Frank bristled, clenching his fists tightly.

“No? Then why are you here, Frank?” Curtis asked, irritation still coating his words.

“Because I met someone, ok?” Throwing his hands up, Frank spat out the words, a few decibels below yelling. Eyes widening as he realized what he'd admitted to, he shrunk in on himself with a flippant exhale. “I...I met someone and I don't know what to do.”

Curtis couldn't help but feel bad for the man. From where he stood a few yards away, he looked damn close to a dog that had been kicked and left to rot in the pound. Deciding to table his reprimand for later, he stretched his arm to slide out the neighboring chair.

“Coffee's in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

Frank looked slightly shocked at the change of pace, but nodded dutifully and marched to grab himself a mug before joining Curtis at the dinette. Staring intently into the reflection of the dark liquid, Frank's lips were pressed tightly together. After Curtis cleared his throat pointedly, the hulking man growled.

“What?”

“I don't know, Frank,” Curtis rolled his eyes. “You tell me! How'd an asshole like you manage to charm someone into spending a single minute with you?”

Letting out a small laugh, Frank took a generous gulp of his drink before settling back into his chair. “Beats me.“

Whether it was the strong coffee or the exhaustion eating at his brain, Curtis barely had to pry before Frank was fully immersed in the story of how you'd met. He didn't share too much about you specifically, just general information about your initial interactions and how much time you'd spent together.

“Sounds like a good deal,” Curtis hummed, crossing his arms as he narrowed his eyes. ���How'd you fuck it up?”

Swallowing whatever apprehension he had, Frank grumbled under his breath.

“What was that, soldier?”

“I said I broke it off.”

Understanding dawning on him, Curtis nodded absently, bringing a coffee cup to his lips. “You chased her away, you mean. And now you regret it.” 

Something akin to a wince flashed across Frank’s face at the accusation, but he grunted in agreement. 

“Fucking hell, Frank.” Curtis laughed humorlessly. “If you liked her so much, why’d you break it off?” 

Frank was silent for a moment, his jaw twitching as he contemplated his words. Curtis was familiar enough with the other man’s mannerisms to know he wasn’t avoiding the question, he just needed time to answer. Previous annoyance successfully pushed aside, he was willing to give Frank as much time as he needed. It was honestly groundbreaking that he’d come here at all, rather than continuing to slog through his own misery alone. 

“How can I do that to them, Curt?” Hands circling the half empty mug, Frank sounded uncharacteristically small. 

“Do what to who, Frank?” 

“How can I forget about Maria and the kids?” Frank rasped, taking a sip of his drink before choking out his other question. “How can I leave them behind?”

Feeling a strange sense of deja vu, Curtis scratched at his chin. “Who’s asking you to forget, Frank?”

Growling in apparent frustration, Frank’s brow pinched in distress. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you're implying, that doesn't mean I agree with your self-deprecating bullshit.” Curtis explained, studying Frank as the man stood and began pacing.

Tugging harshly at his hair, each step conveyed Frank's restless energy. “I can't leave them behind. That's not fair. I don't...I don't deserve that.”

“Frank,” Curtis leaned forward onto the table, weight supported on his elbows. “Grief and remembrance are only part of you. Living your life is not the same as tarnishing or abandoning their memory.”

“Then why the fuck does it feel like I'm killing Maria all over again?” Frank asked, his posture haggard and face barely concealing a devastation at the thought of his wife.

“Survivor's guilt is a unique beast,” Curtis reasoned.  

“Fuck's sake, man, don't give me that shit again.” Frank protested, looking away from Curtis' earnest stare and glaring towards the door, a single intrusive thought from bolting through it.

“I'm 'giving you this shit again' because you're a dead man walking, Frank.” Curtis scoffed, body tensing to prepare to dive after his friend if he fled. “All you've done since getting home is torture yourself over your losses. You are still alive, Frank. You deserve to live.”

“The fuck I do.” Frank sneered, knuckles flexing beneath his skin as he clenched his fists. 

“Frank, you're an asshole, that's true,” Shoving back from the table, Curtis stood, moving as quickly as he could to block Frank's path of escape. “But you're not a bad man. What happened to your family was tragic and unfair, but it is not and has never been your fault.”

Frank opened his mouth to argue, but Curtis pointed a finger at him sternly. “Don't start with your usual crap, Castle. Deep down, you know I'm right. Isn't that why you killed all those shitbags around the city?”

Rolling his shoulders with an irritated huff, Frank settled his weight against the back of Curtis' couch, still not making eye contact.

“It's ok to miss them, Frank. To be upset about your loss. But living with one foot in your own shallow grave won't bring them back. Letting yourself have something good won't change the past. It might make you less miserable to be around, though.” Curtis raised a brow, lips curved into a smirk to indicate that he was joking. Frank snorted, mumbling something about him being a dick.

Stepping into line beside his friend, Curtis patted him on the back. “You’re human, Frank. Humans crave companionship. It's written into your biology. You don't need to beat yourself up every time you look twice at a pretty girl.”

Groaning loudly, Frank dug a fist into his left eye socket to rub at it. “It ain't that easy, Curt.”

“I fucking know that, Frank. There isn't one thing about this life that's easy. But that's a dumbass reason not to try for something decent.”

Exhaling forcefully, Frank's head bobbed in a miniscule nod. “Yah.”

“Yah?” Curtis asked, shocked that he wasn't receiving the typical brick wall of stubbornness he was used to. “Huh, don't think you've ever listened to me before.”

Frank chuckled. “Shut up.”

“So, you think she's good for you?” Curtis asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the first good thing Frank had experienced in a long time.

Blowing out a breath, a blush crawled up Frank's neck, saturating his cheeks with a pink tint. “I know she is.”

“And that scares you.” Curtis stated matter-of-factly.

Initially, Frank's posture went rigid, a scoff clearly brewing in his lungs. But, meeting Curtis' knowing gaze, he deflated and grunted in timid affirmation. “I ain’t…I hurt her, Curt. Bein’ with me, you know damn well it ain’t safe for her.” 

“Because of loose ends? Or because of you?” Curtis let his question ruminate despite being pretty sure he knew the answer already.

“Both.” Frank muttered, kneading at his forehead with the heel of his hand. 

Curtis pursed his lips, knowing exactly the struggle Frank was facing. After a moment, he shrugged. “Do your best to make it safe.” 

“Not sure that’s possible, Curt.” Frank huffed bitterly. 

“Relationships are always trade-offs, Frank. That’s just life.” The scowling Marine rolled his eyes, broad arms sliding into a defensive cross over his chest.

“And I’m supposed to be ok that? Force her to accept everythin’ I’ve done and everythin’ she’d have to deal with cause that’s ‘just life’?”

Stifling a frustrated groan, Curtis socked Frank in the shoulder. “I didn’t tell you to force her into anything. If she wants to accept it, let her. And if this is what you want, then you make it good for her. But first, for Christ's sake, apologize for the record-breaking stick up your ass.”

The corners of Frank’s mouth quirked up. “Any suggestions for that last point?”

“Shit man, if you want me to advise you on your life AND your relationship, I'm gonna need something to eat.“ Striding down the hallway and snatching his jacket from the hook on the wall, Curtis jerked his head toward the door. “C'mon, Frank. You're buying.”

Laughing genuinely, Frank shook his head. ”Alright, alright. Gonna bleed me dry over here.“

”I'm sure I wouldn't be the first,“ Curtis remarked. ”Now, how badly did you fuck up with this girl?“

Frank just grimaced, drawing a knowing laugh from Curtis. “Ok, well, hopefully we can do something about it.”

The night was damp, humid. Muggy air circulating between haphazardly mowed grass and the surrounding space, bouncing off of trees and headstones. He strode across the green carpet, through the shadows and straight for the pair of them. Each step dented the ground, the moss and dense soil clinging to the sole of his boot as he lifted it with a slight squelching noise as the suction released.

As he strode further into the cemetery, the scent of petrichor soured; rotting bodies leached into the dirt, the smell of decay seeping through the ground until it reached his nostrils. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he set his jaw–hoping the emotionless exterior would force the chaos within him to quiet down. Dancing through the jags of marble and stone, fireflies illuminated the slight hill, briefly flashing over a name or the dried stalk of a rose before disappearing.

At the base of the incline, two slabs of granite held the line. The left engraved with his name, the right with Maria’s. As he closed in on the sturdy pair, his fist clenched around the burlap cloth in his hand, rustling the mess of stems tied beneath. Kneeling between the two burial sites, Frank draped the peonies over the surface of Maria’s grave, their petals fanning out over the dew-ridden earth. 

Sighing roughly, he fiddled with them, spreading out the blossoms, careful not to damage the delicate flowers with his harsh movements. His chest felt tight as he worked, quickly moving on from the bouquet to the few stray weeds trailing away from the carved rock. 

“You hate this, don’t ya?” He murmured, a sad smile breaking through his stony expression. “Always on my ass for stayin’ too busy to talk things through. Drove you crazy.” 

A hazy memory surfaced, a young Maria yanking a dish out of his hands as he tried to wash it, staring him down while he hung his head guiltily. He huffed out a tight laugh.

“I’m sorry, baby. Never could do right by you.” Tracing beneath the imprints on her headstone, Frank’s throat ached as he fought back the feelings of guilt and shame and despair he’d been battling for days, all of them threatening to spill over at once. “I’m so sorry, Mar.”

His fingers tightened around the marker, gripping it for dear life as his composure wore thin. “It’s been so long and I..I still miss you every day. Every damn day, baby. You’re my everythin’, ya know that?”

Drawing in a breath, he ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the grimy strands as he grappled for control. “Mar, I..I’m tired. I’m so fuckin’ tired and losin’ you..it’s eatin’ me away, baby. But I–”

His voice broke, a cracked syllable breaking off into a snarl as his fear burst forth. “I can’t do it anymore. I-I can’t. I’m not– I ain’t strong enough, Mar. I can’t live without ya. Not on my own.” 

A breeze ruffled through the trees beyond the cemetery border, whistling lightly as it rounded the headstone and fluttered over the satiny petals of the flowers at his feet. The weight of his existence inexplicably felt unbearable, the tension in his shoulders threatening to snap him in two. Lifting his dirt-streaked hand, his fingers landed on the thin chain hanging around his throat, fiddling with the metal until they landed on the smooth band of a wedding ring. Twisting the sanded gold between the pads of his fingers, he raised his chin, blinking rapidly at the sky to clear the moisture from his vision. 

“Forgive me, baby.” Bending forward, he pressed chapped lips to the slab of granite, its chill surface intent on sapping his body heat. Sinking to his knees, his head landed against the polished stone, fingers viciously gripping handfuls of wilted sod as his emotions clobbered him. 

Closing his eyes did nothing to quell the turmoil, the recesses of his mind swarming with memories. His two beautiful children, smiling wide as he returned home, their tiny arms too short to wrap completely around him when they hugged. Lisa pressed against his side, head pillowed on his shoulder as he thumbed through the pages of a weathered book. Frankie screeching out a laugh as Frank caught him by the waist during a game of catch, thwarting the boy’s attempt to dart away with the football. Maria grinning at him as he hefted all the grocery bags inside in one trip, shaking her head as she ushered him inside. The three of them piled together beneath an oversized blanket, sleeping through a particularly rough thunderstorm. 

Heaving in a breath, he released the ground from his clutches, wiping his palms on his jeans as he tried to get himself under control. 

“Please, Mar, please forgive me.”

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[enviedear]

scream is kind of my special interest, so i simply MUST rent out Scream for Jason Todd.... Scream AU! What would he be like as the killer versus as the survivor?

omg i was praying someone would request exactly this so THANK YOU!! i hope you like it honey <3

join spookfest... if you dare !

as the KILLER... JASON TODD is rather too put together. it's eerie how well he can separate himself from the GHOSTFACE persona. he totally gives me billy energy just less out of it—he's stuck in his ways. his motivations would lie with everyone he felt wronged him before and/or after his death. he’s back with a vengeance in the truest sense of the phrase. as ghostface, he’s going to be calculated. all of his moves are purposeful. he’s smart too, he knows gotham’s underbelly and how to manipulate it. and if manipulation doesn’t work—he’s lucky to be blessed with brute strength. jason todd would deal out very twisted justice. sure gothamites don’t have to worry themselves with joker, black mask, or even crooked cobblepot—but they do have to answer to him now. and ghostface is willing to rid the world of every single person he deems deplorable.

as the SURVIVOR... JASON TODD is frantic. he’s internally freaking out, externally stoic. he lives his canon life as a rather lone wolf, so that’s his role as final girl. (final girl jason todd save me) he’s the one that watches everyone drop like flies, and he’s constantly on edge. he’s meaner too, a tried and true survival tactic. but as things get worse i see him falling into a bit of a leader role, entirely unwanted by him. he’d rather only worry about himself—but he can’t say no to someone that’s begging for help. if anyone’s going to follow him however, they should prepare for his unsettling stare. he doesn’t trust anyone—that’s what keeps him alive. he’ll question and interrogate for the slightest slip up. he wants the killer gone—eradicated from his life. and it’s that fire and fury that helps him overpower and kill them. because he is killing them. wether he’s got a weapon or not, jason todd is not dying again. especially at the hands of some freak dressed up in a mask. that’s his thing.

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[novaursa]

Request: Baela and a dragonseed male fall in love with she is a ward on Driftmark and are in a secret relationship, even while she is betrothed to Jacaerys. During the Sowing of the Seeds, Y/N tells Baela that he wants to attempt to claim a dragon, specifically Vermithor, to help Rhaenyra in the war. Baela is understandably worried, but concedes. She watches along with Rhaenyra and Jacaerys as the Seeding takes place. Vermithor is claimed.

Sown in Fire

- Summary: You decide to answer the fire in your blood when the Sowing comes. For yourself. And for her.

- Pairing: male!dragonseed!reader/Baela Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @literaturedog

The winds on Driftmark smelled of brine and old bones, of salt-stung spray and sea-washed stone, and the morning sky hung low and gray as gulls shrieked above the battlements. You found her in the gardens—though there were no flowers here, only the rustling leaves of a lone tree transplanted long ago, its roots buried in foreign soil. Baela stood beneath it, her silver-blonde braid lashing in the wind, her riding leathers half-laced, her gloves clutched at her side. She looked like a dragon in waiting—young and fierce and impatient—and when her eyes caught yours, dark as midnight and steady as iron, your breath caught like it always did.

“Y/N,” she greeted you quietly, voice barely rising above the sound of the waves crashing far below the cliffs. Her tone carried the kind of fondness that came from shared childhoods, shared secrets, stolen kisses behind driftwood doors and the warmth of her mouth on yours in moonlit stables. She looked like she knew you were coming. “You’re brooding again.”

You gave a half-smile and stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel and moss. “I’m thinking,” you said, eyes lingering on her face—storm-washed and flushed from morning training, a faint bruise blooming along her jaw where Ser Vaemond had landed a glancing blow with the training sword.

“You’re always thinking,” she murmured, then stepped toward you, brushing her hand along your arm. Her fingers curled into your sleeve. “Say it.”

You hesitated. The words felt like steel being forged in your chest—hot, heavy, and unrelenting. You had rehearsed them a hundred times, lying awake in the narrow bunk that served you on Driftmark, dreaming of flame and wings and glory. Dreaming of being more than a bastard. More than a shadow. More than her secret.

“I want to try for Vermithor,” you said at last, voice low and steady. “I’m going to claim him.”

Silence. Only the wind replied, threading through the weirwood leaves like whispering ghosts.

Baela’s brows pulled together sharply, and her grip on your arm tightened. “Vermithor,” she repeated, voice edged with disbelief. “The Bronze Fury? That beast is older than our grandsires. He hasn’t been ridden since King Jaehaerys.”

“I know,” you said. “That’s why I need to try.”

She pulled away then, pacing a few steps like she was trying to walk the fury out of her. “And what happens if he kills you?” she asked, her voice rising. “He burned the last man who came near him. Y/N, he’s—he’s not some hatchling or unclaimed yearling skulking in the Dragonmont. He’s Vermithor. He was a king’s dragon.”

You followed her, voice softer, quieter, the way you always spoke when you needed her to listen. “That’s exactly why I have to try. The war is coming, Baela. It’s already begun. Rhaenyra needs riders—strong riders. Not boys with cradle-names who think dragons are pets. She needs power. Fire. I can give her that.”

“You’ll give her your corpse,” Baela snapped, turning back to face you, eyes shining now—not with fury, but fear. “Why does it always have to be you? Why are you always the one running into danger like the gods gave you armor for skin?”

You looked at her, really looked—at the way her lip trembled despite how hard she tried to sneer, at the way her fists clenched at her sides. “Because I’m tired of hiding,” you said, voice catching. “Of pretending I don’t care about this fight. About you. About your step-mother’s claim. I’m not a lord’s son, Baela. I was born in a fishing village, a bastard of some hedge knight who never came back. No name. No legacy. But I have dragon’s blood. I can feel it, burning in my bones. Let me prove it.”

She stepped closer again, chest rising and falling fast, and when she reached for you this time, it was with both hands, clutching the front of your tunic like she wanted to shake the madness out of you. “We already live on borrowed time,” she whispered. “Every day we steal from the world—every night you climb into my bed and hold me like you won’t let go. And now you want to throw your life at a sleeping monster because you want to matter more?”

You leaned into her touch, forehead pressing against hers. “No. I want to fight beside you. I want to have a chance to stand at your side when the sky burns and the realm trembles. They will never let us be what we are, Baela. Not with you promised to Jace. Not with me being who I am. But if I ride Vermithor—if I ride him—they’ll have to see me.”

Her breath hitched, and you felt it—the way her resolve buckled beneath her love for you. Her lips brushed yours, once, soft and trembling. “And if he kills you?” she whispered. “What will I do then, Y/N? What’s left for me if you die?”

You cupped her cheek, brushing your thumb over the bruise on her jaw. “Then at least you’ll know I died trying to be more—for you, for Rhaenyra, for all of us. I won’t hide anymore. I can’t.”

She stared at you for a long, shattering moment. And then she kissed you again, harder this time, teeth scraping, breath ragged. A kiss like a storm. A kiss like goodbye.

“Then go,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “But if you come back on dragonback, Y/N… gods help me, I’ll never let you go again.”

The air at Dragonmont was thick with smoke and the bitter tang of blood. Ash drifted like snow across the blackened stones, settling in the folds of cloaks and the creases of armor. The sun had not yet risen, but firelight danced along the mountain’s jagged face, casting flickering shadows of men and dragons. It was the day of the Sowing, the day the realm would see who was worthy of flame and flight. One by one, dragonseeds had stepped forward—bastards of Targaryens and Velaryons, lowborns with silver hair or violet eyes, hopefuls with songs in their hearts and death waiting behind a dragon’s teeth.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, breath coiling in the cold air, watching as chaos unfolded before you.

“Another dead,” someone muttered near Rhaenyra, whose expression was carved from stone as the broken body of a young girl was dragged from the cratered clearing. Her name had been Aelinor, a stablehand’s daughter with pale eyes and trembling hands. She hadn’t screamed long.

Baela stood just behind Rhaenyra, her eyes burning as she watched the proceedings with a clenched jaw and a fire in her chest that no one else could see. Her hands were balled into fists beneath her riding cloak, and her gaze kept flickering to the western edge of the field—where you stood alone.

Jacaerys leaned in toward his betrothed, brow creased. “They’re not ready,” he muttered to Baela. “These people… they don’t understand the danger. We’ll burn through them faster than we’ll get riders.”

“And yet it was your idea to call the Seeds,” Baela replied coolly, though her voice was low. “Your mother agreed with you. The dragons are restless. They want riders. The war demands them.”

“She agreed out of desperation, not wisdom.” Jace turned his attention back to the clearing, where a boy no older than twelve was hesitantly approaching a silver she-dragon, who hissed low and predatory. “We need fighters. Not fools.”

Baela’s eyes found you again across the field.

You were watching Vermithor.

The Bronze Fury crouched at the edge of the scorched plain, massive and still as a mountain, his burnished scales glinting in the dim firelight. Steam hissed from his nostrils, curling like ghosts around his head, and his molten eyes swept over the dragonseeds with ancient, cruel awareness. Three men had already tried him. Two were dead—one reduced to charred bones, the other torn in half before the flame came. The third ran screaming into the caves, never to return.

But you had not yet moved. Not until now.

Baela’s heart stopped in her chest when you stepped forward.

Rhaenyra stiffened. “Who is that?”

Baela’s mouth opened—and closed again. “One of the Velaryon men, I believe. From Driftmark.” Her voice came out smooth, practiced. She did not meet Jace’s eyes.

Jacaerys tilted his head. “He looks familiar…”

You walked slowly, purposefully, every step heavy with heat and memory. The world dimmed around you, narrowed into the rhythmic thrum of your heartbeat and the enormous bulk of the dragon before you. Vermithor shifted, smoke rolling from between his teeth, a deep growl rumbling through his massive frame like the cracking of the world itself.

You did not bow.

You did not speak.

Instead, you stopped before him, close enough to smell the ash clinging to his hide, and locked eyes with the Bronze Fury.

He moved.

The crowd gasped as Vermithor reared, wings flaring like bronze sails, his roar echoing like thunder over the Dragonmont. The ground shook beneath your feet, but you held your ground. The blast of fire never came.

Instead, the dragon lowered his head.

Baela’s breath caught. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared.

Rhaenyra rose from her seat in stunned silence.

Even Jace could only whisper, “By the gods…”

Your hand reached out, trembling now—less with fear, more with awe—and pressed to the warm, scaled brow of the beast before you. The heat singed your palm, but you did not pull back. Vermithor's eyes narrowed, and the deep rumble in his chest shifted from menace to something older, deeper—recognition.

He knew you.

And in that moment, the bond was made.

The cheering didn’t come at once. For long heartbeats, the crowd was stunned, silenced by the sight of one of the oldest, most feared dragons of the realm bowing to a nameless dragonseed. But then it came—a roar of voices rising like fire, like storm winds, as you mounted the Bronze Fury’s saddle, and Vermithor unfurled his wings in full.

Baela could not look away. You turned your head just enough to find her through the chaos, through the celebration. And when your eyes locked with hers, something unspoken passed between you.

You kept your promise.

I’ll never let you go.

Her heart thundered. Her hands trembled. But her eyes—those stayed fixed on you.

And in that moment, as Vermithor lifted into the sky in a maelstrom of wings and flame, Baela Targaryen knew something that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.

You were not a bastard anymore.

You were a rider.

You were hers.

[demonicbaby666]

You’re Mine

One shot | Marvel Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!Reader

Genre: Smut

Words: 1.5k+ 

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, jealousy, fingering, daddy kink, asphyxiation, sort of public sex being that people are on the other side of a door...

Summary: Natasha has always had a thing for you being hers and only hers. It's one of the things you love about her. However, it's impossibly hard not to rile her up because of her tendency to get overprotective and possessive. This time, you may have pushed her too far. So much so that she takes matters into her own hands with a lot more urgency than what you're used to.

A/n: my finger slipped and turned my laptop's whore mode on xxx

Emerald eyes were glued to the hand on your thigh. Of course, Maria hadn't meant to stir the pot when she'd harmlessly laid her hand down. Someone had made a joke, and after a series of light slaps, her hand just settled. It wasn't uncomfortable initially, but as Natasha's eyes continued to bore into you, it certainly was.

The next thing to do was to simply move Maria's hand away. Yet, there was something so satisfying about Nat's flushed face, reddening from anger, and her auburn hair that seemed to burn brighter similarly that - you didn't care to admit it - made your stomach tense in the best of ways. Was it a good idea to egg her on? Of course not. That didn't stop you from leaning into the casual contact from Maria. The lonely hand on your knee was soon joined by yours.

If Natasha wasn't pissed off before, she sure as hell was now, and you couldn't blame her. It would have been too much for anyone to handle, what with the exaggerated laughs, nudges, and non-existent space between you and Maria. You served up a platter of green and practically spoon-feed envy straight into Nat's mouth, which was now clenched together.

"A word outside," Nat said, suddenly standing above you. The veins in her neck were strained and pulsing; her nostrils flared as heaved breaths racked through her whole body. The tight-fitted shirt she wore rose and fell plain as day, and from this sight alone, you realised you may have pushed too far.

Not waiting for a response, Natasha grabbed your wrist, pulling you up and out of the room - ignoring the following sets of eyes.

Once you were away from said prying eyes, the older woman had you backed against the wall in an instant, eyes of fury scorching through you.

"You think I'd let that slide?" She seethed, wrapping her fingers around your throat, "Do I need to remind you that you're mine?"

The tight, possessive coiling of her fingers burned down your chest and ignited a fire between your legs. Nat had never been shy about where she stood on you getting comfortable with others. Even mentioning previous relationships would have repercussions. Often, these were reminders of how said relationships lacked vital things only Natasha could give you, i.e., the ability to walk the next day.

"No," you squeaked.

"It's obvious I do," Nat growled, sliding a hand between your bodies and roughly palming your breast.

The beginnings of a moan caught in your throat as the auburnette squeezed her fingers tighter around your neck. In some ways, you knew it would boil down to this, though you expected the display of dominance and ownership to come later in the night, when everyone was fast asleep, and no sound made would penetrate the alert ears that filled the room the other side of the wall.

You tried pleading with her, "Nat, they'll hear."

"Let them," she said, her lips inching closer to your ear, "It seems they also need a reminder of who you belong to."

"Nat," you attempted again before you were cut off by the sharp feel of her teeth biting the flesh under your ear.

With her hand still firmly holding you against the wall, airways fighting to get oxygen in, she lowered her hand down your ribcage and cupped your clothes cunt. Adrenaline coursed through your veins, knowing what was to come. It would have been easy for you to say stop or to have pushed Nat away entirely, but excitement was bubbling under the surface, and a large part of you wanted this. To be owned. To be claimed. To be reminded of what happens when you forget your place.

"You want daddy's fingers, don't you?" She muttered into your ear, her tone low, her voice raspy.

"Yes," you shamelessly breathed out.

In one quick move, your body was flipped, face pressed against the wall and hands on either side of your face. One of Natasha's hands held your hip in place, the other slithered between the wall and your stomach, slowly moving south. Deft fingers trailed a line up your thigh, reaching the waistband of your panties and wasted no time delving into the sticky mess she'd created.

"Did having Maria's hands all over you do this?" Nat asked, the disdain in her voice evident.

Having her so close to where you needed, yet refusing to appease your growing desire, had you shaking your head and wriggling your hips, trying to position your clit over her stubborn fingers. However, Natasha was unrelenting and moved her hand away entirely, resting on your jaw and yanking it back so you could face her.

"Tell me who your cunt belongs to," she demanded.

Behind the anger and lust that donned her eyes, once light sage, the shade of dark juniper, you saw a hollowness that encircled and sought to wreak havoc on the one certainty she held sacred - you. Of course, you had always made it clear that you were hers and she was yours, but despite her tough bravado, sometimes she also needed to be reminded. After all, the avenger was only human.

"You," your voice crackled in your throat, desperately trying to remain quiet yet sure in your words when all you wanted was to be mercilessly fucked against the wall, "you, you and only you."

"Good girl." she pecked the underside of your jaw. A smirk lined her smooth, balmed lips as she did so.

You could have cried with joy when Natasha released you and trailed her finger back down to your underwear. Instead, you settled for a soft moan of gratitude when you felt the pressure radiate off your body and the beginnings of lazy circles drawn over your clit.

Despite the urgency that flooded through you and the precarious place where your body was being taken, Nat showed no signs of being in a rush. The languish exploration of a place she knew all too well was still being undergone after gruelling minutes. A complaint had touched the tip of your tongue so many times, and as if the older woman knew when it was coming, she'd give you the tiniest taste of relief and settle back into the depth of endless torture.

It was too much. A lump was caught in your throat, your bottom lip was sore from the firm bite of your teeth, and your body fought to keep itself upright and steady while simultaneously trying to remain docile.

"Please, daddy," you begged, rucking your hips for the hundredth time, "Fuck me."

Immediately, you sensed the change in Nat's stature. She stood taller and closed the space between your bodies, pressing her chest firmly to your back and pushing you further into the wall. The cold paint was welcome against your flushed cheek and cut your gasp off short.

This newfound calm would only last a millisecond before two fingers penetrated the junction between your legs, and a fire set ablaze every living cell in your body.

There was no need to move anymore because the expeditious pace and vigour of Natasha's talented fingers left you sated - in addition to clouding your conscious mind. The only task necessary to focus on, thanks to the body and hand holding you in place against the wall, was breathing.

"Say it again," she ordered.

The moment her thumb made contact with your throbbing clit, a bolt of lightning plummeted through your spine and forced your neck to snap back with a silent whimper. Thankfully, the avenger's quick reflexes came to her aid. She moved her head in time for the back of your head to crash down on her shoulder. The thudded contact would have been painful had it not been for your senses being somewhat preoccupied with the brain-numbing ecstasy that was reaching its peak.

"Fuck me, daddy!"

Careful to make sure the force of her body would be enough to keep you upright, the auburnette wound her arm around your body and placed her hand firmly around your neck. Everything around you faded and ceased to exist; the floor beneath your feet was gone, and you were floating on cotton clouds. You dragged your nails down the wall in an effort to grasp onto something tangible. Instead, the mix of the dulled scratching sounds and emptiness in your palms left you increasingly consumed by the ethereal feeling of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"I'm going to come, daddy," you cried out, surely extracting a snigger from someone on the other side of the wall, "Please keep going."

"You're mine," Natasha uttered into your ear, squeezing the sides of your throat harder. She ran her thumb faster over your clit, curved her fingers at the end of each thrust, and within the next few seconds, the stars in your visions illuminated a blacked-out night sky.

"Mine."

When you regained the ability to see again, you spun around and crashed your lips to Nat's. It took her by surprise, though quickly enough, she reciprocated and poured every ounce of love she had into the kiss.

"I'm yours," you whispered softly against her lips, "and only yours."

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[maybeiwasjustjade]

Tempted to write a Nyx x Hewn City OC, because cauldron knows Feysand would never fix the CoN out of the goodness of their hearts. Now, if Nyx forces them to face their issues? Maybe the Hewn City has a chance.

Imagine a Hewn City sort of masquerade ball for Nyx’s birthday, because this is the first time they’re introducing him after a lifetime in Velaris. And Nyx…isn’t what most expects a HL’s heir to be. He’s tall and lithe like his parents, handsome with his mother’s eyes. But that’s it. He’s not muscular or built or with a wingspan to rival his father. His skin is smooth from a lifetime sheltered and pampered, no callouses line his hands and feet. He has exactly one siphon on his chest, and his Night magic is average at best. He’s not even a Daemati.

An only child, Nyx grew up lonely with only books to keep him company. He has no cousins, or even friends really outside of the Inner Circle, because enemies are everywhere. Illyria and Hewn City are just stories to him—far, far out of his reach. A little socially awkward but well-meaning kid, he escapes his own debutante ball to mingle with the masses. That’s where he runs into her: a Hewn City noble, the daughter of a Darkbringer General.

She’s not hideous under her masks like he expects. In fact, she’s far more beautiful than anyone he’s ever met, with her red-gold hair and strange eyes. A quietly, sad thing, but there’s a fire to her that shines almost as brightly as her mercy. Because there is kindness and mercy still at the heart of the Court of Nightmares. One just needs to be brave enough to look, and they all know the High Lord’s circle are made up of cowards.

She’s brave and almost blinding in her subtle fury, and Nyx falls. Even when his parents find out and try to humiliate her for trying to ‘seduce’ him, this Hewn City trash doesn’t bow or bend. She stands tall like the mountain she was raised under. And Nyx would do anything to give her the sky and stars. Even disobey his parents. Even turn a blind eye to the seeds of rebellion being stirred right in front of him. He’s no warrior—his built too frail, his magic too fraught—he cannot fight for her, but he’ll stand with her when the gallows swing and the mountain cracks open with their anger.

And maybe then, the High Lord and Lady will understand what happens when you abandon a third of your people to uncertain death.

And at the very end, when Feysand rage about the rebellion shifting on their borders, and the son that chose to fight against them, I want them to find out it was Elain all along.

The innocent fawn they all underestimated, who they left unattended to in Velaris. But a cage is still a cage, no matter how golden and gilded the bars are. Elain who hated black, with a mate far away in a Court she could never follow him to, and a sister banished for daring to choose herself. Elain who sees everything, every version of every reality possible. Who knew what would happen if the Hewn City was left unchecked, if Rhysand’s greed knew no bounds. If Nyx never fell for a girl with fire in her veins.

So she plotted. Maneuvered all the pieces in the game until there was exactly one future left. Only a single path. All she had to do was make sure Nyx was ready for it. Not the Nyx his parents would try to raise, but the Nyx the Hewn City needed to be free.

No one ever notices a drop of Faebane, if served with every meal.

[dominantslasherking]

More feyd rautha please🥺🥺🥺🥺

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen With Dominant Male S/o

My Stories are meant for the much more mature audience, 18+ Backstory: You're a fremen and Feyd eagerly wants to catch you; for his own personal desires, as he has been obsessed with you.

The merciless desert was relentlessly heated by the searing sun that descended onto Arrakis's limitless dunes.

A lone person crept among the dunes like a desert cat, graceful and stealthy. He was a Fremen, a warrior of the dunes, named 'the ghost', practically disappearing into the sandy terrain with his quiet strides.

But Feyd-Rautha, the phsycopathic nephew of the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, was not one to be easily deceived. He had been tracking this elusive Fremen for days, driven by an insatiable desire that gnawed at his very soul. Ever since he had caught a glimpse of him during a skirmish with the Fremen raiders trying to stop the spice collectors, Feyd had become consumed by an obsession unlike any he had ever known.

Feyd strode into the darkened dwelling of his spacecraft, a ferocious fury burning in his eyes. With his jaw squeezed into a harsh line and his hands clinched into fists at his sides, he demanded answers from the trembling crew. "What happened?" Those who ventured to catch his eyes were sent shivering down their spines as he hissed, his voice deep and menacing with a scratchy and horse undertone to his voice.

A spice collector came forward, recounting of the conditions that had happened in the desert, his voice trembling from fear. "My na-Baron, we faced opposition from the Fremen invaders," he stumbled, his gaze flitting uneasily to Feyd. "I-We tried to fight back, but the strength of the Fremen was too much. Before we could get him down, I was able to secure a scratch on his face."

"By..'Him', do you mean, the ghost? MY GHOST?" Feyd's voice bellowed out his cole black eyes churning with rage.

Feyd's lip curled in disgust at the mere mention of his fremen being harmed. Without a word, he strode forward, his movements fluid and predatory as he closed the distance between himself and the cowering crew member. With a swift and brutal motion, he seized the man by the collar, lifting him off the ground with a strength born of rage.

"You dare to let a mere scratch mar the perfection of what is mine?" Feyd snarled, his voice echoing off the metal walls of the ship. "You are worthless, all of you!"

With a guttural roar, Feyd slammed the spice collector against the wall, his grip tightening with each passing second. The man whimpered in pain, his eyes wide with terror as Feyd's fingers dug into his flesh, leaving bruises in their wake.

But Feyd's heart was consumed by a fire that could not be quenched. With a savage cry, he brought his fist crashing down upon the man's skull, the sickening sound of bone meeting metal filling the air. Again and again, he rained down blows upon the hapless spice collector, his rage fueling his every strike.

After Feyd was a bloody mess, coated in crimson his eyes stared down at the once recognizable face, now just a bloody and gushy mess on the floor, "Worthless." Feyd spat out baring his black coated teeth, as he stared, and hissed at the other spice collectors.

One had shakily come forward, his breath palpable with each step he made towards Feyd. Feyd cruel smirk turning into a cocky, almost mocking one at seeing the man holding a torn cloth.

"You...have something for me.." Feyd asked, ripping the cloth out of the man's hand. "Its...----I manage to rip it off, the Fremen you wanted." The spice collector muttered his eyes flickering towards the dead spice collector on the floor.

Feyd's eyes flickered with a hint of something. Suddenly, in a swift and rapid motion, Feyd brought the cloth to his nose, inhaling a deep breath of the scent that roamed the torn cloth. Your scent. A delicate blend of spice, and your musk..

Once he was finished, he stuffed the cloth into a pouch on his utility belt. "If you worms can't get the job done, I will."

Feyd brushed passed them. making his way towards the ships control center to fly the damn thing.

"He couldn't have gotten far." Feyd muttered, tapping his fingers on a button.

"I'm coming for you." Feyd hissed out, his eyes dimming into a possessive spiral of obsession.

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

Can you please write a sequel to the au where the greens win and Aemond forcibly married his niece where one of their children accuses him of making their mother sad which makes him realise that he has become like his father.

A/N: I hope you like it!

pairing: Dark!Aemond x Niece!reader

summary: sequel to the au where the greens win and Aemond forcibly married his niece where one of their children accuses him of making their mother sad which makes him realise that he has become like his father.

Word count: 1,2K

Warnings: Angst

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

"Daddy, why is mommy locked in her room?" Your youngest, Helaera asked innocently. Gaelys, your eldest snapped his head up to look at his father. watching his facial expression, he was never brace enough to ask such a question.

"Whatever do you mean, sweet one? Do you not see your mother in the gardens and during banquets?" Aemond chuckled picking her up to sit on his lap. Your sewing by then had paused, but still you did not dare look up from the tablecloth you were busying yourself with as of lately.

"Yes but otherwise she is locked in her room" She began playing with the buttons on his shirt pouting sadly. Gaelys moved to sit by your side now. He reached over to take your hand in his, you were trembling.

"Darling, your mother made many mistakes and must be punished for them" Aemond kissed her forehead. Her frown deepened and she wiggled out of his arms. She wobbled over to you on her chubby legs, reaching for you to pick her up.

"Come here, love" You put the tablecloth to the side with a smile trying to act as if you did not hear her questions. She giggled as you moved her to sit on your lap.

"Poor mommy, always being punished" she whispered snuggling into your bosom for comfort. Gaelys could not hold himself back, he was about to burst. He stood up from the couch and approached his father with a fire Aemond only saw in dragons.

"You once told us that grandsire Viserys was a horrible man, that he married our grandmother when she was much younger than him and that he never loved her-" Gaelys began. You gasped shocked at his snappy tone. You feared that Aemond would punish him like he did to you for so many years.

"-but you treat mother worse. You lock her up like some animal and only let her out for show. You use your authority on her as if she was some servant, no servants get treated better than her" Gaelys was panting by the end, from anger or loss of breath you did not know. You held your breath awaiting Aemond's outburst, tightening your hold on Helaera fearing she will be also on the receiving end of Aemond's fury for bringing the subject up.

"Go to your room, Gaelys" Aemond ordered, his voice low and angry. Gaelys turned to you begging you with his eyes for you to let him stay.

"Yes and take Helaera with you" You wanted him out of here, you wanted both of them away for when Aemond would let his furry out on you and your body. He has done so before many times.

"Mother-" You cut him off with the famous motherly glare. He sighed but took Helaera from your arms before leaving with his head bowed. You waited for the outburst of yelling and smashing of things but it never came.

Instead Aemond pushed himself slowly from his chair, as if he was fearing scaring you. Still you flinched as he stepped closer making the guilt inside of him twitch like some knife lodged into his side. He crouched down in front of you slowly, his hands softly caressing your knees comforting you.

"Gaelys' words made me realise something" Aemond began softly. You dared to finally look up and into his eyes. All he could see was fear, you even feared looking in his direction. What has he done?

"I am worse than my father" Aemond chocked on his tears. One lone tear trickled down his cheek landing atop his pouty lips. His brows were furrowed at the confusion on your face, you did not believe him capable of caring or even showing the slightest bit of emotions.

"I have become what I hated most" Aemond leaned his head down on her knee. His voice sounded full of despair. You felt conflicted on what to do with him, what to say to him, You could only come with the words "It is okay"

"No tis not!" Aemond jumped to his feet again. He ran a hand through his usual well kept hair, ruining the perfect half up do. He pulled his eyepatch off feeling the leather irritate his skin with his tears.

"I have treated you horribly, the woman I have been in love with since I was ten!" Aemond paced with his hands in his hair, pulling trying to hurt himself. You sat back and watched him break down. Watched him relive every single moment with you, every time he forced himself on you or showed you a side of himself he himself hated.

"I fell for you ever since you defended me during Driftmark. I imagined you to become my wife ever since then. When I learned the ways of the flesh at ten and three it was you I imagined ever since when I touched myself. Ever since I began reading poetry it was with you in mind" He cried. You stood up from the chair approaching him like some scared child. He paused his pacing and faced you, trying to read your facial expression.

"I will not justify what you did nor will I say I forgive you Aemond, what you did is horrible but I will accept that it is from the past for the sake of Gaelys and Helaera" You spoke calmly. Always the collected one in your family. Aemond rubbed his face noticing that you kept your distance, you were disgusted by him and did not want to touch him.

"I will not however tolerate your behaviour any longer, I have had enough, yes Gaelys is right even the servants have a better life than I" You hissed, regaining some of your old fire, but not all, you were tired. You were beaten with no hope. Your hope was now in Gaelys, the heir to throne after Aegon who now had a burned cock and unable to have anymore children.

"I am ready to beg for your forgiveness, my love" Aemond whispered, taking a step closer to you. He placed his hands on your shoulders. You hated the sight of his tears streaming down his face, you sympathised with him, he went through so much from losing his eye to losing his sister but so did you, you lost your brothers and mother.

"I don't want you begging, I want my freedom, I want to have the right to walk around like everyone else not like some animal on a leash. I want to have the right to see my children whenever I want and most importantly I want to go home" You pushed him back. Aemond stumbled a couple of steps back shocked.

"Dragonstone? At once we will go there" Aemond nodded eager to please you, eager to get on your good graces again.

"No, you stay here like the lap dog you are but I will move with my children to Dragonstone" You shook your head coldly. Aemond hiccuped from shock and despair, it was like you grew heartless in a matter of minutes.

"What about me?" He whimpered. He stepped closer to you but you pulled away before eh could touch.

"You stay with your green family and lick the ground they walk on. My children are Targaryens and they will be raised as such with their black and red flag on their castle"

[tojisun]

dunno where this came from bc i honestly just wanted a short ramble and not smthn long but here we are :'D this is an extension from my rambling yesterday about simon x reader but it's a dowry of blood au (brides of dracula retelling). i havent finished the book yet tbh but if ur planning on reading it, i do just wanna give a warning that it's dark and prose-heavy

cw: death/massacre; blood drinking; vampire-turning and stuff; inaccurate references to dracula lore

the village is gone. burnt. fire crackles amidst the broken hymns of the dead—they don't sing, not anymore of course, but their losses are catastrophic. you never realized how the apocalypse could be so loud.

you stand at the centre of the chaos, bloodied. bruised. ruined. the lone survivor.

the only one who was lucky enough to be saved.

brought out from the pyre, you were dragged into the shadowed corners and hidden from the pillagers who slaughtered everyone you loved and everyone you knew. you shook in your grief, screams erupting from the base of your throat, but all were silenced by an ice-cold palm over your mouth.

"shh, little one," he said. the first of his words; the first of his kindness. "you must be quiet."

your fury sputtered into anguish, the loss descending to you like the first drop of snow. tears spring from your strained eyes, staining even his hand; you did not know how to compress the bloating agony that was pressing into your lungs. your only comfort was that he seemed to favour you enough to keep you safe, even if just for a moment. 

rain had fallen by then—it seemed like it knew that tragedy had struck this little place. it extinguished enough of the fire, washing away the smell of ashes and leaving only the pungence of iron. blood.

with it, your adrenaline wore off, and you began to feel the extent of your pain. of course, you were not unscathed, but you didn’t expect your body to be so brittle. 

you fell, tumbling into the muddy ground and right before his feet. you croaked in pain, lungs constricting. it was becoming a lot more difficult to breathe, to speak. you wondered why death came to you slowly.

he knelt down by your side, cold hand brushing away at your dirty hair. he was speaking to you softly, words passing through his lips in soft lilts. you struggled to hear him, your ears ringing, numb, as your mind pulsed in your skull.

you groaned, begging him to stop. to go away. you had nothing to pay him back with, nothing to entertain him, so you told him just as much. you told him to let you die in silence because how else could he save you?

“that is troubling,” was all he said, his words were rumbled from the depths of his chest like he hadn't used his voice in eons. 

you peeled your eyes open, wondering what it must be that he was after, then you finally saw what he was—pale skin gleaming underneath the moonlight with eyes dark like wine. he was not a human. he couldn’t have been one.

your mother told you tales of the wicked. of those cursed and abandoned by the almighty father—she told you of their beauty, of their wealth, of their hunger.

(they do not know how to love, she said as she tucked you underneath your sheets. they only know how to deceive.)

your body locked, heart congested with fear—your body knew then, didn’t it? that this being that held you close was far more terrifying than the invaders. that your body survived the fire, the greed of humanity, only to be devoured by the devil.

“please,” you whimpered, the will to live burning inside you once again. you didn’t care about the pillagers, you didn’t want their mercy, but this being. this creature of the dark, oh how you craved his clemency.

“please, save me.”

“i cannot save you,” he said. 

his hand fell to your throat, grasping it gently, almost reverently. he swiped his thumb along the expanse of your skin to feel the way you swallowed. 

“but i can help.”

you tried to reply, to beg once more, but the words could not be sounded out, your throat having been too ruined for any prayer. you shook with your desperation, turning your eyes to him to express your ragged hope. you prayed that he may see your plea. you prayed that he may bless you with his curse.

he smiled, fangs glinting before your eyes. then, he murmured, “of course.”

(mama? how do you know when your prayers are answered?

well, sometimes it starts off painful.

painful?

yes, little star. but then, it becomes euphoric. freeing. good suffering.)

his teeth tore into your skin, ripping apart the muscles as it hunted for the blood. you screamed, throat scratching at the intensity of your pain; it was unbearable, burning unlike that of fire, scalding as it slithered down your very being. something was happening then. something unholy. 

you were being remade. reshaped. taken apart one bloodied fragment at a time.

you felt like you were at the precipice of death, so close to the edge and into eternal damnation, but he would not let you. chained to his hunger, your body writhed underneath the extent of his power; burning. burning. burning.

he was your new pyre. 

he was hell.

you begged for anything to subdue the pain; for a touch kinder, warmer; for the ceasing of it all. 

and it did.

his lips left the sensitive patch of your neck, pulling away with a hummed smile as though it were ambrosia he was sucking out of you. you stared at his lips, stained with your blood, and, within a fraction of a heartbeat, unrelenting hunger coursed through you.

you yowled, your mind heavy and your body sore. you felt lost; you felt like you were drained and left as nothing but a shell of what you once were.

“good. that’s good,” he crooned, his eyes wrinkled in his joy. “this hunger is proof of your new life.”

he brought his wrist to his lips and bit into his own skin. the first puncture oozed out with blood; you watched it pool, beading, before it trickled down the length of his arm. your throat constricted, tongue heavy all of a sudden in your mouth.

a taste. you craved for a taste.

he smiled as he pressed his wrist to your lips. “go on,” he murmured. “drink.”

you were delirious, or you must be, for you to have listened to him—your weak hands grasped at his wounded arm, pulling it closer to your maw.

you drank. 

that experience of having the first drop on your tongue was indescribable. it was like you have never eaten before; like you have never been fed. never been nourished.

it was like anything that sustained you before had been erased from your memories; you don’t remember the taste of your mother’s cooking anymore, nor the sweets that your grandmother brought home with her for you on occasions when her mistress remembered to reward her, nor the milk from your father’s cows. 

every sweet memory was washed away by the blood pouring down your throat; every gulp a sinister promise of what would be irreversible.

your body sang, skin mending itself, and bones healing underneath torn muscles. numbness filtered in—it had never felt like salvation before.

lost in your new paradise, you didn't notice as your saviour cupped your cheek once more. his touch was gentle. it was kind.

he leant forward and kissed your forehead—a reward for surviving.

“my name’s simon,” he whispered, nuzzling you. “and you will be my bride, won’t you, my dark miracle?”

your mouth left his arm, reluctant but necessary, because even before he said his name, you knew he was your master. you knew that in exchange for this new life he’s cursed you with, you were to be obedient to him no matter what. 

you nodded, breathless and ragged.

“yes, my lord.”