#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.”

[kukinkrim]

my sanctuary (part 1)

baby saja x fem!reader

theme: romance, angst w comfort

notes: took the liberty to make a backstory for baby saja. his human name is baek haneul.

baby had always had a name.

baek haneul. the 13th prince of the royal family during the joseon dynasty; a child of a low-ranking court lady who managed to capture the eye of the emperor, fleetimg as it may be. haneul, though with peasant blood running through his veins, was loved deeply by the palace maids and scholars who roamed around the palace.

despite being constantly surrounded and tended to, the palace was a lonely place.

within his home was a constant battle. war of politics. he was a nobody—not a legitimate heir, not a threat to the throne, not even loved by the emperor who was supposed to be his father. his mother had died young and, with no title to protect him, he grew up in the background; in the edges of the lonely palace he called home.

one spring, an older brother of his—the crown prince—was assassinated. in the scramble to find a replacement, haneul was briefly considered for the throne due to his wit. briefly. because just as quickly, the idea was cast aside.

baek haneul was too gentle, they said. too soft. he won't survive the court. he can't lead with that filth running in his blood.

baek haneul was not destined to rule, they said.

once the new prince was chosen, haneul was sent to live in a remote monastery under the guise of protection. but really, who were they kidding? he was exiled.

there, the loneliness began to eat him alive. and that loneliness was what brought him to hold the hand of a demon named gwi-ma who offered to fulfill his wish to be seen as he prayed for a god that never came.

"let them remember me."

he holds his out to the fire as it roars, not in fury, but in glee.

"if the world won't keep you, child, then let it burn."

haneul prided himself in being one of the most loyal demon of the underworld. that was given, afterall. the power he was given was nothing more than leash that kept him bound. shame shackled his feet to hell but he bites back those feelings that threatened to come too close.

emotions were a weakness. there was no place for vulnerability in hell.

that was part of the deal, afterall. shaking hands with the devil came with a cost. a power beyond reckoning and in turn, his soul sealed away so tightly he couldn't even remember what sorrow or joy once tasted like. love? the concept was foreign to him. he was molded for war now, a walking catastophre.

but then he met her, (y/n), when he came to the surface one day. gone were the tattoos on his body, replaced with bright pink clothes that seemed to cling onto him just right. yet, he knows, they were nothing more than just costumes that hid what he really was. the world was no longer what he remembered, much more modern as centuries had past.

haneul, for the first time in centuries, looked human. a fragment of what he looked like before he made a deal with the devil.

but he meets her. a woman watching amongst the crowd as he performed with his other fellow demons.

it was a fleeting encounter. so fleeting that he forgot about her as soon as the song finished and the crowd had dispersed.

but she kept showing up.

at every concert. every performance. every variety show taping.

front row, sometimes. back of the crowd, others. but always there.

and haneul always saw her.

he convinced himself it was a coincidence. nothing but chance. love was never an option for him. curiosity, perhaps, about the mortal and their feelings that he used to feel—but he never considered what he felt was love.

love was not part of the deal he made with gwi-ma. in hell, in his monsterous heart, in his devil form; there was no room for love.

at a fansign, weeks later, he saw her again. her name slipped from the sticky note handed to him for his signature, but it didn’t matter.

he was exhausted.

he hadn't slept in days. the glamour used to hide their inhuman nature took more out of him than he liked to admit. but most of all, he was tired of pretending. tired of smiling. tired of playing the role gwi-ma carved for him. tired of the voices that continued to whisper in his ears; the shame that snickered, the sharp tugs of despair. couple that with the gut-eating guilt having to sing on stage, infront of hundreds of mortals that would die soon because of his song—oh, haneul is tired.

idol work is not an easy job, he realized.

apart of him had considered it. quitting. quitting meant breaking the pact he made with gwi-ma. it meant letting his soul be consumed and he'll just disappear. it meant that all those years of suffering will all be in vain because no one will be there to remember him anyway.

but he considered it.

disappearing.

"...-ou okay?"

his eyes snapped open to see bright eyes staring back at him. a soft smile on her lips. calm, unlike most of their fans that kept screaming in the background. she was at a respectful distance, waiting patiently for him to sign her album.

"what?" he asks softly—atleast, as softly as he could.

"i asked if you're doing okay," she replied. haneul merely stares, unsure what to answer.

his smile flickered and he forced it back up. “of course,” he answered, all fanservice and charm. that's what he does best, anyway. hide. “i’m doing great.”

she only smiled gently, handing over her letter.

haneul stared, knowing he had failed to make her believe.

something inside him trembled. a crack in the walls he had built. dangerous, was the only word he could think of. this mortal human was dangerous enough to shake him up.

but her time at the table ended soon before he could utter another word out, swept away by handlers and the flow of the event. he could only stare at the letter she handed to him—a simple, folded piece of letter.

"i hope you get to rest. you deserve to."

and for the first time in centuries, baek haneul—monster, prince, idol, "baby"—felt seen.

[igorluvr]

‘BACKSTAGE | choi su-bong x reader

PAIRING: thanos x reader

CONTENT: maybe enemies to lovers, tiny angst, choking/neck grabbing, dirty talking, spit, fingers in mouth, mouth covering, face grabbing, mirror sex, semi-public, praise & degrading, squirting, orgasm denial, overstimulation

SYNOPSIS: years ago, you and su-bong hooked up briefly— then he vanished. now, he’s suddenly back for a comeback gig, and when your eyes met mid-concert, the tension reignited. sharp, hot, and begging to be resolved.

AUTHORS NOTE: why do i always come up with the NASTIEST smut... anyways written for req by @thanosspills, i hope u enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it !

words: [5.3k]

STARING up at the stage, all you felt was rage— pure, simmering hate. There he was, rapping like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t left you stranded after you laid yourself bare for him years ago.

Sure, you were both young and reckless back then, but even you knew what he did was cruel. No matter how famous you are, it could never excuse vanishing without a word. No goodbye, not even a text.

You weren’t just some groupie. What happened between you was rough, spontaneous, unforgettable— the kind of night people fantasize about when they’re lonely. You thought he felt it too.

But he disappeared, and the silence was louder than anything he’d ever written. You used to idolize him. Now, he made your skin crawl in disgust.

Still, you thought about it constantly. Replayed every second, every breath.

Maybe he didn’t like it.

Maybe he regretted it.

And then, as that night looped once more in your head, he looked right at you—eyes locking like a match to gasoline. The fire in your hearts exploded as you both stared intently.

At first, his eyes locked on you like a magnet, relentless and steady. But suddenly they blew wide as his face turned beet red.

His lips faltered—just for a second. One line dropped short as he stumbled over his lyrics. The mic lowered an inch before he caught himself, dragging his gaze away like it burned to look at you. Like the memory hit him just as hard.

But it was too late— you saw it. The guilt, the lust, the recognition.

Your jaw clenched. You should’ve looked away— should’ve walked off, pretended like you didn’t feel it too. Tried to ignore that ache that sat low in your stomach, sick and pulsing. But you didn’t.

Because fuck, he still looked good. Sure, he was a little older— broader in the shoulders, jaw more defined. But he still had that same face that lured you in, the same lips you used to trace with your tongue. Now those lips were twitching, smirking—like he knew what he was doing to you.

Backstage cleared out fast after the performance. Everyone buzzed about his comeback but you didn’t hear a word of it. Your ears were ringing from adrenaline and unresolved fury. Then suddenly—

“Still mad at me, baby?”

The voice came from behind, low and gravelly, cutting straight through the noisy hum of the hallway. You froze until a hand brushed your side.

Slowly turning around, you were met with the man you hated more than anything on this earth. He stood close, eyes dark with a smirk that made your blood boil.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” You spat, but your voice wavered—you hated it.

He cocked his head, stepping in until your back met the concrete wall. “Why not?” he murmured, voice thick with fake innocence as he inched closer. “You liked it last time. When you were dripping all over me—begging.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, shooting a gaze sharp enough to cut skin. "That was the past, Su-bong. Stop bringing up irrelevant shit, especially in public," you hissed, darting a quick glance around to make sure no one was listening.

"Didn’t seem irrelevant when you were staring like you wanted to rip my clothes off with your teeth,” he shot back, a smirk forming at his lips. “But okay.”

You scoffed, turning away in annoyance. “I never did that.”

He stepped right back into your line of sight, forcing your eyes to his again. “So you’re telling me that when you saw me on stage, you didn’t feel anything?” His voice dropped as his head tilted, watching you close.

Silence.

You wanted to say no— wanted to shut it down and scream that he was delusional, but nothing came out. Because deep down, you knew you wanted him back, and you didn't want to give up the chance to finally have that.

He read it instantly. The twitch in your brow, the breath you held. “Fine, be stubborn.” he muttered, turning on his heel.

Your heart dropped then and there. After all these years, after you finally found him again, there he was— walking away just like before. A pit formed in your stomach as you watched his figure grow smaller with each step.

But then suddenly, he stopped at a nearby table. His eyes flicked down as he picked something up—a lanyard.

Turning slowly, he faced you again, that same smirk from before crawling back onto his face. The distance didn’t matter—you could feel the heat behind his stare like he was inches away.

He made his way back towards you, twirling the lanyard between his fingers as he held eye contact. “If you’re gonna keep lurking backstage like you own the place...” he murmured as he got close again, “might as well make it official.”

Before you could speak, he reached up slowly and slipped the lanyard over your neck. His fingers brushed your collarbone, then your throat. He let them linger, pressed just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Come by later, or don't. It's up to you now.” he said lowly, eyes trailing down your body like he was undressing you with every glance. Then, he turned and walked away—unapologetically, like he already knew you’d follow.

You stared down at the tag on the lanyard, inspecting the design.

'V.I.P' stared back at you like a loaded gun on a table—waiting for you to pull the trigger. You almost laughed. Of course he gave you this. Not a pass— a challenge. A warning disguised as access.

By the time you blinked out of it, the hallway was empty. His presence was gone, but the heat between your legs persisted. You clenched your thighs together, scowling at yourself, but your feet were already moving.

It wasn’t until you were standing outside his dressing room that you realized what you'd done. The door was cracked open like he expected you, like he knew you’d come.

You slipped inside quietly. It was dim, private, thick with tension the moment you crossed the doorframe.

He was seated on the couch, head tipped back, shirt damp and clinging to his chest with sweat. When he heard the door click shut, he didn’t even turn around, just spoke.

“Took you long enough.”

You swallowed hard. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But your voice was breathy, betraying you.

He chuckled deeply, standing up to turn around and face you. His eyes were dark—like he'd been waiting years just to look at you like this again.

Making his way to you, Su-bong grabbed something off the cluttered table—a thick black wristband, slightly distressed from use. He rolled it between his fingers as he approached, head tilted, lips curled just barely into that crooked, infuriating smirk.

His eyes grazed over you, slow and unhurried, like he had all night to look. Like he was already tasting you with his eyes.

“You’re really still mad, huh?” he murmured, voice smooth like honey laced with poison. “But you came anyway, that says more than your little attitude ever could.”

He held the wristband up like it was some kind of offering. “Remember this?” he asked. “You wore it that night, kept it on while I fucked you face-down.”

Your stomach flipped and he saw it—how your lips parted just slightly, how your breath caught in your throat.

“Yeah,” he chuckled under his breath, stepping even closer. “But then you left it like it didn't matter."

His hand reached for yours, deliberate and slow. He slid the band over your wrist, tugging it up until it rested snug against your skin.

“Still fits. Still mine,” he said softly, letting his thumb brush across the inside of your wrist. “Even if you pretend you're not.”

Your chest rose with a shaky breath. You hated how calm he was. How in control, like he knew your body was already betraying you.

He leaned in, lips ghosting along the lobe of your ear. “You gonna keep pretending? Or should I remind you what it feels like to spend the night with me?”

His other hand reached up to cup your face—thumb tracing your bottom lip, eyes dark and lustful. A small whimper of desperation escaped your mouth, causing him to smile and step closer. “God, you're loud, I loved that. Always needed my fingers in your mouth just to shut you up.”

You flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“I missed that little choke in your breath,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Missed how you’d pretend to hate me while riding me so deep you couldn’t speak.”

Then finally, he grabbed your jaw fully—fingers gripping, guiding your face to look directly at him.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, tone low and cruel and knowing. “Say the word. Otherwise, I’m taking my time with you tonight."

You swallowed your pride, pushing your hate aside as you were relieved you got the chance to experience him again. "No—Don't stop, please." Your voice came out quiet, breathless, but the second those words slipped past your lips, Su-bong's expression changed.

That smug grin disappeared and got replaced by something darker— hungrier.

“Say it again.” he said, not as a demand, but like he needed to hear it. His grip on your jaw tightened slightly, just enough to make your breath catch again.

Your lips parted shakily. “Don’t stop.”

His thumb slipped into your mouth before you could say anything else, pushing past your teeth slow and deep, pressing down on your tongue. “Mm,” he hummed, eyes flicking down to watch you. “That’s better.”

You sucked instinctively, earning you a sharp inhale through his nose, a low 'fuck' under his breath. Thanos let you take his thumb deeper, spit pooling against your tongue, your cheeks hollowing around him like muscle memory had never faded.

“Still such a pretty little mouth,” he muttered. “Made for me.”

His free hand slid down your stomach, palm dragging slowly down your sternum before stopping at the button of your jeans. He didn’t undo them yet, though. Just rested his hand there—heavy, intentional.

“You know what I thought about all this time?” he asked quietly, pulling his thumb from your mouth and dragging it across your cheek wetly. “How you used to sound when I covered your mouth—how your eyes would roll back when I made you hold your moans in.”

His fingers dipped just beneath your waistband, teasing the skin beneath. He didn't move yet—just watched you squirm.

“You wanna be good for me?” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours again. “Then shut your mouth and keep your eyes on me.”

As he slipped two fingers back into your mouth, the hand at your jeans finally moved. He unbuttoned them slowly, never once breaking eye contact, and slid his hand inside. Not rushed, just deep—knuckles pressed against you through your soaked underwear.

Then as his hand covered your mouth, fingers still inside, he started rubbing just enough to make your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he breathed, jaw clenching as he felt the heat between your legs. “There she is.” Teasing you through your wet panties, Thanos dipped down and latched his mouth onto the crook of your neck.

He sucked on your skin mercilessly, like he didn’t care if it left a mark—like that was the point. Growing harder with his mouth, his fingers started moving faster in your pants.

You moaned louder, the lewd sound muffled by his hand. You could feel yourself growing more needy with each growing second, bucking into Su-bong's hand until suddenly, his hand stopped.

“You gotta take what I give you, baby.” His voice was low and cruel, like it turned him on to see you fall apart under his control.

You whimpered beneath his hand, hips stuttering from the sudden lack of friction. His fingers were still pressed there, still warm, but unmoving—and that was worse. The teasing, the denial, the way he stared at you like he owned your need.

“Don’t grind on me like some desperate slut,” he growled against your neck, voice muffled by the skin he’d been sucking raw. “You want more?” You nodded quickly, eyes low, still locked on his like a magnet.

“Use your words.” He pulled his hand from your mouth—wet fingers dragging down your chin and across your throat, slow and filthy. “Come on, let’s hear it.”

“Please,” you breathed. “Please touch me.”

He clicked his tongue, tilting his head with a fake, cocky disappointment. “Already begging? Thought you’d last longer than that.”

Still, his fingers finally moved. He slipped past the soaked fabric, sliding two fingers through your folds with a dizzying slowness. “Fuck,” he hissed, brows twitching. “You’re soaked.”

You bit your lip hard, trying not to cry out as his fingers circled your clit just once before dipping lower again. Teasing, never enough.

“You missed this,” he whispered, mouth brushing your jaw. “Missed how mean I get when you’re this wet. Don’t lie.”

Your hands gripped his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto. He chuckled and leaned in close again, lips brushing yours but never kissing.

“I’m not gonna be gentle with you, baby,” he said softly, cruelly. “Not after the way you looked at me tonight. Not after you showed up with that attitude and those fuck-me eyes like you didn’t want this the whole damn time.”

Then, suddenly, he pulled his hand from your pants and shoved the same fingers back into your mouth—coated in your slick. “Clean it up,” he ordered. “Show me how good you taste.”

Your tongue swirled around his fingers as your eyes fluttered shut. Moaning softly onto him, you swallowed slowly, savoring the moment.

"So sexy." Thanos mumbled, running his hand down your waist as you sucked his fingers relentlessly. “Fuck… just like that.”

You felt his breath on your cheek, his body pressed close behind yours. The air between you burned—hot, heavy, filled with things neither of you were saying.

He slowly took his fingers from your mouth with a wet drag, letting them trail down your chin as he stepped back slightly. “Up,” he said. Quiet, yet firm. “Come here.”

You followed, dazed and aching, as he guided you a few steps across the room. The vanity mirror caught your eye before anything else—the soft light glowing around its edges, your reflection flushed, pupils blown wide. You looked wrecked already, but he wasn’t even close to done.

He stopped you in front of it, hand still at your waist. “Look at you.” he said, voice low in your ear. “See what I do to you?”

His hands ran over your hips before bending you over with practiced ease. Your chest hit the vanity, hands bracing yourself on either side of the mirror as he came up behind you. He kicked your legs open with one knee, just wide enough.

His palm flattened against the small of your back, pressing you down slightly. Not rough, but just enough to make you submit—to let you feel how much stronger he was.

"You know what I missed most?" he asked, voice lower now, almost reverent. "The way you arch for me the second I put you like this. Like your body knows who it belongs to."

You let out a shaky breath, heat crawling up your neck as you looked yourself in the mirror—lips parted, pulse fluttering at your throat. Su-bong bent over you slowly, dragging his lips across the shell of your ear.

“I used to fuck you right here, didn’t I?” he whispered, hips pressing against your ass to let you feel his hard length straining against his jeans. “Right in front of this mirror, made you watch the whole thing, watch as you came undone.”

You whimpered, back arching just a little more as his hands gripped your waistband, tugging your jeans down over your hips, like he wanted to unwrap you inch by inch. He let out a hiss as your panties came into view, soaked and clinging to you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, trailing his fingers up the inside of your thigh. “You’re already a mess.”

You felt his hand slide up your back again until it wrapped around the back of your neck. It wasn't tight, not yet. Just there.

“I’m gonna ruin you in this mirror,” he whispered. “And you’re gonna watch every last second."

His hand stayed at the back of your neck, thumb grazing the base of your skull as he leaned in, pressing his chest to your back. His other hand reached around, cupping you through your soaked panties—fingers slow, almost lazy, as he dragged them over the damp fabric.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “You’re practically begging and I haven’t even pulled these off yet.”

Your breath hitched, body trembling slightly under his touch. In the mirror, your eyes met his; dark, feral, steady. He was watching you like a man starving, savoring every second of your unraveling.

“I want you to see it.” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “The way you fall apart for me, how your thighs shake before I even stretch you open.”

He tugged your panties down in one smooth motion, letting them fall to your ankles. You stepped out of them blindly, grasping harder against the edge of the vanity. His hand returned between your thighs, now skin-to-skin, fingers gliding through your slick folds with a slow, practiced precision.

“Fuck…” he muttered, jaw tightening as he circled your clit. “You’re dripping for me like you need me to fuck it out of you.” A moan slipped from your lips, hips twitching back against his hand.

“Keep your eyes up,” he ordered, pressing a firm kiss to the side of your neck. “I want you watching when I break you.”

Then, in a snap, he shifted. One arm wrapped around your stomach, pulling your body flush against his. His other hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so you were forced to meet your own gaze in the mirror.

“Look at that face, look how desperate you are for me.” he growled, the gravel in his voice dropping low and dirty. You could barely breathe. Every word was a match struck against your skin.

And then, without warning, he bent you back over the vanity, one hand pressing firmly between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your hip tight. He slid his fingers between your legs again, but this time, there was no teasing.

He shoved two fingers inside you—deep, fast—drawing a strangled moan from your lips as your legs buckled slightly.

“There she fucking is,” he hissed, hand clamping over your mouth as your cries escaped. “That sweet little cunt I used to wreck.”

He pumped his fingers faster now, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, hips grinding hard against your ass as his breath grew heavier behind you. You could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted to lose control—but he didn’t, not yet.

“You're gonna come just like this.” he growled, voice shaking with restraint. “Bent over, drenched around my fingers and staring at yourself like the filthy girl you are.”

You moaned helplessly into his palm, your thighs trembling, the pressure building too fast.

“And when you're done,” he added darkly, removing his hand from your mouth to grab your face and turn it toward him, “I'm gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget anyone else ever touched you.”

His words set off a switch in your body. Suddenly, your orgasm hit you, crashing over your body in hot, blinding waves. You gasped his name, voice shattering and back arching as pleasure surged through you in deep, pulsing shocks.

Su-bong did't stop, though. His fingers kept working you—faster, deeper—drawing out every last spasm like he refused to let you come down just yet. He pressed into your spot again and again, wrist slick, grip unforgiving.

You whined, body shaking, fingers clawing at the vanity for something—anything to hold onto.

“I wanna feel you come until you cry for me, you hear me?" he hissed. Show me how bad you need me.”

You couldn't respond, could barely think. All you could do was feel it—your body helpless under his hands; dripping, sensitive, wrecked. And still, he kept going.

“You look so fucked-out already,” he muttered, staring straight into your reflection. “I haven’t even been inside you yet.”

Finally, his fingers slowed—drawing one last shudder from your overstimulated core before slipping his fingers out of you, wet and glistening.

He held them up between you and the mirror, watching a string of slick stretch between the two as he smirked.

“Filthy,” he whispered. “Just how I like you.” Then he reached down, unbuckled his belt with one sharp pull, and kicked his legs wider behind you.

“Bend back over for me, baby.” He lined himself up, one hand on your hip, the other gripping the back of your neck again, eyes still locked with yours in the mirror.

“Are you okay? You ready?” Su-bong asked, genuine concert shining through his rough exterior as he checked on you.

With a low 'yes', you nodded— a green light for him to keep going, because at this point—it would hurt you more to stop.

Su-bong exhaled sharply, jaw flexing as he adjusted his grip on your hips. His cock dragged against your folds, slick and hard, teasing the entrance with maddening precision.

“Good girl,” he muttered, guiding himself in inch by inch—stretching you open with delicious pressure. His breath caught as he sank deeper, watching every twitch of your face in the mirror, every tiny gasp and flutter of your lashes.

You whimpered, the stretch almost too much after how sensitive you already were—but it was so good, and he knew it.

“Look at you.” he breathed. “Taking me like that… fucking perfect.”

His hips pressed flush against your ass, fully buried now. He stayed there, still for a moment, letting you feel how he filled you completely. His hand smoothed over your back, steadying you.

“I missed this pussy,” he whispered, voice shaky with restraint. Then, he pulled back just slightly, rolling his hips forward again—slow, deep strokes that had your knees threatening to buckle all over again.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan, and Su-bong leaned in over you, teeth brushing your ear. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel this for days.”

Each thrust stayed slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. Skin slapping against skin, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoed through the room like sin.

And then, without warning, he snapped his hips forward—once, hard—pulling a ragged cry from your lips.

“Too much?” he asked, still holding you firm. You shook your head fast, eyes red and glassy in the mirror, lips parted with desperate breath.

That was all he needed. Su-bong growled under his breath, grabbing both hips this time, and slammed into you with a deep, brutal thrust.

You gasped, one hand flying to grip the edge of the vanity. Then he did it again. And again.

His rhythm shifted—no more slow teasing. He pounded into you like he needed to claim every part of you, your name lost in the broken moans falling from your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, teeth clenched, sweat starting to drip from his brow. “You’re milking my cock—fuck—you love this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer, could barely breathe.

His hand came up again, wrapped tight around your throat from behind—pulling you back into him with each thrust, forcing your eyes open toward your reflection.

“Don’t look away, I want you to see what I do to you.” he growled, pounding even deeper into your guts.

You practically screamed into his hand as he repeatedly slammed into that dizzying spot deep inside you, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs.

Your vision blurred, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your body jolted forward from the force of him. But Su-bong didn’t let you fall—his grip on your throat held you steady, keeping you upright and exposed, bound to him, the mirror forcing you to watch every second.

“Look at you,” he growled into your ear, pounding mercilessly into your soaked cunt. “Fucking drooling, legs shaking— you look ruined.”

Your moans had turned into whimpers now, breath caught in your chest as your body slipped further and further out of your control. You were unraveling fast—sweat on your skin, spit on your chin, the burn of overstimulation already morphing into something dangerous.

“You gonna come again?” he hissed, voice cracking. “I can feel it—gripping me so fucking tight.”

You couldn’t even form words. Your entire body was locked up, overwhelmed, your orgasm building violently under the surface. More intense, more urgent than anything you’d felt before.

“Let it out.” Su-bong snarled. “Cream all over my cock—make a fucking mess.”

His hand moved from your throat to your mouth, covering it just as the next thrust hit your spot dead-on—and that was it.

You screamed into his palm as your body snapped. Your climax tore through you like lightning, and this time everything gave out. Your legs, your breath, your restraint. Your whole body felt weak as your orgasm ripped through you.

A hot gush of liquid shot from your core, splashing against his hips, the floor, the vanity, soaking everything.

Su-bong froze for a second.

Then let out a long, guttural, “Fuck…” like he’d just watched something divine. He looked down, still inside you, watching your slick drip down your thighs and pool beneath your trembling knees.

“Shit.” he muttered, pulling you back against him. “You squirted all over me.”

You were shaking, chest heaving, eyes glassy with exhaustion and bliss. But he wasn’t done admiring you. He pulled his soaked cock out just slightly and rubbed your release up your inner thighs, watching you twitch from overstimulation.

“Didn’t even know you could do that,” he said, voice low and awed. “But fuck, baby—you just made a mess for me like a fucking dream.”

Then he leaned down, kissed your shoulder, and whispered: “You've got one more round in you, don't you, baby?”

Panting heavily, you nodded as you leaned on the vanity for stability. Your legs felt like jello—mush under your body as they shook violently.

"So pretty, my girl." His voice was rough silk, full of need and reverence, like he couldn’t believe the sight of you beneath him—wrecked, twitching, completely his.

Your legs were still shaking when he reached down and scooped you into his arms again. He didn’t even ask this time, just carried you across the room and dropped onto the couch with you in his lap, your body folded against his chest.

“You're gonna take me again like this,” Su-bong muttered, flipping you gently so your back hit the cushions. “Staring straight up at me.”

He climbed over you, slotted perfectly between your trembling legs, dragging the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance. Your breath hitched as your hands gripped the sides of his neck, legs falling open wider.

“Good girl,” he muttered, then pressed in again—slow this time, but heavy, stretching you full with one deep thrust. “Still so fucking tight.”

You moaned, and he caught it with his mouth—his lips messy and rough, kissing you like he needed it to breathe. When he pulled back, his hand gripped your jaw, firm and unforgiving.

“Keep those eyes on me,” he said through clenched teeth. “I wanna watch the exact second you come.”

His thumb traced your bottom lip, then pushed past it, dragging your mouth open wider. You were panting now, barely able to form words. He hovered above you, hips rolling deep and slow, breath hot against your cheek.

“Open your mouth.”

You obeyed, tongue out slightly, lips parted. Suddenly he spat into your mouth, hot and dominant. The warm slick hit your tongue, and your eyes fluttered as you swallowed it down without hesitation.

“God, that’s it,” he hissed. “You’re fucking perfect like this.”

Then his thrusts picked up—deeper, faster. He gripped your face with both hands now, holding you still as his thumbs pressed into your cheeks while his cock slammed into you over and over.

“You feel that stretch?” he growled. “That’s me ruining you from the inside out.”

You whimpered, body starting to jolt under him again, your orgasm rising too fast to fight. Su-bong leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, still gripping your jaw.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Come with my spit in your mouth and my cock in your guts. Show me it’s all mine.”

And with a scream, you did. Your walls clamped down hard around him as your nails digged into his back, every part of you tightening as you came undone again.

“F-fuck—” he gasped, and then he was gone too—hips jerking before pulling himself completely out of you and shooting hot ropes of cum onto your stomach with a low, broken moan. Su-bong collapsed onto you, chest right on top of yours as you straddled his body below him.

You stayed like that; pressed together, panting, shaking until your heartbeats finally started to slow. His hand stayed on your face— gentle now.

Thumb stroking your cheek, eyes locked to yours like he couldn’t bear to look away. “Still with me?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You nodded slowly, dazed and completely spent.

“Good.” He leaned down and kissed you again—slower this time, softer. And for a moment, the whole world disappeared.

Su-bong stayed draped over you for a moment longer, the heat of his skin against yours anchoring you, keeping you in the moment. His breath ghosted along your neck, slow and steady, as his fingers gently threaded through your hair.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need to.

Finally, he lifted himself just enough to look down at you—his hair messy, lips swollen, and brow damp with sweat. His thumb brushed lightly over the corner of your mouth, wiping away a streak of spit from earlier.

His eyes softened, like the fire had dimmed into a slow burn instead of an inferno. “You okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You nodded, voice barely there. “Yeah… I’m okay.”

He kissed you again—this time not to dominate, not to possess—but slowly, like he was checking you were real. That this hadn’t been another memory he’d left behind.

Then he stood up, tucking himself back into his pants quickly, and grabbed a pack of tissues from a nearby shelf. Wordlessly, he crouched between your legs again, his touch tender now as he carefully wiped your stomach clean, murmuring a soft 'sorry' when you flinched at the sensitivity.

You couldn’t help but watch him—this man who had just wrecked you beyond belief, now wiping you down like he was afraid to hurt you. “You didn’t have to,” you whispered, smiling down at him.

“Yeah,” he said, tossing the tissues aside. “I did.”

He helped you sit up slowly, then reached down and grabbed your panties and jeans from the floor, holding them out to you. “Can I?” he asked, fingers grazing your thigh.

You nodded.

He helped you step back into them carefully, hands steady, gaze respectful. He didn’t rush it or say anything cocky, just took care of you.

Once you were decent again, he sank onto the couch beside you. For a long moment, he just looked at you. Like he didn’t know what to say. Like maybe he didn’t want this to end with silence this time.

“You were all I thought about” he said quietly, eyes dropping to his lap. “After I left—after I fucked it up.”

You turned toward him, heart still pounding—but this time, not from lust. “You didn’t just fuck it up, Su-bong. You disappeared.”

He winced slightly, then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence stretched between you again. But now it was heavy with everything unsaid—everything both of you had buried for years.

Finally, he looked up again, voice raw. “Can I see you again? Not like this. I mean… can we talk?”

Your breath caught, throat tight with emotion. You weren’t sure what came next. But for the first time in a long time, you weren’t just remembering him. He was here.

And maybe—this time—he meant to stay.

[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.”

[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?

[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.”

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @xxdrixx @smhnxdiii @mattmurdocksstarlight @danzer8705 @mjsvinyl @softieekayy @sweetpov @dreamtofus @zomtart @mjsvinyl @senjoritanana @marytheweefrenchie @siampie @gracethyomen @pone21 @ignore-mp3 @screechingphantommaker @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002 @agirlcandream84 @vsplanet @pigeonmama @silas-aeiou @frogbinch @chwlogy @valhallavalkyrie9

[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.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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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.

[whiteraven87]

The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist [Toto WolffxOC] Complete

"When fire meets steel, something unstoppable is born."

pairing: Toto Wolff x Miriell Joschke (Original Character, female F1 driver)

short summary: She was the first woman to conquer Formula 1 — fierce, untamed fire burning through every boundary. He was steel — forged in loss, hardened by silence, a man who lost everything he loved — until her fire reached him and made him feel alive again.

Together, they are not just a love story. They are a force of nature. Truly unstoppable. A blaze that no storm could ever silence.

Four parts. Two hearts. One love story.

Series warnings: long fan fiction/series, slow burn (long), age gap (23 years), woman racing in F1, boss/driver relationship, difficult and painful past, death, recovery after trauma and loss, love after loss, sexual tension, sex scenes, illness, angst, pregnancy, memory lost.

full series word count: 218k words of speed, scars, slow-burning love, and everything in between.

***

The world of racing is no place for fragile hearts. Here, only speed, determination, and unyielding strength matter-strength that keeps you standing when rivals would rather see you fall. She has learned never to break. From the ashes of defeat and pain, she has risen like a storm-the only woman among men, fighting for what was always deemed impossible.

Her path was a lonely one. Every victory came at a price, every triumph carried the shadow of loss. But the most dangerous thing was something she never saw coming-an emotion that had no right to exist. Forbidden, unspoken, so powerful it could either destroy her… or save her.

Between the roar of engines and the silence of the night, between the hunger for victory and the torment of the heart-this is the story of a woman who reached for the impossible. And a love that should have never been.

Discover the story of Miriell Joschke, a girl from Poland, who chasing her dreams, became the first woman to claim the Formula 1 World Championship and during her lifetime became a legend. And about an unexpected and forbidden love that changed her life.

"I put my armor on, show you how strong I am I put my armor on, I'll show you that I am I'm unstoppable, I'm a Porsche with no brakes…" Unstoppable - Sia

Sometimes… even the fastest heart needs another to make it beat.

A four-part saga of speed, ambition, pain, and a love that refuses to be silenced.

Part 1: Driven by Speed - A Diamond Among Stones

Part 2: Driven by Success - Golden Girl

Part 3: Driven by Love - Rebirth from the Ashes

Part 4: Driven by Desire - Fire and Speed

You can read the story here as well:

AO3 Unstoppable Series

Wattpad: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

🇵🇱 Dla Polskich czytelników [for Polish readers] [PL]:

Seria Niepowstrzymana AO3

Wattpad PL: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

--------------

The Unstoppable Series | Song Playlist on Spotify:

--------------

Masterlists for Tumblr/Wattapd/AO3 readers:

Part 1: Driven by Speed. A Diamond among Stones

"Born of pain. Fueled by fury. Saved by speed."

Miriell Joschke had no right to survive in a world that was never meant for her. But instead of breaking, she climbed into a kart - and started winning.

Haunted by shadows of the past, by trauma and distrust, she crosses paths with Susie Wolff - the woman who changes her life - and Toto Wolff, the man who will one day mean everything to her.

This is the story of a legend in the making. And of the first F1 champion title… that cost her more than she could ever imagine.

word count: 41.9k

Link to Tumblr masterlist for Part 1 Driven by Speed. A Diamond among Stones

Wattpad: Part 1

AO3: Part 1

-------------------------

Part2: Driven by Success: Golden Girl

"She's a phenomenon. A dream. The golden girl of the F1 world. But success doesn't quiet the soul."

While the world kneels before Miriell Joschke, her eyes are fixed on one man - and she pretends she feels nothing.

Toto Wolff wants to protect her. But in her gaze, he sees something he can't ignore.

A love that destroys them and saves them all at once. And then - a split second, the screech of metal, and silence. There's no going back...

word count: 47.8k

Link to Tumblr masterlist for Part 2: Driven by Success: Golden Girl

Wattpad: Part 2

AO3: Part 2

----------------------------------

Part 3: Driven by Love. Rebirth from the Ashes

"From the ashes of pain, a love without limits is born."

After the crash in Spa, in a mountain refuge in Poland in Bieszczady, far from the world, Miriell begins to heal. But it's not just her body that needs mending - her heart does too.

Toto is by her side. He always has been.

And when they finally allow themselves to love, fate delivers another blow - this time, it's his life hanging by a thread.

While Toto fights for his life, Miriell must find within herself the strength not for another race… but for the most important battle she has ever faced: the fight for the man who became her home.

word count: 56k

Link to Tumblr masterlist for Part 3: Driven by Love. Rebirth from the Ashes

Wattpad: Part 3

AO3: Part 3

-------------------------------------

Part 4: Driven by Desire. Fire and Speed

"Champion. Wife. Woman who loved too deeply - and almost lost everything."

Finally together. Under the flash of cameras, rings on their fingers, ready to face the world.

But life shows no mercy. A devastating loss. Pain. Silence. And then - the crash that takes her memory and him.

But love - true love - does not vanish. It waits.

This is a story of returning - to oneself, to the heart, to home.

And of learning that true happiness isn't found on the podium… but in the arms of those who never stopped believing.

word count: 72.4k

Link to Tumblr masterlist for: Part 4: Driven by Desire. Fire and Speed

Wattpad: Part 4

AO3: Part 4

____

If you like the story please like, comment and reblog 🤗

____

[skmhlml]

Hi, may I ask how did Burning Spice meet Sweetheart wife reader even though they are COMPLETELY opposite, I LOVED YOUR BURNING SPICE X SWEETHEART READER !!!

Can you make a one shot please of how they meet ??

Date request: 6/28/2025

Burning Spice Cookie x Sweetheart!Reader

|One-Shot|

he wind that carried ash always knew its way to the Spiced Wastes. That desert, cracking and dry, had been Burning Spice Cookie’s kingdom long before he bore fangs or madness.

He didn’t need others. He didn’t trust them.

But you…you weren’t others. You were wrong for that place, soft in your smile and wrong in your warmth. The kind of wrong that haunted a warrior like him.

He found you collapsed near a patch of volcanic glass. A caravan overturned, crushed by a Sandwurm’s fury. The rest of the party? Gone.

You were curled like a delicate flower beneath his shadow, weak from heat and fear, trembling like your spirit hadn’t caught up with your body yet. And still—you smiled when he approached.

“You’re not… going to eat me, are you?” you asked, voice dry and parched, but gentle. Joking. Sweet.

He blinked. He’d seen desperation before. He’d seen warriors fall, children scream, nobles beg. But you smiled, even as the sun beat you down like a drum.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered. “Don’t move.”

You didn’t. But the smile stayed.

⸻

He didn’t mean to keep visiting…

He claimed it was out of guilt. That no one so soft should’ve survived, and maybe by bringing you water, dried fruit, and sharp words, he was just keeping the balance.

But when he stood outside the cracked tent you’d pieced together from his old tarp, your voice always lit up.

“You again? Thought you hated sweet things.”

“I do,” he grunted, tossing a bundle of food at you. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But he stayed a while. He always did.

⸻

Over time, you made him tea with dried cactus blossoms. It was terrible. You hand-stitched him a scarf for the cold desert nights. He grumbled and left it behind—only to return wearing it, pretending it was someone else’s.

You asked him questions no warrior should answer.

“Isn’t it lonely? Wandering alone?”

“Better than betrayal,” he said, eyes dark with memory. “Soft things like you don’t last.”

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

And you were. Each time, like a miracle. A quiet, undeserved constant.

⸻

Then he snapped.

The Wastes had turned red. Something was changing inside him—his skin cracked with unnatural heat, his veins surged with ancient fury. He could feel the corruption threading through him, curling like smoke into his mind.

He vanished for days. You followed his trail.

You found him crouched by a fire, trembling, clawed hands curled over his ears like he could block out the roar in his head.

“Don’t come near me,” he growled.

You did anyway.

“Get. Away.”

“You’re hurting.” You knelt, tears stinging your eyes. “Let me help you.”

His head snapped up. “Why? Why do you care about me? I’m not—I’m not good.”

“I know,” you said, voice cracking. “And I still want to stay.”

His hands dropped.

He broke.

You held him as he wept into your lap, a monster to some, a man to you.

⸻

You didn’t fix him. He still burned too hot. Still had nights where he stood at the edge of the cliffs to scream into the void. Still kept his sword by his bedside like the world might betray him again.

But now, he woke to your arms around his shoulders.

You pressed honey to his lips when he was too angry to eat. You kissed his burns when they flared. You made him want to be soft.

“I thought I hated sweet things,” he whispered once.

You smiled. “You just didn’t know which kind you needed.”

His forehead leaned into yours.

“If I lose control,” he murmured, “promise me you’ll run.”

“I won’t...”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

He kissed you like that. Full of panic and love and the aching terror of a man who’d never had something worth protecting until now.

⸻

And when he did become a Beast…

He still remembered that first smile, dry and sunburnt and kind.

Even madness couldn’t burn that away.

[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."

Taglist: @ssa-sapphic @red1culous @7thavenger @five-bi-five-mind @kenyakimble34 @12fluffybunny12 @asensitivecookie @maxinehufflepuffprincess @whosprentiss @asolitaryrose3 @lesbi-hinest-here @imlike-so-gaydude @taylorswiftsboyfriend @asphodelvamp @tmlwattpad19 @jareguiromanoff @lilfartbox1 | click here to be added to my taglist

[lynncade]

5 Stages of Grief

zayne x reader angst. takes place after the events of the main chapter update. going through the 5 stages of grief after zayne leaves you.

Day 3 - Denial - 4:52 PM

You sit on a bench outside of Akso Hospital feeding breadcrumbs to Clopidogrel as people pass by in the late afternoon. Some cast sideways glances to the lone Deepspace Hunter feeding a squirrel, but after noting the puffiness of her cheeks and the far away expression on her face they quickly lose interest and turn away. 

“Miss Hunter, it’s nice to see you again. How are your wounds healing?”

You don’t startle at the sudden familiar voice. “Hello, Yvonne. I’m fine, and you?”

The woman’s shadow falls across your back as she hesitates before deciding to sit next to you. “I’m alright, thank you for asking.”

You two sit in silence for a while, a silence that is neither comfortable nor intrusive. It’s the type of quiet that feels like it’s building up to something, like a story where the ending is finalized but the middle part hasn’t been written. You both know why you aren’t speaking but whereas she doesn’t know how to start, you don’t want to. You can’t. Speaking of it makes it real and you can’t do real right now.

It’s only been three days, three days isn’t even enough time to make something real. So it can’t be real and since it can’t be real there’s nothing for you to talk about. You would be content to sit in silence for the rest of your life if it meant it wasn’t real.

She takes a breath. “You know, I remember your first appointment with-”

You stand abruptly. “I’m sorry, there’s somewhere I have to be right now.”

She stammers out an apology but you’ve already turned your back and started walking away. 

-

Day 18 - Anger - 1:43 AM

You’re pacing the livingroom, music blaring through your TV speakers to drown out the thoughts that still push you to stomp in circles. You can’t even hear what song is playing, Zayne’s words echoing over and over in your head.

“If I hurt you, that would be the greatest regret of my life.”

You snatch an open bottle of whiskey up from the coffee table and take a swig, at this point immune to the burn of the cheap liquid. Its fire pours down your throat and settles in your stomach, raging alongside your absolute fury at the man whose voice haunts every step you take.

He doesn’t care if he hurts you. If he cared he would be here, telling you that drinking this much on a stomach that’s been empty for two days is inadvisable and reckless. If he cared he’d be holding your hair back as you threw up everything but your stupid fucking memories, wiping your forehead with a damp rag and using his dumb dry humor to try to make you laugh. He’d help you change out of the clothes you’d been wearing since last Thursday and run a hot shower for you, maybe even throwing one of your fizzies in to create a calming atmosphere of eucalyptus scented steam. He’d have water and pain meds already on your nightstand and he’d chide you when you fought him like a child to take them. Then he’d make sure to tuck you into bed and slide in under the covers beside you when you asked him to keep you company.

“...the greatest regret of my life.”

SMASH!

The bottle of whiskey shatters in the kitchen sink, your hands shaking with the force of throwing it. You don’t care what the neighbors think about what they’re hearing, why the fuck should you care about anything when he doesn’t care about you.

You stare at the broken glass in your sink, hating the way the smell of whiskey now burns in your nostrils, the way the too-bright light of the kitchen catches the jagged edges. With a scoff you stalk back into the living room and drop onto the couch, praying that the buzz of the alcohol will finally start numbing the sting of abandonment.

After some amount of time- what's the difference between a second and an hour anymore?- you pick up one of the throw pillows, bring it to your face, and scream.

You scream.

And scream.

And scream.

But if he hears you, he still doesn’t care. He still doesn’t come back.

-

Day 27 - Bargaining - 9:32 PM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone.”

BEEP!

“It’s me. I mean, you know it’s me, you can see my number in your list of missed calls. There should be several of them. Missed calls, not…not numbers. Unless there are multiple people calling you and that’s why you’ve been missing my calls…and not returning them. If or when you do get my message, this one or the 20 other ones, please give me a call back? Or a text? Or a voice memo? Fuck, even a smoke signal at this point. Just…just please send me something.”

Day 29 - Bargaining - 12:14 PM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone.”

BEEP!

“I’m on my lunch break and headed to the hospital to feed Clopidogrel. I know you’re probably worried about him getting fat because I’ve been feeding him more than normal, but honestly I throw him food and he just sits there, like he’s also waiting for something. Or someone. You know, I bet if you came by to see him he’d perk right up! Forget Greyson and Yvonne, we both know the real draw to the hospital is this silly little squirrel. I think he misses you, you should come visit him sometime.”

Day 32 - Bargaining - 10:45 AM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone.”

BEEP!

“This is the first morning I haven’t had a delivery from the pastry shop you love. They told me you had pre-bought a month’s worth of desserts to be sent to me, one each day. I think my favorite was either the chocolate hazelnut torte or the salted caramel macarons. I know you wouldn’t want to eat those because you don’t think salt has a place in sweets, but I think they were perfectly balanced. Maybe you should try them? Get outside your comfort zone a little bit? Tell you what, I’m headed to that bakery myself right now, you could meet me and I’ll buy some for you to try. Or really I’ll buy whatever you want, the whole pastry shop is your oyster, okay? Great, so I’ll see you soon.”

Day 40 - Bargaining - 11:29 PM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. The mailbox is full and cannot take anymore messages. Good-bye.”

-

Day ??? - Depression

You wish he broke you.

Days and nights pass by and you wish through every second of it all that he had broken you, that you could say you had a broken heart. Explaining to friends and coworkers why you stopped going out, why tear streaks constantly painted your face, why your clothes no longer fit, explaining it all away by saying you had a broken heart would have been easy. Everyone has seen the movies, heard the songs. Broken hearts happen, hearts break and then they heal again. It may take time, but every wound eventually patches itself back up.

The problem is, he didn’t break you. Breaking you would mean there was something left to break. He didn’t break you when he left, he took you with him.

Mornings melted into afternoons that spilled into evenings and through it all you felt nothing anymore. Not in the numbing way, no you would give anything to be numb. You ache, mind, body, and soul, because you’re empty. There’s nothing left in you to give. To feel. No hope to cling to, no anger to sustain you. Sometimes you wish the world would swallow you up, suck you down into a well, deep and dark and as empty as you are. Sometimes you feel like you are the well, a black hole of nothing moving through life to survive, not to live.

Your phone has been dead for a few days now, the temptation to look at old pictures and text messages kept plaguing you and at some point even the self torture felt pointless. If work needs to reach you, the message can come through your comm watch. If anyone else needs to reach you, or cares to reach you, well…the important people know where you dwell.

The weather has been traitorously perfect, the abnormal snow from all those weeks ago completely forgotten as the sun shines and cool breezes drift through warm days. In the books and movies the weather always reflects the mood, so why does the sun continue to shine? Why do birds sing and children laugh right outside your window? Why does everything else in the world get to experience joy and life while you curl into yourself and freeze in darkness? A few weeks ago you would have screamed at it all until your throat felt raw but now you would be shocked to discover if you could even whisper anymore.

You’re not broken.

You’re not anything.

-

Acceptance

“Tara, I’m still waiting on your reports from last week’s mission,” Jenna’s voice grows closer as she walks over to where you and your friend are chatting about some mission that’s supposed to be underway next week.

“Of course, ma’am, right on it!”

Tara smiles apologetically as she runs back to her desk and starts shuffling through the stack of papers she had left for “Future Tara” to deal with.

Jenna stops in front of your desk and glances over you with an appraising eye.

“You’ve been looking better these past few weeks.” It’s not an unkind thing to say, she’s speaking to you in earnest. She doesn’t know the full extent of everything that happened but she wasn’t blind to the way you spiraled down, down, down.

“I’ve been feeling better.” Not a lie, though not necessarily the truth either.

It’s not that you’ve been feeling better, it’s that, for the first time in a long time you’re finally able to feel at all. It started slowly, crying yourself to sleep turned to slipping into unconsciousness. Nightmares that kept you tossing and turning and sometimes screaming yourself awake gradually became dreamless sleeps that still didn’t feel restful but at least sustained you enough to keep dark circles from under your eyes. Bit by bit, piece by piece, you began rebuilding a semblance of your life. It wasn’t easy, and there were days when the darkness gnawed its way back into your mind and settled there like a feral animal with teeth and claws. But even those days started lessening after time, and though they never really went away, they were easier to handle. You had plans in place to help you navigate them.

Jasmine tea for nights where sleep seems too far out of reach. Chocolate croissants for the mornings when getting out of bed seems like too much effort. Music for when the thoughts get too loud, walks in the park when they get too quiet. You laugh to yourself the day you realize you’ve created a treatment plan for yourself like a doctor treating a patient. The sound of your laughter is foreign, it feels uncomfortable in your throat, but like everything else lately: it gets easier.

“This mission we’re going on next week, it could get pretty intense. No one would bat an eye if you decided you needed to stay back and run support.” 

You hesitate before meeting her eyes, something like determination flickering in your heart. “No, I can do it.”

And you can.

You’re not healed, but you’re something, and that matters. Sometimes you're hurt, sometimes the pain is dulled to a minor ache, and sometimes you even believe yourself when you say you’re okay. A few months ago the idea of you even stepping foot outside your apartment seemed too far beyond the realm of possibility. Now you find yourself moving through the world like the person you used to be, not haunting it like the ghost his absence made you.

You don’t think this is your forever, but it’s your present and for the moment you can accept it.

[speaknowgirl3184]

We Could've Had Forever

Anakin Skywalker x female reader

On Mustafar, you arrive to confront Anakin. You beg him to come back, but he’s already too far gone. Your heartbreak is the last thing he sees before the fire consumes him.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of killings, war, fire, death, i think blood idk. (Let me know if there is anything else).

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist

The ramp of your ship hissed open to a world made of fire and fury.

The heat hit you like a physical blow. Thick, sulfuric air rushed into the cabin, carrying with it the scent of molten metal and scorched stone. You staggered forward, blinking rapidly against the smoke that curled into the sky in dark, choking plumes. The ground beneath your boots was cracked and trembling, as though even the planet itself was in pain.

Molten rivers cut through blackened rock like veins, glowing with an eerie, pulsing orange. The sky was shrouded in ash, thunder rumbling in the distance. Every breath you took burned, dry and searing in your lungs. The humidity clung to your skin, damp with sweat, and every step down the platform felt heavier than the last, like the Force itself was mourning what had brought you here.

You shouldn’t have come. Obi-Wan had begged you not to. Pleaded, even. “It’s too late,” he’d said. “He’s gone.”

But you had to see for yourself. You had to see him.

One last time.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, and your voice trembled as you whispered to the wind, “Anakin… please still be in there.”

There he was.

He stood at the far edge of the landing pad, back to you, a lone figure outlined in hellfire. His dark cloak billowed faintly in the heat, edges curling like smoke. His hands were folded behind his back in a posture so eerily calm, it made you feel sick.

He was staring out across the lava flats like it was something to admire. Like this graveyard of light and life was a painting. Like he belonged here.

You barely recognized him.

The armor he wore was darker than the void between stars, not Jedi robes, not anymore. His hair had grown longer, wild and disheveled, clinging to the sweat on his neck and brow. His shoulders were broader, heavier with the weight of whatever horrors he had carried, or committed. The man who had once lit up the galaxy with a smile now radiated nothing but shadows.

But you knew that silhouette. You had traced it with your fingers in the quiet of countless nights. You had fallen asleep curled against his side, safe in his arms, breathing in the warmth of a man who promised you forever.

You had loved him. More than life. More than duty. More than anything.

“Anakin!” you cried out, your voice raw with grief and the heat burning your throat. “Turn around. Look at me!”

A long moment passed.

And then, he did.

He turned. Slowly. Like a ghost answering a name it had long since forgotten.

For a second, a single, fragile second, your heart soared.

Because his eyes found yours.

And for a moment, he looked at you. Not like a stranger. Not like an enemy. His expression faltered. His lips parted slightly, the smallest intake of breath. Something flickered in his eyes, something not red, not gold, but blue.

Something familiar.

Recognition.

But then… it was gone.

Wiped away, as if it had never been there.

His features hardened. His posture straightened, like a soldier preparing for war. And the warmth you saw was smothered under something cold, something mechanical.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said flatly.

His voice, deeper. Rougher. Distant.

“And you shouldn’t become this!” you snapped, stepping forward despite the blistering heat that clawed at your skin. “What have you done, Anakin? What have they done to you?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But you saw the lightsaber at his side. It wasn’t the one you knew. Not the blue-bladed weapon you’d seen ignite a hundred times in defense of the helpless. No, this one was darker. Sleek and soulless. Its hilt gleamed like obsidian.

Like a grave.

“You turned your back on everything,” you whispered, voice cracking. “The Order. Obi-Wan. The Republic. Me.”

Your throat closed around the words.

“I came here because I thought there was still a chance. I thought I could still save you.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flickered.

“There’s nothing left to save,” he said.

“No.” You shook your head fiercely, tears stinging your eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. I know you. You were the boy who fixed broken droids just to make children smile. You were the man who kissed me like I was the only thing tethering you to the light.”

Your voice broke.

“You were the man who told me I was your future.”

He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. The air shimmered around him, the heat swirling like a living thing.

“That man is dead,” he said.

You stumbled back, as if he’d struck you.

“I loved him,” you whispered.

“He was weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard. “Then what does that make me?”

Silence.

His eyes dropped, only for a second. Just long enough for a crack to form.

You took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to fight you, Anakin. I didn’t come here to stop you. I came here to bring you home.”

“There is no home,” he hissed. “There’s only power. The Jedi betrayed me. They betrayed us. They feared my strength. The galaxy needs order, and I will bring it. With the Emperor—”

“He’s using you!” you cried, your voice rising with panic. “You think he sees you as an equal? You’re just a weapon to him, Anakin! He doesn’t care about you, not the way I do!”

He stared at you, unmoving.

“I would never discard you,” you whispered. “Not even now.”

And then, you said it.

“We could’ve had a future, Anakin.”

The lava hissed in the distance, bubbling like blood.

You stepped forward again. You could feel the waves of pain rolling off of him in the Force. A storm of guilt, fury, confusion, a child lost in the dark.

“We could’ve had forever.”

Something broke.

His face twitched. His mouth opened. The conflict in his eyes was visible now, the red and gold flickering with something deeper, something buried. The Force rippled around you, tugging at the strings between your souls.

For a second, he looked like he might reach for you.

And then…

His face hardened.

And he ignited his saber.

“You’re standing in my way,” he said coldly.

Your heart cracked, shattered.

“No,” you breathed. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t make me fight you.”

But it was too late.

The red blade screamed to life, and he lunged.

You barely drew your saber in time. The clash sent a shockwave through the platform, your feet skidding across the metal. Heat seared your back as he pressed forward, stronger than you remembered, fueled by rage and pain and something deeper.

Not your Anakin.

Something darker.

“I loved you!” you sobbed as you blocked his next strike, stumbling backward again.

“You betrayed me!” he roared, voice unrecognizable. “You left me! You chose them!”

“I NEVER LEFT YOU!” you screamed. “I was waiting for you to come back! I would’ve followed you anywhere, if you hadn’t set the whole galaxy on fire!”

His blade knocked yours aside. You fell to your knees, his saber a hair’s breadth from your throat.

Then… he froze.

His breathing hitched. His hands shook.

“Y/N…” he rasped. And for the first time, he sounded like himself.

You looked up, eyes wide, tears streaming down your soot-streaked cheeks.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please come back.”

His eyes flickered wildly, blue, then gold, then blue again. Like a battle waged inside his very soul.

Then, he screamed.

A raw, broken sound. He turned and slashed his saber into the stone, sparks flying.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU COME SOONER?!”

“I TRIED!” you cried, falling to your knees behind him. “I tried, Anakin. I swear I did.”

He dropped his saber.

Collapsed to his knees.

His hands gripped your arms like a drowning man grasping for air.

“I wanted forever with you,” he said, voice cracking. “I still do. But I don’t know how to come back.”

You cupped his face, hands trembling.

“Then let me show you.”

And for a breath, a heartbeat, you felt him start to lean in. Your Anakin. The man you had loved.

Then, the sound of a ship. A familiar engine roar. A shadow cast across the platform.

Obi-Wan.

Anakin froze. His grip on you tightened.

“They’re here to kill me,” he said, empty again. Hollow.

“No. No, I didn’t know. They followed me. I didn’t want this—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

He looked at you.

One last time.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

And then, he turned. And walked into the fire.

You didn’t follow.

-----------

You didn’t follow him.

Not when Obi-Wan stepped off the ship, his expression carved from stone, yet his eyes glistening with sorrow. Not when he approached the platform with quiet, measured steps, like a man walking toward a funeral he had no choice but to attend.

You didn’t move when Anakin turned to face him.

Not when the words between them cracked like lightning, blame, betrayal, disbelief, too sharp to hear over the pounding in your ears.

Not even when the sabers ignited, blue and red clashing in a storm of sparks and fury. Not when the air shook with the fury of their battle, two men who had once been brothers, now locked in a dance that could only end in ruin.

You couldn’t move.

You just knelt at the edge of the platform, right where he had left you, your knees pressed into the blistering durasteel, the heat licking at your skin like punishment. His lightsaber was clutched in your hands, heavier than anything you’d ever held. Not because of its weight, but because it was all you had left of him.

His weapon. His legacy. The last piece of the man you had loved.

And you sobbed.

Uncontrollably. Unashamedly. Until your throat was raw, until your lungs burned more than the air around you.

You weren’t sure how long the duel raged on.

Time lost meaning in the haze of tears and smoke. The world blurred around you, a kaleidoscope of fire and ash. You could feel it all in the Force: every blow, every cry, every flicker of doubt and pain that surged between them. It tore through you like a scream without sound.

You had tried to bring him home.

You had begged. Pleaded. Reached for the boy who once held your hand beneath the stars and whispered dreams of peace, of love, of forever.

And for one precious moment… he had reached back.

But it wasn’t enough.

In the end, he chose the flames.

The moment he fell, you knew.

Even before the scream tore from his throat.

Even before you heard him cry out, your name, a strangled, broken sound that would carve itself into your soul like a scar that would never heal.

“Y/N!”

It echoed across the lava flats, across the ruined sky, across your heart.

And then… silence.

Not true silence. Not really. The planet still screamed. The lava still bubbled. The ash still fell like dying snow.

But everything inside you went quiet. Numb. Hollow.

You didn’t look as Obi-Wan returned, staggering up the platform, his face pale and streaked with ash. His hands trembled as he held Anakin’s saber. The other one. The one that had once belonged to a Jedi, not a Sith.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t want his pity. You didn’t want his comfort.

You wanted him.

You wanted to scream until the Force bent time and space to bring Anakin back. You wanted to go back, to before the war, before the secrets, before the fall.

But the Force does not change the past.

It only leaves you to live with it.

So you stayed there. Long after Obi-Wan departed. Long after the ship left Mustafar’s orbit. Long after the fires began to die.

You stayed, with Anakin’s saber cradled in your lap and your heart in ruins.

It wasn’t just that he had turned. It was that he had looked at you, even then. Even as he burned. And still… he had let go.

He had let you go.

You didn’t even flinch when the wind shifted, blowing hot embers across your skin. You hardly felt them. You were already burned from the inside out.

And in the years to come, through war, through rebuilding, through exile and silence, you would never forget the sound of his scream.

The way he said your name like it was the last piece of himself he still remembered.

You carried it like a ghost inside your ribs.

Because no matter where you went, no matter what you became…

You would spend the rest of your life haunted by the ashes.

Haunted by the love that wasn’t enough. Haunted by the man who chose the darkness. Haunted by the future that died in the fire with him.

And every time you closed your eyes, you saw him on that platform.

And every time you dreamed, you reached for a hand that would never hold yours again.

---------------

I hope you loved it! Sorry I haven't been posting as much I am just super busy, also I am so mad that Taylor didn't come to the AMAs. Tysm for reading <3

[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.