#Hair Thickening Oil

[kimludcom]

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[wolfsclothing6]

The Garage Change

Eric groaned as he pulled into the small, grimy auto shop on the outskirts of town. His car had been making an awful grinding noise for days, and now it had finally given up. The sign above the shop read "Teddy’s Auto Repairs" in faded red letters, and the whole place smelled of motor oil, sweat, and old rubber.

Inside, a burly, bearded mechanic in grease-streaked overalls greeted him with a lazy wave. "What can I do for ya?" the man asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

“My car’s dead,” Eric muttered. “I just need it fixed as fast as possible.”

“Sure thing. Give me an hour or two.” The mechanic, whose name tag read Teddy, chuckled. “Might as well hang out. You look like you’ve never stepped foot in a place like this before.”

Eric rolled his eyes but stayed. The shop was cluttered with tools, rags, and parts, and the air felt thick. To pass the time, Eric wandered over to a rack of spare overalls and jackets hanging in the corner. On impulse, he grabbed a worn, oversized jumpsuit—it smelled of sweat and grease but had a strange warmth to it, almost like it was alive.

For some reason, Eric felt compelled to try it on. “Might as well look the part,” he joked to himself. Slipping into the jumpsuit, he immediately felt the rough fabric hug his body. It was a snug fit at first, but as he zipped it up, it started to stretch and shift around him.

A sudden heat flushed through Eric’s body. He stumbled, grabbing onto a nearby counter as a strange sensation coursed through him. His lean frame began to fill out, his muscles softening and thickening with layers of fat. His stomach pushed against the jumpsuit, forming a round belly that strained the zipper. His chest grew heavier, and his arms thickened, their once-smooth skin becoming rough and hairy.

“What the hell is happening to me?” Eric gasped, his voice deepening. He looked down at his hands, now calloused and smeared with grease as if he’d been working in the shop for years.

His face tingled as stubble sprouted into a full, grizzled beard. His jawline softened, his cheeks filling out with a rugged, weathered look. Even his hair changed, shortening and receding slightly beneath an old trucker cap that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Eric’s thoughts began to cloud. The polished, white-collar world he knew faded as memories of tuning engines, changing oil, and sharing beers with the boys in the shop took its place. The pride he once had in his spotless clothes and clean hands vanished, replaced by a strange satisfaction in being sweaty, dirty, and strong.

By the time the transformation stopped, Eric—or rather, Teddy—stood there, scratching his beard and looking around like nothing was out of the ordinary. He didn’t even notice his reflection in the grease-streaked mirror, where a bulky, burly mechanic stared back at him.

The original Teddy came out of the back room, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lookin’ good,” he said with a smirk, giving the new Teddy a slap on the back.

Eric opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a low chuckle. “Guess I’m ready to get to work,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly.

By the end of the day, he was under the hood of a car, cracking jokes with the other mechanics and feeling like he’d been there his whole life. The old Eric was gone, replaced by a grease-streaked, happy, hard-working man who lived for the smell of oil and the roar of engines.

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[doiliedaze]

Intertwined, Sewn Together

Butch mechanic! Vi x Bimbo flower shop owner! reader

Warnings: Vi courting reader very obviously, flirt Vi, tooth-rooting fluff, reader is a perv a little (implied she has masturbated to the thought of Vi before), reader is such a botanical nerd and rambly mess, reader lacks common sense just a little bit, reader is whipped for Vi bad (I feel you girl), sweet to heavy make out session but nothing too major, butch bulge 😵‍💫

Genre: fluff

A/N: a lot of Adrianne Lenker songs remind me of Vi but especially not a lot, just forever! The songs that inspired this fic are crush, not a lot just forever, heavy and Constant Craving!! I typically think of bimbos to have confidence but I want this bimbo to have a more shy nature or like a quiet confident like flowers because they are so dainty but they hold so much energy and meaning! I also know nothing about mechanical stuff so bare with me…I gotta stop not knowing things in my Vi fics😅

Language of flowers guide: carnations= fascination, distinction and love | peonies= love, romance and purity | baby’s breath= everlasting love, purity, innocence | iris’s= affection and devotion | violets= everlasting love, lesbian courting, faithfulness and modesty | lavender= love and devotion gardenias= protection, hope, love and trust

These are the meanings with romantic connotations it can differ based on the connotations. Can also differ based on color!!

───────┈ · ·

“Stupid fucking car! Stupid fucking auto shops!” You mutter to yourself as you walk into the auto repair shop. Your pink bug has been in the shop for two weeks now, something about an engine? You aren’t sure but you felt like it should be done by now! You also spaced everytime you talked to your mechanic because she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen!

“Excuse me?” You say with a wobble in your voice as you tap the mechanics shoulder. She is as handsome as ever and her gaze is electric!

Her floppy pink hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Vi her name tag read but it never seems to leave your lips…well at least in public.

“Hey sweet thing, more questions ‘bout the car?” She says smoothly as she rubs some oil on her overalls.

The lump in your throat thickens when she calls you that. Gosh she makes you squirm internally well you hope she doesn’t notice too much.

“Hi…uh yes please!” You follow her mindlessly and as soon as she updates you, you focus on the scar on her top lip or the freckles sprinkled across her cheeks or the way she cocks her eyebrow when she’s explaining car stuff to you or-

“Lost?” Her mellows out from excited to enchanting. “No! I didn’t mean to stare I was tryna listen.” This technically isn’t a complete lie!

With a nod you can tell she was trying to think of a way to explain it to you instead of getting mad at you. That’s a constant in your life, if you’re confused you’re use to being yelled at.

When she breaks it down for you, it all comes together! Before you could say but she says, “y’know it’s nice when you stop by.” Her hands nonchalantly slide into her pockets. “Oh I don’t do much when I’m here?”

“You don’t need to do much sweet thing.” She took a curt step forward. “A woman like you is enchanting to breathe next to.” Her voice lowered to a husky whisper. Not a husk of lust no, a husk of admiration.

Flustered you look away not exactly knowing how to respond. So you choose to flee like fleeting honeybee you can be. “Wow look at the time! I have to be on my way-”

“Wait! I mean…may I have your number before you go?” This time she didn’t step any closer giving you some room to breathe not wanting to come off any stronger than she already is. You can tell she had to mentally work up to it, the tips of her ears were red.

Excited but trying to keep calm you give her your number…well your work number. You accidentally made your business number your personal number and never went back after you print out 500 business cards, which was also too many business cards!

Since that day you haven’t talked to Vi…traditionally at least. She’s been ordering bouquets from your shop and shipping it to meet you in the morning. The meanings behind each beautiful and unique!

This bouquet had carnations, peonies and baby’s breath! Which confused you when you first saw them, typically she’s put some violet or lavender in there…

Maybe it was a signal to call her, or her affections has changed?

You were going to call truly but your nerves got the best of you! So when your car was ready you were going to surprise her!

Vi is under the impression you weren’t interested in her advanced until she could hear the click of your heels as you try to walk as quietly as possible. It’s hard for someone as radiant as you to go unnoticed.

“Hey sweet thing, ready for your car?” She says softly mustering her small smile.

Before she could go on you hand her a bouquet that was behind your back. It was filled with violets, iris’s, lavender, gardenias and peonies with some sticks to add a rustic flare to it.

“I know I haven’t called nor given any action to your affections but I don’t want you to think they go unnoticed! Especially after you started to stop sending violets and lavenders I knew I had to do something. I would be naive to act as though I’m not attracted to you but-”

Vi cuts you off by waving her hand in the air, “thank you, y/n I appreciate it and you don’t have to explain yourself. I’m a woman of action and you babe are showing out.” She smiles as she takes the boquete. “Y’know I’ve never been given flowers? I…thank you.” She holds them closer to her chest.

Ever since then y’all have been spending your free time together. The workers at your shop love when Vi comes by. She’s always being snacks and good conversation! At first the guys at the shop were slightly annoyed by your presence but when you brought baked goods along with flowers for Vi, you were welcomed.

Vi pulled up to your shop after hours knowing you were closing. “Sweet thing you ready?” She smirks as she revs her motorcycle. Although she looks so hot on it you hate being on it with her but she always takes you home.

“Course pretty” you say with a smile and sway in your hips as you get on the back.

You two have a spot. It’s a cozy cliff on this mountain. It’s a bit of a drive but y’all don’t mind. The two of you set up blankets and food as you lay back and gaze at the stars…well you were. Vi was too busy staring your face off. Realizing she hasn’t been replying to your rambling you turn to her and stare back going to caress her cheek.

She’s at home with you. You validate her butchness as she to your femmeness. No one has ever been all that interested in her work, especially to the extent of helping her fix her dream car. You’re there for her and she’s here for you.

Vi has always been described as a courageous woman but when it comes to you? She’s a fucking wimp! The two of you have been taking it slow due to the courting process but she knew tonight was the night. The night she’d ask you to be yours…to try not to say that she loves you because she does. She can feel it in her gut.

“You okay Violet?” She melts when you say her name, the only person she wants to hear say it. She rolls on top of you, somewhat putting her weight on you, more her chest.

“Can you feel that? That’s how my heart beats everytime I’m around you. Which is concerning because I’m around you a lot!” She snorts causing you to laugh a little. You nuzzle your face into hers and you let her fingers entangle into yours.

“Be mine. I can’t live another second without you as mine, my counterpart, my femme, just mine.” She breathed as if she was letting a weight off her shoulders she didn’t know she had.

If she’d was quicker to open her eyes she’d see how excited you are. Impatient as you are you kiss her. The kiss starts off slow, just your lips pressed together awkwardly as you try to stop smiling.

Vi grips your hands tighter as she presses closer, biting your lip. She doesn’t want to mean to make the kiss sloppy but she can’t help but explore you.

Her tongue presses and wraps itself around yours. You mumble her name and her breathe hicks. Her bulge presses against your thigh softly rutting as she kisses you.

You wrap a leg around her causing your skirt to fall some and she moves a hand to grip your thigh. Even though this kiss is moving fast there’s restraint from both end.

You break away to breathe a string of saliva following. “Should we go?” You whisper and she nuzzles into your neck groaning a yes.

The two of you are new to peace, especially a peace you two could provide each other. However you’re willing to get tangled into each other.

───────┈ · ·

A/N: i got nervous writing it teehee!! I hope you enjoyed @milanyas <3 I’m definitely going to expand on this idea because I lowkey feel like it could’ve been longer but I didn’t know how and I didn’t really want smut? I’ll probably make an imagine for you dolls!

Taglist- @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven @femme-historian @furrytaesss

Dividers- @8bbitbunni

[xx-dinah-writing-xx]

A surprise for Kepus

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Targaryen reader

smut 18+, mdni

warnings: praise, kissing, virginity loss, power play, dirty talk, claiming, marking, fingering, p in v, explicit language, unprotected sex, etc.

The fire in Daemon’s chambers burned low, casting shadows across the stone walls as he stepped inside. He paused, his sharp violet eyes narrowing slightly at the faint scent of jasmine and myrrh that drifted through the air. It wasn’t there when he had left earlier.

His gaze swept across the dimly lit room, and then he saw her.

She was draped languidly across his bed, her body covered only in swathes of silk the color of molten gold. The fabric barely concealed her curves, slipping off her hips and revealing tantalizing glimpses of bare skin. Her hair, wild and silver as the flames of Old Valyria, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back.

“Kepus,” she purred, her voice a smoky caress.

Daemon froze, the door shutting behind him with a quiet click. For the first time in years, he felt his breath catch. His niece—his fiery little dragon—lay before him, a vision of seduction and power. She was no girl tonight; she was a woman, and she had prepared herself for him.

“What is this?” he asked, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. It was husky, his accent thickening as he took a slow step toward her. “What game are you playing, little dragon?”

She sat up slightly, the silk sliding down to pool at her waist, baring the soft swell of her breasts. Her skin glowed in the firelight, and she tilted her head, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. “No game, kepus,” she replied. “A gift. For you.”

His eyes darkened, a dangerous gleam flickering to life as he approached the bed. “A gift, you say?”

She nodded, holding his gaze as she reached for the small vial of oil beside her. Her fingers were steady despite the racing of her heart, and she poured a small amount into her palms, the scent of jasmine intensifying. “You’ve given me so much, Daemon,” she said softly, her voice dipping into reverence. “It’s only fair I return the favor.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a smirk as he sat on the edge of the bed, his leather-clad fingers tracing the edge of the silk that barely covered her thigh. “And you thought to do so like this?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement and intrigue.

“Does it displease you?” she asked, her tone innocent despite the heat in her gaze.

Daemon chuckled darkly, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on her thigh. “Far from it,” he said. “But I hope you understand what you’ve invited, little dragon.”

“I do,” she whispered, leaning forward until her lips were a breath away from his. “I want this. I want you.”

Something in him snapped at her words. Daemon cupped her face, pulling her into a searing kiss that left her breathless. His lips were demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his other hand slid up her thigh, pushing the silk aside and baring her completely to him.

She gasped into his mouth, her hands fumbling with the ties of his tunic. Daemon chuckled against her lips, pulling back just enough to watch her struggle before shrugging the fabric off himself.

Her hands roamed his chest, tracing the planes of muscle and the scars that marked his skin. She poured the jasmine oil into her palms once more, her touch hesitant but eager as she began to smooth the oil over his shoulders and down his arms.

“You’re trembling,” Daemon remarked, his voice low and teasing.

“I’ve never done this before,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing.

He smirked, catching her wrist and pulling her hand to his lips. “Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to her palm. “I like knowing I’m the first to feel your touch.”

He leaned forward, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear as he whispered, “And I’ll be the last.”

Her breath hitched as his hands replaced hers, smoothing the remaining oil over her skin with practiced precision. His touch was firm yet gentle, his fingers gliding over her curves and igniting a fire that burned hotter with every passing moment.

“You’re a dangerous woman,” Daemon murmured as he pushed her back onto the bed, the silk forgotten as it slipped away completely.

“And you’re a dangerous man,” she replied, her voice steady despite the way her body trembled beneath him.

His grin was feral as he claimed her lips once more, his hands exploring every inch of her. “Then let’s see what havoc we can wreak together, shall we, zaldrys riña?”

Her hands gripped his shoulders as he kissed lower, trailing down to the hollow of her throat. His hands were not idle; they slid over her curves, pushing aside the flimsy silks that barely covered her. When his palm cupped her breast, his thumb brushed over the sensitive peak, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.

“Drēje iā gevie zaldrītsos,” he whispered. Sweet, beautiful little dragon. His tone was filled with reverence, but there was an edge to it—a possessive hunger that sent a shiver down her spine.

Daemon shifted, his lips capturing the hardened peak of her breast as his hand teased the other. She arched into his touch, a soft moan spilling from her as his tongue flicked over her sensitive skin.

“Kepus,” she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair as he lavished her with attention.

He hummed against her, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through her. “Say it again,” he demanded, his lips brushing against her skin as he spoke. “Let me hear you call me yours.”

“Kepus,” she repeated, her voice trembling with desire.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hand sliding down her body to rest on her thigh. He pushed her legs apart gently, his fingertips teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “So eager for me,” he said, his tone both mocking and adoring. “Do you want me to touch you, zaldritsi?” Little dragon.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Please, Daemon.”

Daemon smirked, leaning down to kiss her again as his fingers found the slick heat of her core. He groaned into her mouth, his composure slipping as he felt how wet she was for him. “Perfect,” he muttered, circling her sensitive nub with deliberate slowness. “You’re perfect.”

Her hips bucked against his hand, a soft cry escaping her lips as he slipped a finger inside her cunt, stretching her gently. He added another, his movements slow and careful as he prepared her.

“You’ll take me so well,” he said, his voice thick with need. “I’ll make you mine tonight, fully and completely. Ruin you for every other man. I’ll go and fill your royal cunt with my heirs right in front of them if I have to.”

Her breath hitched at his words, a delicious thrill running through her as he pulled his fingers away and positioned himself between her thighs. His arousal pressed against her entrance, and she instinctively tensed.

“Relax,” he murmured, his hand brushing her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her softly. “I’ll be gentle.” His palm gently caressed her under belly, his fingers tracing soft patterns on her lower abdomen.

She nodded, her trust in him unwavering as he began to push into her. The stretch was intense, and she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as he paused to let her adjust.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, pressing kisses to her cheeks and forehead. “So tight. So perfect for me.”

When she nodded again, he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate as he filled her completely. The discomfort faded quickly, replaced by a growing pleasure that made her cling to him, her legs wrapping around his waist.

“Feel that, little dragon?” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. “That’s me claiming you. Every part of you is mine now.”

“Yes,” she moaned, her body arching against his as she met his movements. “I’m yours, kepus.”

Daemon groaned at her words, his pace quickening as he chased his release. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough with need.

“I’m yours,” she cried, her nails raking down his back as pleasure built to a crescendo within her.

Her release hit her like a wave, her body tightening around him as she cried out his name. Daemon followed moments later, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he spilled himself inside her.

He collapsed onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms as their breathing slowed. “Drēje iā zaldrītsos,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. Sweet little dragon.

She smiled, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. “Was I everything you wanted, kepus?”

Daemon chuckled, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back. “You were more than I deserved,” he said softly. “But make no mistake—you’re mine now, and I’ll never let you go.”

The room was drenched in the heady scent of sex in a matter of seconds, the firelight casting shadows over their entangled forms. Daemon loomed above her once again, his silver hair falling into his face as he thrust into her with a feral intensity, but this time, it wasn’t just him claiming her. She was matching his fervor, leaving her own mark on the Rogue Prince, just as fierce as he was.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his skin with enough force to make him hiss through his teeth. The sting of it only fueled him more.

“Fierce little dragon,” he growled, his voice rasping as her nails raked down his back. “Do you wish to scar me? To brand me as yours?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her voice breathless yet resolute. “I want everyone to know you’re mine, kepus. Mine.”

A wicked grin spread across Daemon’s lips as he adjusted his angle, driving into her deeper, harder, eliciting a sharp cry from her lips. “Then mark me,” he challenged, his tone dripping with arrogance. “Mark me, zaldritsi. Make me remember this night every time I look in the mirror.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Her lips latched onto the taut skin of his neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. She could feel his pulse beneath her mouth, fast and hot, as she worked to leave a deep mark just below his jawline.

Daemon groaned low in his throat, the sound guttural and raw as her teeth grazed the sensitive spot. His hips stuttered slightly, and he buried his face in her neck to stifle a groan, the sensation of her claiming him intoxicating.

“You’ll ruin me,” he murmured against her skin, though there was no trace of protest in his voice—only awe and pride.

Her tongue flicked over the bruise she’d left, her hands roaming over his body. She dug her nails into his back once more, drawing thin red lines down his skin as he moved inside her. The motion made him shiver, and his growl vibrated against her collarbone.

“Kepus,” she moaned, arching her back as she pressed her chest against his. Her teeth nipped at his shoulder this time, and when he didn’t stop her, she bit down harder, hard enough to leave a crescent-shaped imprint of her teeth on his pale skin.

Daemon hissed, his hips snapping forward harshly as his hand gripped her thigh. “Greedy little dragon,” he rasped, his voice dark with approval. “You’re taking all of me.”

She smiled wickedly against his skin, licking over the bite mark in a show of possession. “You’re mine now, kepus,” she whispered. “I’ll make sure no other whore even thinks of touching you.”

His response was a feral growl as his lips descended onto hers in a bruising kiss. His tongue tangled with hers, his hand fisting in her silver hair to hold her in place. When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide with lust.

“Look at me, zaldrīzes,” he said, his tone commanding. “Do I look like I want to taste another cunt after I’ve claimed yours?”

Her gaze roamed over him, and her breath hitched at the sight. His neck was littered with dark marks, her lips having painted a map of her possession across his skin. His shoulders bore red streaks from her nails, and his chest was dotted with faint bruises from where her teeth had nipped him.

Daemon looked wrecked, but in the most exquisite way. He was the Rogue Prince, the wielder of Dark Sister, the blood of the dragon—and now he was hers, claimed as surely as if she’d carved her name into his flesh.

“No,” she whispered, her voice soft but filled with satisfaction. “You’re mine, and everyone will know it.”

Daemon chuckled darkly, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her lips. “Oh, they’ll know,” he said, his voice dripping with pride. “I’ll wear your marks like armor, little dragon. And when they see me, they’ll know the beast that claimed me is fiercer than any flame.”

As he began to move again, their passion reigniting, she knew this night would leave more than just bruises on his skin. It would leave a memory—a declaration that Daemon Targaryen was as much hers as she was his.

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

La vie en Amour 🩷

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

This is inspired by my Renaissance!Leon hcs that I did last Novemeber! You all loved it so much, and I did say I'd make a full story, so here it is!

I hope you enjoy 😚

♠︎

《Content》: NSFW. proceed with caution. Breast worship. PiV. creampie. Semi public sex? (They fuck in a carriage). Disgustingly in love individuals. So much love. Sickening. Sapphics. R's chamber maid is gay af. Basically a fantasy version of the Renaissance Era.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

As the wife of Duke Kennedy, it's not unusual for you to attend events. Your husband, as doting as ever, insists to dress you up himself. What is unusual, however, is the two of you having a quick, passionate romp on your way to the ball <3

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

"Which gown would you like to wear tonight, my lady?" Your maid, Rosalinde, asked while you were sat at your vanity.

Your fingers smoothed over your skin, working in the herb-infused oil.

The pleasant smell hit your nose, leaving a faint taste on your tongue. You smiled, looking at Rosalinde through the mirror.

"The light pink one with the lace. Just like the roses he gave me." You sighed dreamily, the pad of your thumb brushing against one of the many soft petals of the luscious bouquet that decorated your vanity.

She returned a sweet smile of her own, giving you a nod before dismissing herself to prepare your gown.

You were clothed in a soft, silken rob, waiting for your bath. You'd been invited to a grand ball this evening, and as the Duchess and Wife of Duke Kennedy, you had every plan to show the best side of yourself at such an extravagant event.

In the background you could pick up the sound of your bathtub being filled with bucket after bucket of steaming water.

Your fingers moved down your neck to massage in the oil, and through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of Rosalinde, watching, admiring you, partially hidden by the door frame.

You locked gazes, and she shyed away quickly, but a warm feeling rose on your cheeks and inside your chest.

The smell of lavender, honey, and creamy milk lingered in the air, signaling that your bath must be ready.

Your husband spoiled you, insisting you only get the best and most luxurious treatment.

You were hopelessly in love, daydreaming of how you would dance tonight, his gentle touches and a soft smile that never failed to have your heart oozing out of your ribcage, coating your insides.

You were pulled out of your love-induced fantasies by Rosalinde as she came to stand by your side.

"You may take your bath now, your grace." She spoke, an ever so gentle and calm tone to her voice.

You figured she'd collected herself but you could see the faintest hint of pink on her face.

"Thank you, my dear." You replied warmly, walking beside her on your way to your bath chamber.

Steam was rising from the tub, thickening the air.

She helped you out of your robe, her fingers grazing your shoulders. The touch made you sigh quietly, a pleasant feeling crawling up your spine.

You carefully stepped into the bath, sinking into the aromatic water with a relieved hum. You were evenloped by warmth and calming smells, the tension in your flesh slowly melting away.

Rosalinde settled behind you, attending to your hair.

Brushes, combs, oils, her fingers scratching your scalp. All of it made your eyes fall shut as you reveled in the comfort of your bath.

"Have you picked your jewels yet, my lady?" She asked quietly as not to disturb your peace.

A smile stretched over your face.

"The Duke insists he pick them himself." You heard your most trusted chamber maid chuckle behind you.

"Has he? He is quite smitten with you. Even as your husband." She responded, amused.

You giggled, dragging your hand through the water.

"I'm truly lucky to have him." You spoke softly.

A beat of comfortable silence fell over the room before Rosalinde spoke again.

"I wish to have such a blooming love like you and the Duke have once in my life." Your expression softened, and you turned your head to look at her, gently reaching your hand up to your shoulders and grasping hers in your palm.

"And you will, dear girl. I know you will. Although it feels torturous to have patience, it will be worth it." You said softly, hoping the sincerity in your words wasn't lost on her.

Your maid gave you a small smile, a flustered chuckled escaping her lips.

"Thank you, your grace. You are far too gentle and have a soul that is much too kind to be a noble. You're a true conundrum." Rosalinde chuckled, making you laugh softly.

Your heartfelt conversation was interrupted by a knock on your chamber doors.

Her hands slipped from your hair, and she dismissed herself with a mumbled excuse, rising to her feet and hastily walking to the door.

Your brows were furrowed in confusion. Who would knock at this hour?

All your tasks for the day were done, and everyone knew you'd be out of the house tonight. Surely there couldn't be an emergency?

You frowned slightly, hoping it wasn't a servant stumbling over his words to summon you to the council for more Duchessly duties.

Rosalinde came back with a smile, the door just out of your eyesight.

"The Duke wishes to see you, my lady."

A soft and playful roll of your eyes accompanied by a chuckle echoed through the room.

"All this time and he still asks. Of course he can see me." You replied with a smile, sitting up in the tub.

She nodded and quickly made her way back to the door, returning with your husband just a moment later.

"My darling wife." Leon announced, a soft expression on his features.

You lit up, pulling yourself out of the water, hands grasping the edge of the bathtub. Rosalinde rushed over to you and offered you her hand to steady you.

Rivulets of water and oil were running down the curves of your bare body, your skin shining. You stood at your full height and carefully stepped over the edge of the tub.

From the corner of your vision, you could've sworn you saw Rosalinde blush, her eyes admiring your glistening breasts before she quickly averted her eyes.

You glanced over at her.

"Thank you, Rosa. Go rest. I'll call for you if needed." You said kindly, watching as she nodded quickly and scurried off.

Both you and Leon watched her leave before he stepped forward.

"My Venus." He whispered, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss, his arms resting on your slick waist.

You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. He didn't care that his shirt got soaked, all he wanted was to hold you.

You rested your forehead against his, your lips brushing occasionally.

"You truly know the way to a woman's heart." You giggled.

He cracked a smile and huffed softly.

"I know the way to your heart." He muttered, placing one peck after the other on your lips.

You squealed softly, trying to push him away, your hands flat on his chest.

"Let's get you dried off. We need to get you ready for that ball, hm? I know you'll look positively ravishing." Leon nosed at your neck, letting his lips graze your collarbone before pulling away.

The water on your skin had dried to a dull sheen.

"Oh, you'll get me ready, will you?" You asked amused, making your way towards your husband who was holding open a large linen cloth, ready to dry you.

"Do you doubt me, my love?" A sly grin sitting on his face.

You rolled your eyes, turning your back to him as he covered you in the linen, holding you in an embrace simultaneously.

"I would never. Pray and tell, why do I have maids when you want to do everything yourself?" He chuckled softly.

"I enjoy pampering you, dear. Can a husband not love on his wife?" Leon pressed a kiss to your cheek.

"No shame in that. But what will my girls do all day? They'll bore to death." You leaned your head back, resting it against his shoulder.

"They can attend to you when I've had my fill." He hummed, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to dry them off.

"And when will that be?" You chuckled, smiling.

"When I'm dead."

"Oh, you!" You scolded, slapping his arm while he only broke into laughter.

"Get yourself dry. I'll pick out your jewels in the meantime." He spoke softly, stifling a chuckle when you huffed, a pout on your lips.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

You stepped out in your cotton chemise, the fabric brushing loosely against your skin.

Leon was hunched over your vast collection of jewelery, touching the cooling precious stones and metals. He turned at the sound of your feet on the floor, greeting you with a smile.

"There you are. Come, sit." He beckoned, motioning to your bed.

With a soft chuckle you situated yourself on the cushy layers of feathers and silk.

He knelt down on one knee in front of you, pushing up the hem of your chemise, slipping one of your stockings on your leg and pressing a kiss to your knee.

The other went on in the same fashion, and he took his time carefully tying a ribbon around them so they wouldn't shift or fall down all evening.

You smiled down at him gently, your heart swelling at the softness he was displaying.

Your hands stroked his sandy locks, coming down to caress his cheek.

"You still need to get ready yourself." You muttered, sighing when he dragged his hands up your thighs, grasping your hips.

"And here I was looking forward to dressing you like my own little doll." He chuckled lowly.

"I'll let you put on all the jewels. But I don't need my laces coming undone in the middle of the dance floor." You smirked, laughing when he huffed and lightly jabbed you in the side.

You cupped his chin and lifted his head towards you.

"You clean up nicely, my love. Go on." You spoke softly, placing a kiss to his lips, urging him to get dressed himself.

Leon hummed contently, pulling away and rising from his knees.

"You'll save the good things for me?" He asked, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone.

"I promise." You smiled, holding his wrist in a gentle grasp.

His gaze softened as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

"Until then." He whispered, the warmth of his touch slipping as he departed to his own chambers.

A soft chuckle escaped you and you glanced at the luscious roses sitting on your vanity before pulling on the tassel that would ring the bell in the servants quarters, successfully calling for Rosalinde.

Just a moment later the door opened and she peaked her head in.

"You called for me, your grace?"

You gave her a smile and beckoned her inside with a wave of your hand.

"Would you be so kind to dress me?" You asked, getting up from your place on the bed.

"But of course, my lady. You needn't ask." She smiled, beginning to whizz around the room to get everything ready.

"But leave my shoes and jewels, will you?"

She stopped and looked at you with a puzzled expression.

"Your grace?"

"Duke's orders."

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

And so, the great cinching began.

First came your stays, the boned structure keeping your bosom secure while also helping with your posture.

Next was any padding such as a bumroll or a crinoline. Whatever you fancied that night.

Now, petticoat after petticoat to build the voluptuous skirt of your gown. Some simple, made from cotton, while the last one was made from silk trimmed with lace.

Rosalinde reached around your waist to tie on your pocket before holding your dress for you to step into.

She laced it in the front, making sure to add an ornately embroidered stomacher.

"You look absolutely wonderful, my lady." Rosalinde sighed, staring at you with awe.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the rich fabrics.

"I feel wonderful. All thanks to you." You smiled softly, catching her eye.

A faint blush dusted her cheeks and she chuckled nervously.

"Oh, please, your grace- Hair?" She said quickly, clearing her throat.

You laughed and nodded.

"Yes, hair."

Rosalinde worked her fingers through your locks, pinning a curl here, brading a stand there.

You watched her through the mirror, taking notice of the concentrated furrow between her brows, making you crack a faint smile.

In the end, your hair was decorated with pearls, ribbons, feathers, whatever your heart desired.

"You did marvously, as always." You smiled widely.

"Thank you, my lady." She replied with a smile.

You stood up from your seat, turning and taking her hands in yours.

"Thank you." You spoke sincerely.

"Of course. Just ring for me when you get back later-"

"We'll manage. You deserve some time for yourself. I'll see you in the morning, please enjoy your evening." You gave her hands a gentle squeeze.

Rosalinde looked stunned, her eyes wide and her lips parted.

"I-... are you sure, your grace? I'm grateful, but-" You chuckled and gently interrupted her.

"Hush. Please, I insist."

"W-Well then. Whatever you wish, my lady." She chuckled nervously, averting her eyes with a shy smile.

You gave her knuckles one last caress before letting her hands slide from your grasp.

"Good. Off you go." You smiled.

Rosalinde nodded with kind expression and made her way to the door, sparing you one glance over her shoulder before she slipped out of the room.

With content sigh, you made your way to the full-length mirror in your chambers.

Your reflection was almost blinding with the amount of pearls and crystals that were sewn onto your gown.

The silk gave off a faint shimmer as you smoothed your hands down the slightly cool material.

The lace on your sleeves brushed against your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The sound of a distinctive knocking pattern echoed from the heavy wooden door. A smile cracked on your lips, the familiarity and comfort of the signal sitting in your chest.

"Come in." You called out, turning away from the mirror.

The door opened with a creak, and your polished husband stepped inside, a soft smile gracing his features.

"Husband." You greeted gently, meeting him halfway.

His arms wrapped around your waist and he pressed his forehead against yours, his quiet exhale a warm breeze on your face.

"My love. My pearl. My Venus. The light of my life. I never thought it true, but Cupid strikes me with an arrow anew every day. No words a poet could manage to write would be enough to describe how you reign over my heart, soul, and flesh."

His confession tumbled off his lips with ease, making your heart beat faster while the grip on your middle tightened.

Your hand went to cup his face, gently caressing his cheekbone.

"My heart. My sapphire. My Mars. The very air I breathe. The sight of you makes the affection spill between my ribs, and my lips ache for just one more kiss."

A soft huff left Leon before be pulled you in for a kiss so gentle, your bones were ready to melt beneath his touch. You hummed against his lips, a pleasant tingle crawling up your spine.

A firm hand slid up your back to rest between your shoulder blades, closing the distance.

To your dismay, he detached his mouth first, a chuckle leaving him at your protests.

"Why must you tease me so?" You pouted, fixing a stray lock of blond hair.

"I have no ill intent, I assure you. You're simply irresistible, my darling." He purred, nuzzling your neck, making you giggle.

"Alright, alright. Unfortunately, we have a ball to intend to, so your physical affections must wait, my love." You cooed, smoothing your hands down the lapels of his jacket.

"A shame indeed." He hummed, taking your hand and guiding it up to his face to press a kiss to your knuckles.

"However, I believe you were promised something." You spoke gently, stepping to the side to reveal your vanity where your jewels were laid out.

A pair of your shoes were sitting neatly beside the chair, waiting to be danced in. Leon's expression softened, and he pulled you after him.

"I do get to dress my pretty little doll after all, hm?" He smiled, dropping to one knee before you to guide your foot into your shoe.

His grip on your ankle was firm but gentle, leaving you to steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders. The second one went on just as easy.

Before he had a chance to stand back up, you pressed a peck to the top of his head. Leon's hands rested on your hips, his forehead falling against your stomach as he reveled in the tenderness of the moment.

A cloud of gentleness and love seemed to follow the both of you everywhere, leaving the world around you in a pink tint.

With a sigh he rose to his feet, stroking his knuckles down the side of your face with a sugary smile before stepping around you.

The dangling jewels that were your earrings were carefully secured to your lobe, a peck beneath each ear.

Lastly, the necklace he chose, rose quartz and pearls, was draped around your neck and fastened with the clasp before a kiss was placed at the base of your skull.

A gentle hand on your waist turned you to face him, an almost lovesick expression gracing his handsome features.

"Look at you, my angel. As pretty as ever." His words were soft, a quiet truth straight from his heart.

"You're too good to me." You chuckled, pressing one last kiss to his lips.

"The carriage must be ready by now. Shall we, darling?" You asked, resting your hand in the crook of his elbow.

He hummed, amused.

"Are you that eager to leave our little cocoon?" He teased, leading the way to the door.

You let out a soft laugh.

"Not quite. But... I have to show an entire noble society how handsome my husband is." You grinned cheekily, pulling him along while Leon was left laughing with a blush dusted across his cheeks, shaking his head at you.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The carriage was dimly illuminated, throwing shadows on the intricate fabrics that cushioned the walls.

It was a bumpy ride, the wooden wheels of the vessel having to best rocks, loose cobblestone roads, and mud.

You were seated next to Leon, your hand in his while you occupied yourself with following the swirling pattern of the interior of the carriage.

He was quiet beside you, occasionally glancing out the small window. The rough calloused pads of his fingers traced the bones in your hand, gently caressing the skin.

"Look," Leon said with a small smile, pointing out of the window. "A pair of swans."

You followed his finger, getting up from your seated position and leaning over him while you marveled at the heartwarming picture before you.

"Aren't they precious! Oh, how lovely.." you sighed dreamily, watching as the two lovers swam into the sunset.

Your hand was planted on his shoulder, steadying yourself against the rocking of the carriage.

While you were busy marveling at the picturesque scene unfolding in front of you, Leon's eyes were glued to the glistening skin of your cleavage.

Your stays did wonders for your bosom, keeping them right in his line of sight.

He leaned in, gently nosing at your neck, taking in the irresistible smell of your perfume and of you.

His hands first grasped at your waist, pulling you onto his lap, your legs swung over his.

Your knees were almost up against the door as Leon held you sideways in his arms. You giggled softly, wrapping your arms around him, carding your fingers through the sandy curls at the base of his skull.

Your lover was busy breathing you in, brushing his lips against the exposed swell of your breasts, almost bewitched.

"You smell absolutely wonderful, my darling love..." he said lowly, the words a deep rumble in his throat.

"Yes? I'm wearing that new perfume you gifted me. I take it its gotten your approval?" You grinned slightly, running the pad of your thumb along his soft jawline.

Leon chuckled darkly, placing a firm hand around the back of your neck. The touch wasn't rough, no, it was gentle as always. A mere suggestion instead than a demand.

"You have no idea." He breathed, quickly guiding your head towards his, connecting your mouths in a feverish kiss.

You clutched at him anywhere you could, moaning against his lips. His teeth clashed with yours, your tongues dancing together in a familiar waltz of passion.

Leon hummed contently, reveling the taste of you on his tastebuds. You pulled back for air, panting softly while you cupped his cheek, smiling at him with your puffy lips. He cupped your chin and slightly turned your head towards him.

"You are the image of divinity." He said quietly, pupils blown, as if he were in a trance, caught in your spell.

Heat crawled up your neck onto your cheeks, dozens of butterflies hatching from their cocoons in the pit of your stomach.

"You flatter me far too much, my sweet." You chuckled, placing a soft kiss to his lips.

Leon groaned softly, the grip on your chin tightening slightly.

"There's no such thing." He smirked, snaking a hand up to the middle of your back and pressing you further into him.

Your playful eyeroll and any witty remark you would've made was cut short as his head dipped down to run his hot tongue over the curve of your breasts, pressing sloppy kisses to your soft skin.

A gasp caught in your throat, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him right where he was. Soft moans and sighs fell from your lips while Leon gently sucked and licked your flesh.

The squealed when his teeth nipped at your tits, pulling him back with a firm grip on his hair.

"No marks, my love. You can't leave any- not now." You panted, your chest heaving.

Leon made a displeased sound, something akin to soft growl, before he looked back up at you.

"Later?"

You nodded hastily.

"When we get back, I'll gladly be your canvas. But I cannot show my face at such an event with lovebites all over my décolletage." You chuckled, resting your forehead against his.

He huffed, amused, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"I suppose you're right." He muttered, chasing your mouth for another kiss.

You moaned when you felt his hard cock through the fabric of his pants. Leon groaned, quickly helping you to straddle his lap.

The many layers of your gown were hiked up to your wide hips, draping across the entirety of his legs, covering them completely.

He reached between your plush thighs, dragging his fingers over your sopping wet slit. You were desperately trying to stay attached to his mouth, not knowing whether you wanted to be devoured whole or if you wanted to be the one to devour him.

Your breath hitched when the rough pads of his fingers caught on your sensitive clit, rubbing at the bundle of nerves. Your hips began moving on their own, craving the euphoric feeling of his fingers on your cunt.

"So wet..." he sighed into your mouth. He pulled away, breathless.

"May I be inside you? Please?" Leon asked, face flushed and chest heaving.

"Yes."

The word tumbled from your lips faster than you could think. He tugged his dick from his breaches and gave it a few strokes, your slick lubricating him perfectly.

The head of his cock nudged your hole, sending a spark up your spine, a whine ripping from your throat.

"Are you sure you want this, my pearl?" Leon asked softly, trying his best, but failing, to hide the desperate strain in his voice.

"If you do not get inside of me right this second-"

you began with a huff, cutting yourself off by kissing him once again.

He was startled, chuckling into your mouth before finally sinking inside of you. You mewled against eachother at the familiar feeling.

With a heavy fog of pleasure clouding your senses, you began moving, even just to hear that gasp that fell from Leon's lips just a moment later.

His hands gripped your hips to help you move but also to steady you. The carriage ride was rough and jolty, making you bounce on his lap.

Your arms were tightly wrapped around his neck as you cried out for him, the coil of bliss in your belly tightening.

"Oh, Gods, yes-!" You moaned, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

Leon was lost in pleasure as much as you were, groans and grunts ripping from his throat. You moved your hips up and down, back and forth, needing to feel every ridge and vein of his cock against your velveteen walls.

His thumb found its way between your bodies and your petticoats to rub at your clit just how you liked.

You melted at the sensation, a string of moans leaving you. Leon continued to move you up and down his dick, gently kissing your cheek. The dull ache in your thighs made you pause, simply sitting on him to take a breather.

He admired you, stroking his thumb along your jaw. The vessel was still shaking, hitting a rock or an uneven part of the road as you jolted in his lap, forcing his cock even deeper.

You yelped and fell against him, a high-pitched, strangled noise similar to mewl tumbling from your lips. Leon snorted, followed by a quick cackle.

"Oh, shut it!" You scolded, hitting his shoulder.

"Yes, Ma'am." He purred, shutting you up with another hungry kiss.

He began moving you again, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. His thumb stayed on your clit, his tongue licking into your mouth.

You gasped against his lips when the coil in your stomach kept on tightening. Leon pulled away from you to take a look at your face.

"Are you close?" He asked, panting, a hand cupping the back of your head.

You nodded quickly.

"Mhm-"

Leon leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Unravel for me, my darling. Come undone around me and sing your symphonies of bliss, my sweet songbird."

His whisper was sultry, however the strain and shake in his tone betrayed him.

You felt him twitch inside you, and with a last rock of the carriage and his thumb on your bundle of nerves, the coil snapped, and you came around him.

Your cunt clenched, gripping him like a vice. Your hands clutched him just as tightly while a moan of your name left him and he spilled inside of you, filling you up.

Your head fell to his shoulder, the euphoria of your high pumping in your veins. Your chests were heaving in sync, your bodies lax against one another. Leon pressed a kiss to your sweaty temple, fully wrapping his arms around you.

"Must we go to this ball?" You mumbled, your eyes falling shut.

He chuckled softly.

"I recall you being the one who insisted on dragging me out here."

You groaned but managed to sit yourself upright, only slightly whining at the feeling of his softening cock inside you. Your foreheads rested against eachother, a comfortable silence between the both of you.

"I hope you know that I'm utterly in love with you." Leon spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb such a peaceful moment.

You smiled, meeting his gaze.

"And I hope you know that you're the blood in my veins, the air I breathe, what gives me life." You replied softly, your hand cradling his face.

He smiled at you softly, his eyes filled with adoration.

"I love you, my Duchess."

"As do I, my Duke."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ah, yes.

Shit like this makes my heart and my pussy cry-

Anywayyyyy

I'm back!!! I think.... I just needed a break from the world for a little bit.

I can't promise I'll be posting a lot bc I'm fucking exhausted, but my goal is to be more active on here again (maybe accept some X-mas requests?👀)

Let me know what you think of Renaissance!Leon! 🩷

Where would you have a lil romp with him?

More Leon and others -> 💫

《Taglist》: @k-fallingstar @dmitriene @vampkennedy @allysunny @withonly-sweetheart @entr4p3 @leonslittlekennedy

Lmk if you want to be added <3

[d1rtypuppy]

i had the most profound gender euphoria i’ve ever experienced today. i was applying oil to my chest so i could take off my transtape in the shower, and i was just kind of scrolling on my phone, passing the time a little. occasionally i’d glance at myself in the mirror while waiting a few minutes to let the oil sit.

i saw my growing body hair, my light dusting of stomach hair that continues to fan out towards my sides and the thickening happy trail creeping downwards, and i felt so overwhelmingly excited that it’s starting to thicken and spread.

suddenly, i had this thought… “i love being me.” and honestly, i’ve never felt that way before in my entire life. i started crying genuine tears of joy for the first time ever. i could barely stand to look at myself in the mirror for a few minutes, but not because i hated what i saw. no, this time it was hard to look at myself because i was overwhelmed to find that i didn’t hate what i saw.

then i found myself wondering if this is what transphobes are so afraid of; a 20 year old trans kid reduced to tears of joy on a random saturday afternoon in front of his bathroom mirror because things are finally starting to feel right, my body is beginning to feel like my own? because for once i want to live?

it has been a very long time since i have imagine a future for myself but i’m starting to.

what a beautiful experience being trans is. no one will ever take it from me. death before detransition.

[blissfullyecho]

A Very Niche Level-Up + Looksmaxxing Idea List for 2025

This list is for the girls that get it. It’s niche and not for everyone, but I’m throwing up at the fact that every “how to level up in 2025” post talks about journaling sad pages 24/7, drinking 8 cups of water a day, and walking 10k steps. How original.

Again, this is a very niche set of ideas. If you can’t relate then you can’t relate. But if you enjoy a good plastic surgery post and luxe lifestyle, maybe you will :)

1. Upgrade your car. We’re getting the Lexus’, the BMW’s, the Mercedes, the Jag’s, etc.

2. Upgrade your home. We’re living in high rises, we’re living in coastal areas, we’re living up in the mountains, we’re living where Amazon can drop our package off and we don’t have to worry about a porch pirate; we’re living in nice areas and in nice units/homes.

3. Breast augmentation.

4. Rhinoplasty.

5. Medical grade skincare.

6. Fresh, organic whole foods; focusing on lean protein, nuts and seeds, mushrooms, onions, leafy greens, pro/prebiotics, sea moss gel, etc.

7. Russian manicures and pedicures or a good acrylic set. Dip powder had its thing for a while but I’m not going to dip my nail in a powder everyone else dipped their nails. I bet they don’t even wash their hands and if they did, they prob didn’t even use soap.

8. Laser hair removal. Everywhere. If you want a design down there that’s cool, but you literally use the bathroom and it drips in the hair. “Oh but I use a wipe”. Okay, next time you need to wash your hair.. don’t use shampoo. Use a wipe. Invest in a bidet but still, hair shouldn’t be in your 🍑 or near the sensitive areas of your 🦋 the top is fine but if you have a period, pee, or “the other thing”, hair should be no where near those areas.

9. Lip filler. Everyone can benefit. Ask for a pout that sticks out a little bit. I don’t suggest a lip flip, I couldn’t do anything with a lip flip and it was driving me nuts.

10. Fake tan. Sunlight is fine but a spray tan just makes you look a million times better. Every skin tone and every race benefits from a spray tan. Trust.

11. Muscle definition. Muscle looks so much better than fat AND bones. You want muscle. Did you see how Bella Hadid had her foot on our necks at the VS fashion show this year? I was sickkkkkk.

12. Long hair. But if you have a face shape like Hailey Beiber, short hair looks better.

13. Makeup. Remember water-based products and oil-based products don’t mix, so make sure you choose your products wisely so your makeup doesn’t separate and you look a mess.

14. A better paying job. I left my hospital job and now I work in luxury real estate and international yacht sales.

15. Red light therapy for face and body. I have a body red light therapy dome that I got online for around $3,000 (USD) and it’s life. The one I have for the face is from Sephora and I spent like $400-$500 on that one. Whatever it says on the website.

16. Lashes. If you’re a pro at strip lashes, then yes. But I get my lashes done. Do not go crazy. Natural lashes are in so I ask for a classic whispy set focused for thickening my lash line and NOT for length.

17. Morpheus8 for skin tightening. I used it on my inner thighs and it literally saved my life

18. Lipo. If you’re a good candidate, get it. Sometimes belly pooch is hard to lose. I don’t have a pooch but I’m sure when I have kids I will.

19. Vampire facials. I can confidently say my best facials were vampire facials. My med spa charges around $950 for each facial

20. People can tell you’re wearing Shein. Their clothes are cute online but I’m going to hold your hand when I say this, they never look flattering in person when they’re being worn. People can see the loose thread and the see-through material. They also don’t fit anyone well and makes a lot of you look square. You get what you pay for in clothing. Learn about the basics of clothing and you’ll quickly only buy quality.

Yeah this list isn’t meant for everyone, but walking 10,000 steps isn’t going to take you to the next level. Neither is drinking water. They’re good habits, but they’re not going to level you up. And yeah I understand my list requires having money, but this is literally what my blog is about.

My 2025 Mindset Level Up book is here!

[brainz4sale]

trans masc dysphoria tip!! 🏳️‍⚧️

✨ ROSEMARY WATER / COCONUT OIL ✨

helps to grow and thicken bodyhair :3

you can buy it cheap or just make it yourself! It’s not a gendered product and easily accessible <3 for me personally it works wonders when I apply it all over me every few days :3 I also recommend eye brow brushes to temporarily dye facial hair! just make sure to find the right tone and not stain your face

[butchgatha]

your love was unmoved

pairing: agatha harkness x rio vidal

summary: agatha enchants her strap-on. it's still just smut.

warnings: smut, dom/sub (sub!rio), enchanted dildo, blow jobs, face fucking, dirty talk, objectification

w/c: 5k

men + minors dni | ao3 link | masterlist

Though the sight of Agatha’s robe, thin and silky and clinging to her bare body as she emerged from the bathroom, was a familiar sight close to bedtime, the outline of something thick and protruding hanging down from her hips was not. 

Rio usually took this opportunity to ogle at her from bed, to look at her still glistening from whatever sweet-smelling oil she’d just rubbed into her skin, to take in the sight of her long hair hanging loose and detangled down her back, but she found herself particularly enraptured by her this night.

She pushed the covers down her bare legs and crawled to Agatha’s side of the mattress, moving closer and closer as Agatha seemingly paid her no mind. Her next stop, routinely, was the dresser so she could pick out a pair of pyjamas, which were always much nicer than Rio’s chosen combination of underwear and a big t-shirt, but she did no such thing. Instead, she stood a few yards away from the bed on the rug in the middle of the room, still ignoring Rio’s prying eyes, and dropped the loosely wrapped garment from her shoulders. 

When all she did was stand, motionless except for the way she inspected the nails on her left hand in what Rio assumed was feigned interest, Rio stood from the bed and crossed over to her. One, two, three steps and she was planted firmly in front of Agatha, her arms hanging at her sides pathetically as she silently pleaded for Agatha’s attention, begging her to acknowledge the implement hanging between them or even Rio herself.  

“What?” Agatha asked, not looking up from her own hand. 

Rio sighed, tongue jutting over to one side in her mouth in annoyance. “I missed you.” 

“Oh, did you?” 

Something sounded accusatory, frustrated, so Rio did what she knew and sank to her knees, the rug soft on the exposed skin. She let her hands trail down Agatha’s sides, her nails raking gently across supple skin, until her hands rested on her lover’s full hips. She was face to face with Agatha’s strapped-on dildo, a purple one they both quite liked, the one that was almost too big. 

“I did,” Rio said softly, distracted slightly by the sight before her. 

Agatha sneered then, a jeering laugh falling from her lips as she tipped her head back, then, before Rio could even register, her hands were thrown off Agatha’s hips and her lithe fingers had grabbed her by the face. Agatha was leaning down now, face to face with Rio’s pathetic attempt to keep her face even in response to Agatha’s roughness. 

Fingertips pressed firm into Rio’s cheeks, holding her back with an unyielding grip. “Do you think you deserve to be on your knees for me?” 

The question confused Rio immensely. It was laced with something, a probing code that she knew she’d need to crack to get where she wanted to be, but as the air thickened in her lungs she found it harder and harder to think.

“Answer me,” Agatha spat, wrenching Rio’s chin up higher so she was forced to stare right up into her eyes. “Should I let you apologize to me this way? Can I trust you to do it right, or should I worry you’ll break your word again?” 

Oh… “I am sorry, Agatha, really, I mean-” Rio sighed, her brow furrowing. “I apologized to you when I got home, but truly, my love. I’m sorry for disappearing for so long, I didn’t mean to.” 

Something flitted across Agatha’s face then, and Rio understood–she’d long accepted her apology, it wasn’t really about that. A hunger filled her features at Rio’s apology, at her immediate responsiveness and remorse, a certain sadistic edge hardening her gaze. 

“Well maybe that’s just not enough for me,” Agatha pushed, voice level and biting and so delicious as it hit Rio’s ears. “Prove that you’re sorry. Show me how much you love me and maybe I’ll believe you.” 

The beginnings of something twisting and raw brimmed low in Rio’s stomach. There was a certain snark that only ever came about when Agatha wanted something, when she needed to see Rio give in to her, when she itched to be merciless even for just a little while, and she saw it in her at that moment. Nothing had happened yet, barely a touch had passed between them save for Agatha’s bruising hold on her face, but just her tone was enough to send Rio careening into a pit of her own desperation. 

From the way Agatha was smirking, smiling like she was scheming something sinister, Rio knew she wouldn’t be relieved of the budding ache anytime soon. 

“Please let me make it up to you,” Rio pleaded, exaggerating her tone and pouting just enough to let Agatha know she’d play ball, that she was in for whatever she had in store. “I’ll do anything you want, I sw-”

Agatha let Rio’s face go roughly, effectively interrupting her. “Don’t just say it, then,” she scoffed. “Words don’t mean anything out of your useless mouth, anyway. I want you to suck my cock.” 

Rio’s stomach lurched at the sharpness of her tone, at her merciless words, but, more than that, she felt a throb at how Agatha reduced her to nothing in one fell swoop. She wasn’t an equal any longer, no, she was on her knees for her lover, manhandled by her voice alone into something Agatha wanted her to be. She was objectified so swiftly, moulded into something else so instantly she forgot what it was like to be anything else. 

“That okay with you, hon? You got enough going on in that dumb little head to get this right, or do you need me to do it for you?” 

A shaky breath drew in as Rio attempted to still her swimming thoughts. “I can, Agatha, I’ll be good.” 

“Alright, then. Get to it.”

She sounded so aloof, so purposefully detached, and though Rio understood the facade perfectly she wanted to break it. She loved when Agatha was mean, when she didn’t give her any room to squirm out of her iron grip, when she took charge with no mercy, but she also loved to see her struggle. She yearned to see that twitch at the corners of her eyes, ached to hear her breath quicken, or even catch a poorly concealed moan, so she leaned in, determined. 

Agatha picked up the dildo in her fist and, languidly, Rio lolled her tongue out of her mouth, deliberately teasing as she stared straight up into her eyes. From below, she could see the way Agatha’s chest was heaving, her breath bated, her lips parted gently. There was a look she got, one of pure arousal, one of anticipation and borderline impatience, like her entire body was about to crumble under the buzzing static of her desire. Rio saw it as a challenge, like there was a moan, the kind she knew Agatha would fight tooth and nail, caught in her throat that was itching to escape–it was up to her to free it. 

She would. 

Forward she leaned, closer and closer to the thick purple dildo being presented to her like a gift, until she couldn’t lean anymore, until all she could do was close the gap. Gingerly, testing the waters of her own willingness and the depth of Agatha’s arousal as it etched itself across her face, she licked the underside of the phallus and Agatha gasped. 

This wasn’t one of her wanton moans, the ones she usually let out when Rio was being particularly obedient in that helpless way that made Agatha want to fuck her harder–something she knew from how many times Agatha had told her–, no, this was different. This was the type of gasp she let out when she finally lowered herself onto Rio’s waiting mouth, when she finally touched her own clit after fucking Rio raw. 

Curious, Rio did it again, tongue dripping with saliva as she laved it in a longer stripe along the bottom. 

“Fuck,” Agatha hissed. 

The reaction sent something creeping and hot through to her stomach where it sizzled, popping as it melted into the arousal already growing there. Inklings of truth were sprouting in Rio’s mind, but they wilted in the heat, not a coherent thought to be found in her head. 

Agatha must have noticed the look on her face, one devoid of all thought, far-off and brainless, because she began to laugh. The sound was cruel and mocking, mean in the way she only ever was with Rio. An undercurrent of arousal flitted through her lilting–she enjoyed seeing Rio so out of it. 

Tongue still out, Rio pulled back and settled onto her haunches. Peering up at Agatha’s face, she saw that taunting look; a raised brow, lips pulled into a smirk, something wild and uncontrolled in her eye that came only with desperate need. This was an expression she only ever wore with Rio, and she knew it well.

Agatha knew something, she was keeping something from her and god it was driving her crazy. It was almost patronizing, so condescending it made Rio’s cheeks bloom hot with embarrassment, but the feeling went straight through to her cunt, clit throbbing as the humiliation settled over her. Agatha wanted her to ask, wanted her to admit she didn’t know, 

“What-”

“Use that delightful little brain of yours, sweetheart. You tell me.” 

She said it as she stroked her length, fingers wrapped firmly around its thick width, her eyes softening the longer she went. When Agatha bit her lip, the pretty pink tugged between her shiny white teeth, Rio glanced down to the dildo once more; curious. Then, as Agatha’s hips bucked and a quiet whimper slipped from her, Rio’s eyes widened and shot back up to her face. 

“Did you-”

“There you go… smart girl.” 

The way Agatha kept cutting her off, not even letting her finish her thought before doubling down in that tone… god it was making her head spin. Her face was heating up, nearly numb as she grew needier, her desperation thrumming under her skin so exquisitely it was difficult to focus on anything else. 

“I want to feel how sorry you are.” 

Though she could barely think, Rio opened her mouth to say something more, to tell Agatha she wanted to make her feel good, that she would do a good job, anything, but then, into her hair, Agatha’s hands tangled. Her fingers, demanding and firm, threaded through right at the crown of her head. The touch shot right to Rio’s gut, a reminder of who was in control. While she was bringing Agatha pleasure, it was at her behest–she was nothing more than a vessel for Agatha’s fantasies. Dumbed down and ready for the taking, that was how Rio liked it best. 

By her hair, Agatha tugged her in, guiding the strap into her mouth. It laid heavy on her tongue, weighty and large, and Rio waited for Agatha to pull her further, to move her hips, to do something, but it never came. Slowly, as Agatha’s hand loosened against her scalp, Rio realized it would be up to her to get started, that Agatha wanted her to do it herself; she wanted a show. 

Wrapping her lips around the tip of the dildo, Rio began to suck. Her tongue ran along the base as she bobbed her head forward, stopping and receding only when she felt the end ghosting near the back of her throat. She was only getting halfway down, not quite ready for more, so she brought one hand up and wrapped her fingers around gently, squeezing only just-so, only until she heard Agatha intake a breath rather sharply. Rio doubled down, speeding up just a bit as she coordinated her hand to her mouth, emboldened by the effect she was having on Agatha. 

Around the girth in her mouth, around the dildo that was already making her jaw ache, Rio moaned. Agatha’s hand tightened in her hair then and she sighed deeply; when Rio looked up her eyes were closed, a look of bliss overtaking her features. 

Agatha looked heavenly this way, practically drunk on the pleasure Rio was giving her, and even as her knees ached Rio couldn’t imagine stopping. So, she pushed herself, just a little bit, and finally forced more of Agatha’s length into her mouth. 

She gagged on it immediately, of course she did, but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t make her cunt throb. The sound was vulgar, vile, maybe even disgusting, but Agatha’s fingers twitched and so did her hips and god it didn’t even matter how they should have reacted, because Rio could tell it affected Agatha just as much as it did her. Again, she took her deeper, trying her damndest to relax enough to let more in to no avail; she gagged again and her eyes started to water, tears beginning to drip down her cheeks and onto her shirt in a pathetic show of effort. 

It took her a moment to notice Agatha’s eyes trailed back on her between the tears and the way her eyes closed each time she gagged, but when she did notice it made her stomach churn. There was something feral there, something depraved that she hoped Agatha would act on, so she kept her gaze turned up as she bobbed her head once more. 

“Shit, that’s it, good girl,” Agatha rasped. “Just like that.” 

Agatha’s breathing was so tense that Rio could hear it over the sound of her own gagging, like she was holding something carnal and demanding back with everything in her, like she was one move away from losing all self-control–Rio wished she would. 

As if she’d had the exact same thought, Agatha wrenched Rio off of her then, a sick smile on her face as she assessed the damage to Rio’s messy face. Rio swallowed the saliva still gathering in her throat, thick and stringy from gagging on Agatha’s cock. She could feel how puffy her lips were, how hot they were, and she could only assume they were burning red, too, just like her cheeks. In Agatha’s eyes, all she could find was unadulterated attraction, a craving desire, a cruel sort of apathy for Rio’s spent condition, all of which only added fuel to the messy fire in Rio’s cunt. 

More heat leaked from her as Agatha palmed the dildo once more, her mouth twitching ever-so-slightly as she felt it–it was obvious she’d forgotten momentarily, and had Rio been in any other position she might have laughed. Instead, she sat obediently, remaining pliant for her determined lover, and continued gazing up with big eyes, waiting for what would come next. 

The purple silicone was still wet, shining with Rio’s spit, so when Agatha brought the tip to Rio’s lips, all it did was make a mess. She dragged it around, spreading the viscous fluid around Rio’s mouth, making her face half-sticky and dirty as she hummed. 

“So pretty,” Agatha mused. “Your face is so messy, baby. Such a filthy girl…” 

She continued the mindless motions, her hand stroking languidly up and down as she went, keeping it up for so long Rio found herself lulled into something softer with the repetition. All she could think of was Agatha, Agatha’s hands, Agatha’s body, Agatha’s cock, her own throbbing need dulling the further she sank. 

It was still there, of course, a warm ache that seemed perpetual, but she couldn’t care about her own desire when Agatha was looking at her this way, when she was dumbed down to nothing but a mouth, something to bring Agatha pleasure. 

She should have been embarrassed by how quickly Agatha spotted the shift, by the immediacy with which she turned her own tone around, from demeaning and cruel to softer and more possessive, but she wasn’t, she couldn’t be, not even as Agatha spoke her own mother tongue, the final nail in her coffin. 

“Abre de nuevo, mi amor.”

Fuck if that didn’t hit her square in the gut. She complied instantly, her lips parting slowly just as Agatha had told her. 

“Just keep your tongue out and let me use your mouth.” Agatha was practically cooing, speaking so, so softly in such stark contrast to the filth of her words. “You don’t have to do anything, I know you love it when I treat you like a stupid little toy… a thing.” 

The wanton ache radiating from deep in Rio’s stomach was sinful, criminal, even, and she let out a whimper as it worsened; Agatha’s dirty reveries only ever tightened the coil around which Rio was wound, only ever pushed her deeper into the spiral of her need. 

Chin tipping up, Rio opened her mouth wider, her tongue flat against the bottom of her mouth as she presented her face to her lover. Please take it, she said silently. Use me. She could see Agatha watching her, a look of darkened desire painting her exquisite features, so she made a show of it; her tongue pushed out slowly, an image of self-control in the face of the demanding arousal seeping through her as she presented her mouth to her lover. 

Agatha’s breath shuddered on its way in–Rio could hear it over the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears–, then she spoke, all calm and even: “That’s right, Rio, sit pretty and I’ll have my way with you.” 

Both of Agatha’s hands were on Rio’s head now, cupping the sides of her face rather insistently as she moved her hips forth. The noise that escaped her when she pushed into Rio’s throat was obscene, more so than even the choking noise Rio let out, and she couldn’t even care that her breath was cut off when she knew what it was doing to Agatha. It was her mouth bringing her such euphoric bliss, her tongue pressing against the underside of her cock, her face that Agatha was holding to get herself there. 

Even if she tried, Rio wouldn’t have been able to think of anything else, not when she knew Agatha could feel her relaxing as best she could, not when she knew Agatha could tell she was trying. She’d done this many times, but never when she was able to pick up every twitch, every miniscule movement–she’d know exactly how good Rio was being, no question about it. 

Agatha was slowly losing whatever control she had left over herself, Rio could tell by how uneven her breathing was, how loudly and lewdly she was moaning. She was rambling, too, babbling something barely coherent about being so proud, how Rio was so good and oh, fuck, baby your mouth is perfect–she was clearly chasing the edge, reaching for it desperately and using Rio to get there. 

“So close.” It was a breath, a whisper Rio almost didn’t hear. “Gonna come in your mouth and then, shit, I promise you’ll get a turn.” 

Through the tears in her eyes, Rio saw Agatha’s jaw drop, a crude groan escaping her as she all but stilled, all her muscles tensing. She was coming, for all intents and purposes, right into Rio’s mouth, and the notion sent Rio into a frenzy. With clumsy hands, she grabbed at the base of the dildo and wrangled her head from Agatha’s grip so she could fuck her through it, her mouth and hands moving in tandem to milk every ounce of pleasure from Agatha’s body. She wished then that she could reap some sort of proof of Agatha’s orgasm, that she could bury her face in Agatha’s certainly-sloppy pussy and taste the fruit of her labour, but that was a thought for later. Instead, she worked diligently to pull every last shaking wave of satisfaction from Agatha’s climax, so diligently, in fact, that she only stopped when Agatha jerked back and away from her, chest heaving from exertion. 

“Get on the bed.” Was all she said, eyes wild and completely animal, and Rio didn’t hesitate for a second before pushing to her feet and scrambling toward the mattress. 

Rio collapsed against the pillows face up, eyes immediately finding Agatha as she caught her breath. “I love when you do that,” she said, voice raspy and broken from having her face used thoroughly. She said it sort of mindlessly, like it was accidentally out loud rather than a purposeful statement. “Use your magick on the strap, I mean.” 

Agatha laughed, the tension between them easing momentarily as they recovered. “I know you do,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “That’s why I don’t do it very often.” 

“Boo.” 

“Shut up.” 

And just like that they were back. 

Agatha was next to the bed a second later, eyeing Rio with this look, one that refreshed the stewing heat dripping into her underwear. 

“Turn over.” 

Rio obliged instantly, skin itching to feel Agatha’s touch in any form. In the moments since Agatha finished, she found her own need growing exponentially, whatever she’d been ignoring in favour of pleasing Agatha all returning to the surface with an intensity she hadn’t ever felt. Every inch of her called for Agatha, needed to make her feel good all over again in hopes she’d receive something in return. 

“Ass up.” 

Face in the pillows, Rio picked up her knees under her to present herself to her lover. She arched her back in the way Agatha liked best, but resisted the urge to shift around in hopes of enticing her, knowing Agatha would give her what she wanted in due time. It felt like an eternity that she waited, still as she could be, before Agatha’s weight dipped the mattress next to her. 

A hand eased between Rio’s shoulder blades, soft and gentle and so unlike her recent treatment that she whimpered quietly at it, the tenderness shooting through her like electricity. 

Agatha hummed. “So needy…” 

Rio didn’t speak, didn’t dare look, just waited as Agatha traced her nails down her covered spine until she reached the swell of her ass. As she rounded her body, her hands began to knead, but Rio knew better than to assume it was out of kindness. She was just trying to wind her up tighter, and it was working. 

“No?” Agatha said, pout audible on her voice. “Nothing to say about me taking my time?” 

Rio squeezed her eyes shut. “Whatever you want.” 

“Very good. I think I’m starting to believe you’re sorry.” 

“I am.” 

Another hum. “Well, then,” Agatha began. “It sounds like someone deserved a reward for all her hard work.” 

Rio caved. “Please, Agatha, I need you.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I know. You’ve done so well.” 

Not even bothering to remove her panties, Agatha pulled them aside and ran the tip of the dildo through Rio’s drenched pussy, just missing her clit as she went. It was degrading to be defiled by Agatha’s cock when she was still clothed–or, as clothed as she ever was at this time of night–, and the knowledge that Agatha needed to be inside her badly enough that she forewent even allowing Rio a moment to undress… god the thought made her shudder.

“You ruined your panties, you poor thing,” Agatha teased, a hand tugging at the fabric around Rio’s hips. “And look at this mess…” She swirled some of Rio’s arousal around, only adding to the aching feeling of depravity she felt. “Did you get all wet while I was using you, baby?” With a whine, Rio nodded, but it wasn’t enough for Agatha. “No. Tell me.” 

“I got wet while you fucked my face, Agatha,” Rio mumbled. Agatha pushed forward just a bit then, the tip slipping every so slightly inside, and Rio moaned. “Please.” 

“So impatient.” 

But she didn’t deny her. Agatha finally sank into her, all but splitting her open from the inside, and let out a loud groan as she did. Rio choked on her own sounds, body so taut with the long-awaited, stinging pleasure of Agatha inside of her that she short-circuited. She’d felt this dildo before, she knew its curve and its weight and the way it filled her just right, always just a bit too big to start, but knowing Agatha could feel her… 

“Shit, you feel so good,” Agatha breathed, her hips finally hitting Rio’s ass. “I’ll never get used to how warm you are, god, you’re so fucking wet…” She was rambling, maybe even just as worked up as Rio was as she began to pull out slowly. “Do you feel that? Can you feel yourself leaking out around me?” 

And by god, could she… Rio’s head was spinning with the overwhelming sensations, heightened by the notion of Agatha feeling it all, too, of Agatha feeling every little twitch and pushing back as Rio bore down on the intrusion. Body spasming desperately in response to the building pleasure, Rio finally let a whine loose, nearly screaming into the pillow when Agatha sped up, thrusting back inside of her harder and faster and-

By her shoulder, Rio felt Agatha tugging her backwards, pulling her torso up from the bed until she was leaning right back against her. Agatha’s breasts pressed into the rippling muscles of her back, her nipples pebbled and hard–it was all Rio could do not to turn right around and fasten her lips around one of them, current predicament be damned–, and her arms were holding Rio tightly. One around her stomach kept her from squirming, from wrenching herself away from the intensity, and the other had her by the face, tipping her back against her shoulder so all her sounds were funnelled right into her ear. 

“Let me hear you, baby,” Agatha rasped. “Don’t hold back, show me how badly you need me, tell me how good this feels.” 

The angle had changed just so, just enough that each time Agatha bottomed out inside of Rio’s gushing cunt, the tip of her cock brushed right against her sweet spot, the one that melted her bones and made her cry out. Over and over again she did it, milking Rio’s pleasure from her wanton body, her desperate and shaking frame, dragging moan after moan from her tired throat. 

“I know you’re close, but just wait, please,” Agatha pleaded, her rhythm growing uneven. “Wait for me, Rio, come with me” 

“Are you close?” Rio asked, her question breathy and almost incomprehensible over the sounds of her own pussy and their breath. 

Agatha nodded, a moan falling from her mouth and right into Rio’s neck a second later. “Yes, fuck-” her hips bucked- “you feel so good. Just a little longer, please, I need to feel you.” 

Such a simple request, really, but it made Rio’s stomach tighten exceptionally. Agatha was there, too, on the brink, but she was asking her to wait, to give her just a bit more time to feel her from the inside and-

“Shit, Agatha,” Rio whined. “Please, I can’t, I need to-”

“It’s okay, baby, come for me,” Agatha said shakily, her hold on Rio’s waist tightening. “Come with me.” 

Rio nearly screamed when she finally let go, when the coil in her gut finally released after so much lead-up. If Agatha hadn’t been behind her with a firm grip on her, she surely would have collapsed in a heap as her body succumbed to her orgasm. It ripped through her, waves hitting her full force as she shook against Agatha. Somewhere outside herself, through the thick layers of ecstasy, she was aware of Agatha doing the same, shaking and tensing up under her, breathy sounds spilling from her. 

Rio wished she could drink up Agatha’s sounds, taste the pleasure as it tumbled off her tongue, and so she did. With what little strength she could muster she lifted her head and captured Agatha’s mouth with hers in a sloppy kiss. It was a mess, teeth and noses clashing, but it was just what Rio needed to remain on Earth, to keep herself from floating away in a cloud of her own pleasure. Agatha’s lips brought her home. 

Finally, after what felt like centuries, Agatha’s arm loosened and Rio fell gracelessly forward and back onto the pillows. Agatha rid herself quickly of the harness and followed shortly after, her body landing half on top of Rio’s, and she laughed. It was such a sweet sound that Rio felt her chest swell. 

“God, I love you,” Rio whispered. 

Agatha’s chin lifted and landed on her shoulder. “I know, I’m really good at that.”

“You don’t love me?” She said it with sickeningly convincing faux-hurt, her brow furrowing and quivering as it did, bottom lip jutting out as she peered back at Agatha. 

For a split second, Agatha’s face clouded with concern, but when the tail of Rio’s brow lifted it came crashing down. “You suck.” “Say you love me, Harkness.” 

A long pause. “I love you, too,” Agatha said finally, a yawn trailing after. 

“Much better. But don’t fall asleep, I need to wash my face.” 

Agatha laughed at that and pushed herself off, rolling right over next to her. “I’m barely even tired.” 

“Suuuuure,” Rio teased, a chuckle lilting her voice as Agatha yawned again. “I’ll tuck you in when you fall asleep.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Right.” 

Rio pushed herself up onto her elbows, hell-bent on terrorizing Agatha just a bit more while she regained stability in her legs. She was facing away from her, face covered by hair when Rio leaned over to look. Gently, she pulled the offending pieces away, brushing them back and tucking them behind her ear, waiting for a snide remark or something sickeningly sweet–it was always a mixed bag after sex–, but instead found Agatha already asleep. She was snoring softly, and it took everything in Rio not to tease her about it. 

Instead, she just kissed her cheek. “Sweet dreams, my love.” 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!”

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until he broke his sparring partner's arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

[navyhealthyglow]

appearence; "is she glowing?" - glow up guide no.2

Hey love, how are you doin?

Today we'll cover the next part of our glow up journey - our looks. So without further ado, let's begin!

I prepared a list of things you can do in order to boost your looks, and take care of yourself at the same time, so you can glow up<3

FACE:

⟶ don't pick your pimples!!! It's the worst thing you can do when dealing with acne/spots/blackheads etc. Instead go see a dermatologist. You can also use salicylic acid, azelaic acid or pimple patches ⟶ start double cleansing to remove all makeup and dirts from your face. Use an oil cleanser first, and a water based one afterwards. ⟶ use vitamin C to brighten your skin and give it this healthy glow ⟶ diet is also very important to keep your face clean and glowy. Make sure you're not eating too much sugar and processed foods that may cause inflammation. ⟶ use makeup according to your face shape and to enhance your features. ⟶ depuff your face using ice cubes, gua sha and face massages ⟶ When you sleep on our side, your face is pressed against the pillow causing acne and wrinkles, so sleep on your back or invest in a silk/satin pillowcase to reduce friction. ⟶ make sure you're using spf 50 daily

BODY:

⟶ move your body! Find an acitivy that you enjoy and move your body daily. You can go to the gym, find a class (like pilates or spinning maybe?) or just workout at home, stretch or go on walks. I personally love dancing and stretching, and I also try to walk at least 10k steps a day. ⟶ check up at the doctors regularly to make sure you're healthy ⟶ make sure you're sleeping enough, this is very important if you want to feel and look your best. Studies recommend at least 7 hours for and adult, and minimum 8 hours for teenagers ⟶ diet, im sorry but this is key to a healthy lifestyle and body. A healty, balanced diet with lots of fruit and vegetables and whole foods is essencial. Make sure to get enough protein and healthy fats in. I am not a medical professional, so if you have any special needs, allergies or you are in treatment consult any dietetary changes with your doctor or a certified dietetician. ⟶ use a nourishing body wash and after the shower use a lotion to moisturise your skin. And use deodorant after every shower. ⟶ exfoliate using a scrub or an exfoliating glove once/twice a week to keep your skin soft ⟶ you can take a pumice stone to soften the rough skin on your feet, and make sure to clean and cut your toenails. ⟶ find a signature scent, I recommend perfumes as they last longer but scented mists are also good. Bonus points if you have a lotion in the same smell to enhance the scent. ⟶ this is optional, but if you'd like to take your body care to the next level, everything showers are amazing! I do one about every two weeks on sundays. This is the time for you to take a cozy bath, exfoliate, wash your hair, maybe do a face mask? There is no right or wrong for an everything shower, just make yourself feel good and clean the way you like it<3

HAIR:

⟶ wash your hair 2-4x a week depending on your needs. Don't wash your hair daily as it can cause damaged hair and a dry, itchy scalp. If your hair gets greasy easily, try to at least wash it every other day. ⟶ use a hair mask once a week ⟶ I find that the best hair care is according to your hair porosity. You can check it with the glass of water test.  Simply take a clean, product-free strand of loose hair and put it in a glass of water. If the hair floats at the top then it is low porosity, if it sinks slowly or settles in the middle it is medium/normal porosity, and if it sinks straight to the bottom then it is high porosity. ⟶ every night before bed apply hair oil to your ends and put your hair in a protective hairstyle such as loose braid to keep it from damage while you sleep. ⟶ use rosemary or argan oil to grow and thicken your hair ⟶ trim split/damaged ends when needed ⟶ you can use a scalp scrubber to better clean all the dirt and scalp build up ⟶ avoid excessive heat and when you do, use heat protection

CLOTHES:

⟶ rather than buying every microtrend that exist, invest in quality pieces and create a capsule wardrobe. Keep in mind to adjust it to your own personal style, or if you don't have one you can look ideas up on pinterest. ⟶ wear accesories! Necklaces, bracelets, sunglasses etc can elevate your looks by 1000x! Find out whether gold or silver fits you the best, or maybe you find diamonds or pearls a better fit? ⟶ keep your clothes clean and neat, iron them when needed to avoid looking slumpy

ESSENTIALS:

⟶ brush your teeth 2x a day ⟶ brush and detangle your hair ⟶ use a lip balm to hydrate your lips ⟶ always keep a hand cream near to use when needed ⟶ get enough sleep ⟶ move your body and eat healthy ⟶ stay hydrated, drink at least 2l of water a day

That's everything for today sparkles, I hope you enjoyed this post and I am waiting for your comments on how your glow up journey is going<3

Find me here: 🤍💿

#navyhealthyglow - all my og content #navyhealthytips - glow up tips #navyhealthyjourney - my glow up journey

My other blogs: 📖💙

@navyisstudying - study blog

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Mad Maxxing - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Just your average Zaunite road trip...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

"You're smiling," Sevika says.

"I know."

"Why?"

"You'll know soon enough."

And, daring, he lays a hand on the headrest of her seat. Nothing else. Just his hand, and the flying kiss of her hair against his knuckles.  But he can feel the border between public and private dissolving like a chalk sketch in the rain.

The subterfuge, he senses, has become a game of chicken. Sooner or later, one of them will break. The thrill is in feeling the tension ratchet higher and higher.

In bracing, as a magician prepares for the big reveal, for the pure, unbridled shock of inevitability.

A burst of white arcs across the horizon. The flash, so close and bright, nearly blinds them. A boom, seconds later, cracks the darkness open, from north to south.

Cursing, Sevika slams the brakes. Tires screech. Silco, jolted forward, catches himself against the dash. The entourage, likewise, rumbles to a halt. The air thickens with the scent of burning rubber. Silco hears, through the open window, the crackle of radios, and the rumble of idling engines, and the thunder of boots as a phalanx of blackguards swarm from their cars.

A second flare goes up. The light bathes the flatlands in a scorching flash.

"What the hell," Sevika mutters, and thumps a fist against the steering column. 

The radio crackles. She snatches the receiver, and the distorted squawks resolve: the scouts on duty, reporting back from the perimeter. The soundscape beyond the vehicle is a chorus of shouts and loading guns. At the horizon, a dark line bleeds into unreal brightness. The night's torn open. And spilling forth, by inches, is a row of armored vehicles.

"Shit," Sevika breathes, and turns the ignition.

"What is it?" Silco demands.

She jerks the gearstick. "Eramis."

"Ah."

Silco smiles.

There's the diversion. Right on schedule.

Sevika relays orders into the radio. The entourage rolls headlong into the fray. Silco, no longer smiling, keeps low in the seat. He'd anticipated that Eramis would retaliate to his township's takeover. That he's responded, so soon, with a show of force bodes well.

It means the bastard's rattled, and ripe for the picking.

Sevika, in her element, steers the entourage with ruthless efficiency. Over the radio, she raps a rapidfire succession of orders to the scouts, and relays a series of tactical maneuvers to the blackguards. Eramis' convoy is a dirty-dozen. Six motorcars are equipped with gun nests, and six semi-trucks are laden with canons.

A formidable force, if it weren't for one factor.

Sevika's own fleet has sevenfold the firepower. And, more importantly, she's got her finger on the pulse of Eramis' psyche.

"He's trying to pull a feint," she says, as she takes the first curve at full speed. "He knows his toys are no match for ours. He's planning something. I can feel it."

"So can I." Silco stares out into the jagged horizon. "The ravine's up ahead."

"He'll try to force us there with an arrowhead move, and pin us against the ridge. Then the trucks will roll in, and the canons will start blazing." Her face is set in grim concentration, and her hands move with the surety of oiled sprockets. "We'll split the caravan. Meet his charge with the first half, send the second half around. Box him in, and cut him down."

"Are the scouts prepped for the maneuver?"

"Stocked, locked, and ready."

"Then, by all means," Silco says, and his teeth cut bright as a blade in the dark. "Show him how it's done."

A third flare bursts overhead. In its brightness, the dimensions of the battle emerge. Eramis' troops, advancing steadily, have already breached the midway. As Sevika predicted, they are aimed for an arrowhead formation: six motorcars, at the vanguard, flanked by two semi-trucks. The canons, mounted atop the flatbeds, are armed and ready to rip.

Eramis himself will keep behind the convoy, in the biggest motorcar, until the battle's won. Then, the spoils will be his to collect, and the Ditch his to reclaim.

Except the spoils, and the Ditch, are already in the Eye's safekeeping.

The only thing waiting for Eramis is the long drop—and the short stop.

Sevika calls the entourage into formation. The two four-wheelers, armored and bristling, ride shotgun. The ten scouts, on the bikes, veer out, circling to form a blockade. The remaining entourage, zooming towards the arrowhead, cuts the distance in two.

As the gap shrinks, Eramis' troops open fire.

Machine-gun blasts rip through the night. The scouts, zigzagging across the plains, dodge the barrage with practiced ease. From their holsters, they unload, not gunfire but canisters, which they toss at the approaching motorcars. A shower of smoke pours from the canisters, and a thick miasma of smog rolls forth. The arrowhead, blinded, slows and stutters, losing momentum.

The blackguards, from the motorcars, make their move. Riding with the wind at their backs, they, too, split off and peel towards the arrowhead. Eramis' troops, struggling through the smoke, fire wildly. The air lights up. Bullets strike off the armor-plated cars. Divots ping against reinforced glass and alloyed chrome.

The entourage is undeterred.

With a surge of tremendous speed, the motorcars barrel forward. Then, at the last moment, they trifurcate into a three-pronged charge. One, a split-second ahead, veers sharply to the left. The second, at the rear, swerves hard to the right. The third, in the middle, plows forward, and drives the arrowhead broadside.

Gunfire cuts a wedge into the enemy's charge, and drives a spike through the core.  Eramis' troops, blindsided by the assault, struggle to hold their ground. Sparks fly and metal groans. The arrowhead becomes a sloppy arc, swinging wildly to and fro. Three of Eramis' motorcars begin fishtailing, then flipping, end over end, into the smoke. A truck skids to dodge the wreckage, and the canons, tipping with their weight, tear loose from their bindings. The vehicle tumbles, wheels-over-axels, and crashes into the dirt. The remaining three motorcars, screeching to a halt, are swallowed by the smog.

Meanwhile, the second prong of the entourage has circled around. It begins closing, by degrees, for the rear. The third, too, is closing in, from the opposite direction. As the smoke begins to clear, Eramis' troops find themselves pinned. Trapped by the wreckage and the Eye's encroaching riders, panic sets in. Retreat would be the sensible choice.

Eramis, tragically, is not a sensible man.

The remaining four semi-trucks, lagging behind the convoy, begin rolling full-tilt into the melee. Their canons, fully-operational, swivel and aim into the eye of the storm. With a deafening BOOM, the sky erupts. The force of the explosion splits the airwaves into a thousand screaming fragments. A  fireball rockets into the fray. The impact is a cataclysmic shockwave.

The Eye's entourage is thrown into disarray. One of the motorcars skids with a metallic screech, and rolls onto its side. A second, flipping, smashes head-on into the smoking hulk of Eramis' downed semi. The third, veering, narrowly misses a collision with a jutting boulder.  Three scouts, caught in the blast, are flung from their bikes. They land in the dirt, only to be crushed under the wheels of Eramis' advancing trucks.

Cursing, Sevika wrestles the wheel. Flaming spiders of debris pinball off the Humvee's windshield. A strip of metal, long as a broadsword, caroms off the hood and embeds itself in the asphalt. Silco braces himself against the dash. His ears are plugged as if with cotton. All he can hear is a high-pitched aria.

The curving sky beyond the glass is red with fire.

In her seat, Sevika stays centered. She's seen this scale of devastation before, and dished out worse. The canonfire is nasty, but its underlying impetus is a dead giveaway: Eramis has no clue what he's doing.

His only recourse is to run the field red. And take anyone and everyone down with him.

"Bastard," Sevika says, and floors it.

Tires shriek, and the Humvee shoots forward like earthbound lightning.  The road ahead, a patchwork of craters, is an obstacle course. But Sevika doesn't slow. She weaves, darts, and dodges, taking the terrain like a rampaging juggernaut.

When the chips are down, she's the best damn driver in the Fissures.

Over the radio, she shouts for the remaining troops to fall in. The second and third prongs of the entourage, shaken by the blast, regroup to surround her.  One, two, three, four, and they're rolling hot. The motorcars, pocked with scorchmarks, are still operational. The four-wheelers, similarly singed, have the treads to weather the worst. The surviving seven scouts have revved their bikes and are closing the gap.

"They're reloading for a second blast," Sevika shouts over the radio. "Don't give them the chance."

A chorus of affirmatives crackles over the line.

Silco keeps a steady grip on the dashboard. The road unspools beneath the tires. The night's clogged with fumes. But his adrenaline is redlined, and with it comes an absolute clarity of purpose: the cold-edged readiness for the kill.

The four semi-trucks, bearing down on them, are a wall of steel, with armor-plated grilles, battering-ram fronts and spike-studded chasers. Their canons, pouring smoke, are swiveling into position.

In Silco's own crosshairs falls a dinged-up Model T, fishtailing badly on its rightmost tread. It stays well back, behind the semi-trucks, and seems content to hang in the periphery. The glass is tinted and there are armed gunmen crouched on built-in platforms at either side of the hood. The passenger's an unknown quantity, but Silco recognizes the flashy gold-plated ornament winking on the bonnet: a gaudy pair of brass knuckles.

Eramis' calling card.

"Sevika," Silco says.

"I see the swine."

"Our priority target. The rest are window-dressing."

"Window-dressing with a side of canonfire."

"I've got a plan."

Sevika's eyes, in the rearview, cut him a glance. "Is it a good one?"

His lips tug, and Silco feels the smile down to the bone. "It will be."

Sevika listens to his terse instructions, and nods. With a flick of the radio switch, she passes the order along. 

The bikes, zigzagging in formation, break off from the Humvee's flank, and close the gap with the trucks. The canons, reloading, pivot to keep the bikes within their sightlines. Their artillery shells are the size of beer kegs, and the blast radius could level a railway. If the bikes get caught in the crossfire, they'll be obliterated.

"Stay tight," Sevika orders on the radio, "and keep a bead on the canons."

The bikes, in response, fan out, and close the gap further. They're a whirr of black chrome and flashing silver, their riders hunched low. The canons, tracking them, prepare to launch the second salvo. Sevika, watching through the rearview, grits her teeth.

"That's it," she mutters. "Just a little more..."

The canons' barrels swivel. A series of sharp clicks sound, as the mechanism locks. The gunners, braced, prepare to fire.

The scouts, a split-second in advance, make their move.

As one, they break formation, streaking off in separate directions. Reaching into their jackets, they lob a volley of little black spheres, which strike the semi-trucks with a resounding series of pings.  Each sphere is the size of a peach pit, and the surface is studded with tiny beads. As the spheres make contact, they burst, and a dark sticky webbing explodes from the center, adhering to the truck's wheels.

In an instant, the webbing solidifies, and the treads are locked into place. With a jolt, the semi-trucks lose traction. The canons, locked in position, are thrown off-balance—and wildly off-target. One truck swerves on its axis, and smashes broadside into the adjacent one. Its own cannons, ripped from their bindings, fly loose and pinwheel in a massive crunch of metal and sparks. The third truck, struggling to break, rams its cab into the wreckage. The canon arcs high and ejects a premature round. The shell, careening skyward, belches a rainbow of sizzling sparks.

"Now!" Sevika orders.

The bikes, dispersing, fall clear as the canons' artillery shell drops and detonates in mid-air—a moon-white zit swelling to swallow the stars. The concussion shears the night into pieces. The Deadlands are swallowed by a searing white light. As the heat washes over the plains, the air itself seems to liquify.

Silco's fingers, folded into Sevika's good ones, are the only anchor.

Her cybernetic handstays locked on the wheel. The Humvee's course is locked straight and steady.  As the blast ripples and ebbs into a distinct stink of ozone, the road resolves once more. The enemy's trucks are a wreckage enrobed in flames. Their canons are smoking hulks. The scout's bikes are circling in a tight formation, and the men, unharmed, are riding high.

All that guards Eramis' Model-T is one lone semi-truck.

Its treads are gummed up with the scouts' webbing. But its canons are intact. And the gunners, though shaken, are scrabbling along the flatbed, and struggling to reload a fresh round of shells.

The Humvee's wheels, spitting gravel, barrel straight ahead.

"Silco," Sevika says, and squeezes his hand before letting go. "In the back."

"The back?"

"Jinx. She left it there."

"Left what?"

"A parting gift." Her eyes lock on his in the rearview. "She must've stashed it, before she sailed off. I saw it in the backseat, when I went looking for you. Maybe she figured you'd need it."

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Silco turns, and reaches to the rear. His fingers grope blindly along the upholstery, until he finds the compartment beneath the backseat. Inside is a small wooden crate. It's wrapped, tightly, in canvas, and there's a note scrawled, in Jinx's unmistakably loopy handwriting.

Semper Paratus

XOXO

Silco pops the crate's lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of straw, are stacks of grenades. Chemical aerosols, shockwaves, incendiaries. And, a few rows down, the real gem: a trio of Chompers.  They're hand-tooled beauties, each with a detachable detonator that, at the squeeze of a button, will unleash a payload of barbed-wire shrapnel at a wounding radius of forty feet.

Silco chooses the biggest, and holds it up to the light. The canister's spraypainted with blue and pink stripes. The clockwork mechanism is crafted into a shark's pointy-toothed grin.

Silco's own grin threatens to split his face in half.

It's a as real as the risk. Real as the battle beyond. Real as the bloodied heart of Zaun waiting in the wings. 

Real as the girl who, wherever she goes, will always have his back.

"Sevika," he says.

"What?"

"Cut in close. I'm going to need a clear shot."

"Like hell," she says, not breaking her stride. "You stick your head out the window, they'll rip it clean off."

"I've no plans to stick my head out."

"Then where—"

"Eramis." He holds up the Chomper. "He deserves the honors."

It takes a moment for Sevika to catch on. When she does, a smile carves the stone of her features. Then, her hands a blur on the wheel, she cuts a hard left.  The Humvee accelerates to the head of the pack. The rest of the entourage follows, kicking up a roostertail of dust. Over the radio, Sevika issues her last orders.

"Blackguards," she raps, "engage. Scouts, with me."

As one, they blaze down the road.

Ahead, the sole remaining truck is struggling to regain traction. The treads are still gummed up. The axels are grinding, and the engine's whining at top pitch. But their artillery, as Sevika advances, is slotting into place. At a hundred yards equidistant, Eramis' Model-T is well out of range. But for the first time, the passenger window is rolled down. There's an unmistakable rotund silhouette peeking out at the advancing storm.  His guards, at the front, are already priming their weapons.

His cannons, finally reloaded, swivel and aimed square.  

"Ready?" Sevika calls.

Silco steadies himself against the seat. "Floor it."

Sevika veers left. The Humvee, swinging hard, cuts a diagonal, and closes the gap with the Model-T. Three scouts, in close pursuit, form a barricade at each flank. The rest of the entourage, in a V-formation, zoom straight for the truck. From beneath the chassis of each motorcar, a row of  cartridge ejectors emerges. Each is mounted with a nozzle, trigger, and a set of canisters.

"Blackguards," Sevika orders, "on my mark."

The canons hum. The blackguards' trajectory is a perfect bullseye.

"Fire."

The motorcars, in unison, unleash their payload. A thick cloud, acid green, spews from the nozzles and billows over the battlefield. Spreading, it envelopes the semi-truck in a haze. It is not the same smog the scouts used earlier to blind their foes. Rather, it's a concoction of potent Fissure gas and nitrous oxide that, in high concentrations, can induce delirium, dizziness, and, if not treated promptly, a long and lingering narcosis.

Both Jinx and Silco have used it: twice, to great effect.

That Sevika—both times—was the target only lends the moment an extra-personal piquancy.

The haze engulfs the semi-truck. The gunners, clinging to the flatbed, cough and cough. They cannot man the cannons. They cannot aim at their targets. They cannot even breathe. Their faces go bright-red, then purple. Their bodies, convulsing, drop like dominoes. A split-second later, the blackguards converge on the truck. As the last man falls, they disembark, masked and armed, and storm the flatbed. Their boots thunder across the metal, and their war-whoops fill the air.

Silco hears none of it.

All his attention is funneling into the distant speck of the Model-T until it swells to fill the glass. Sevika's foot is jammed hard on the gas. The Humvee leaps like a bucking bronco down the mythic Shuriman plains. At its flanks, the scouts keep pace. They are a tight, cohesive unit. Their bikes, like the spokes of a wheel, revolve around a single fixed point.

The Eye and his hand-delivered retribution.

Eramis' guards have already opened fire. The .50 caliber slugs, ripping through the night, land helter-skelter. Bullets zip off the Humvee's enforced plating, and drill small craters into the fender. The scouts, on either side, swerve and spin to evade the strafing. One bullet ricochets off a scout's helmet but doesn't penetrate, a tiny spiderwebbing of cracks fanning across the polycarbonate. Another, zinging past the rearguard, clips a second scout in the shin. He fishtails, but manages to regain control.

The Humvee is undeterred. Sevika keeps a deathgrip on the wheel. Beneath her boot, the accelerator is flush with the floor. The Model-T, with Eramis inside, is a hundred feet away. Then fifty. Then thirty. Then it's there.

Behind the glass, Eramis' face is a ballooning white moon. His eyes are the size of planets. He is howling like a madman.

Sevika relays the signal over the radio.

"Scouts," she shouts. "Break off."

The bikes, as one, peel off the Humvee's flanks. As they do, Sevika yanks the wheel hard right. The Humvee, braking, slides at an angle. Grit fans out. Tires shriek. The rear, jackknifing, cuts a precise U-turn. The momentum sends the guards tumbling over like bowling pins. Their guns go flying. Their bodies roll across the gravel. An unlucky few catch the full brunt of the Humvee's weight, and are crushed underfoot.

As the dust settles, the Humvee is poised, nose-to-nose, with the Model-T.

The two vehicles are separated by mere feet.

The scouts, circling, blockade the spaces in between. Each one is poised on their bike, guns leveled. They are prepared, at a moment's notice, to mow down any survivors.

In the Model-T, Eramis is still howling. His face is a mottled caricature of terror. 

The Humvee's door swings open. Silco slinks out, and steps into the descending silence.

The air is clogged with the stink of cooked rubber and creosote. The moon, cutting its delicate incision through the clouds, unveils a scene of utter carnage. The six motorcars are reduced to flaming heaps. The semi-trucks, gutted and overturned, are a twist of mangled metal. Men are laid out in coffins of hardpacked dirt. Others, twitching feebly, are trapped inside the wreckage.

The final count will be a body-bag or a dozen.

Beyond the perimeter, blackguards, rifles poised, are securing the perimeter. They've already disarmed the straggling guards. The men, cowed, are being lined up against the hoods of their mauled vehicles. The few blackguards wounded in the fray are being hauled off to the medick's vehicle.

In the space of twenty minutes, the battle is done.

Silco takes a savoring breath.  It is a moment of rare serenity, before the next inevitable wave of violence.

But he's ready to meet it—and mete out worse.

With a measured tread, he approaches the Model-T. The windshield is a warped distortion of the smoke-scudded horizon. Behind the glass, Eramis is petrified. A pistol—gold-plated—is brandished in his meaty grip. The safety's off, but the barrel's too shaky to present a real threat.

It's the last showoffishish bluff of a man who's been beaten, and knows it.

"Eramis," Silco says. "Hello."

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A green salad in whitish sauce on a bright blue plate. Symmetrical divots are pressed into it and filled with olive oil. It is garnished with a dandelion. End ID]

هندبة بالطحينية / Hindba b al-tahina (Palestinian wild greens with tahini)

"هندبة" ("hindba"), "هِنْدِبَاء" ("hindibāʔ"), or هِنْدَب ("hindab") is an Arabic word referring to chicory, wild endive, or dandelion greens. Century Dictionary speculates, based on phonetic similarity to European terms for Cichorium endivia, that it is a word of European origin (consider English "endive," ultimately from Latin "endivia," via Byzantine Greek "ἐντύβῐον," "entúbion," and Middle French "endive"). However it seems more likely that, like many Arabic food terms, it is borrowed from Aramaic (הּנְדְּבָא / ܗܶܢܕܒܳܐ; "hendǝḇā").

"Hindba" belongs to the Arabic root ه د ب (ha - dal - ba), which forms words relating to fringes, frills, and hair: compare "هَدَب" ("hadab"), "twisted leaves," and هُدُب ("hudub"), "fringe, lash."

D. S. Fish tells us that this "wild plant [...] is very abundant as a weed among Clover (bersem) [برسيم] in Egypt," where "the leaves are often collected and sold in small bunches."

Two Palestinian dishes are commonly made using hindba. One isهندبة بزيت (hinda b zayt), hindba with [olive] oil, which combines blanched greens with browned onion, lemon juice, and (of course) olive oil. Lebanese hindba is similar, consisting of greens prepared in the same way, but topped with sliced, caramelised onions. The other preparation of hindba is with a dressing made with tahina (tahini), lemon juice, chili, and sometimes garlic or yoghurt.

This recipe is for greens with tahina sauce. Blanching gives the greens a soft, creamy texture; the nuttiness of the tahina picks up on nutty and earthy undertones in the greens; and lemon, garlic, and chili balance that earthiness with sharper notes. This dish is excellent as a side with bread and other vegetable dishes.

Palestinian Red Crescent Society

World Central Kitchen

Anera

Ingredients:

100g chicory or dandelion greens

1 clove garlic, grated or mashed

Juice of 1/2 lemon

Shatta, or green or red chili pepper, crushed or minced

Olive oil

2 Tbsp tahina

Instructions:

Float greens in a large bowl of water and rinse thoroughly. Lift out of the water without allowing to drag along the bottom; any dirt and debris will sink.

Roughly chop greens. Boil in salted water: if using chicory, 2-3 minutes; if using dandelion greens, 7-10 minutes.

Drain greens and squeeze to remove water.

Prepare the marinade. Grate garlic, or mash in a mortar and pestle along with a pinch of salt.

Add lemon juice, chili pepper, and tahina and mix; the garlic will cause the mixture to thicken. Add water and continue mixing until you get a sauce of medium consistency.

Mix greens and dressing together to coat. Taste to adjust salt, lemon, and chili.

Serve topped with lots of good olive oil, alongside khubbiz, pickled cucumbers or turnips, and raw vegetables (such as radishes and green onions).

Identifying dandelions:

Dandelions (Taraxacum officinale agg.) are a group of very closely related flowering plants in the family Asteraceae. They grow from a basal rosette of regularly or irregularly lobed leaves. The deep lobes point backward to the center of the plant. Flowers are yellow and solitary, growing on leafless, hollow stalks that emerge from the center of the basal rosette. Stalks produce white sap when broken.

Autumn hawkbit (Scorzoneroides autumnalis) can sometimes be mistaken for dandelion; but autumn hawkbit may have multiple flowers per stem, and the teeth on the leaves are much thinner and do not point back to the center of the rosette. Autumn hawkbit leaves are also edible.

Also contrast cat's ear (Hypochaeris radicata): the lobes on the leaves are more round and do not point backward; there are multiple flowers per stem; and the stems are not hollow. Cat's ear leaves are edible.

Identifying chicory

See hindba b al-zayt.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I was thinking lately, that if Color were human or humanoid/had flesh, hair, eyes, etc., all those decades in the Void must’ve severely effected him in a permanent way, and he was probably in a bad way so soon after the Void, don’t yall think.

Nearly all of this is stuff I found from looking around on Google, so im not claiming any of it to be true or accurate, medically or otherwise. Feel free to chime in to add on or correct if any of yall want.

Like, without sunlight, his skin could become extremely pale, potentially with a sickly, grayish, or translucent tone due to a lack of melanin activation and vitamin D production. He might’ve developed a waxy, dry, or flaky texture as his skin loses its natural oils and elasticity.

Constant stillness and lack of movement could lead to thin, fragile skin prone to bruising or tearing, like the skin of the elderly or malnourished.

Without showering or cleaning, his skin would probably be covered in clogged pores, acne, and irritation. Oil buildup and dirt could result in blackheads and sores.

Prolonged periods of sitting, lying down, or staying in one position could lead to calluses or pressure sores, particularly on joints like the hips, elbows, or shoulders. Chronic lack of movement might result in ulcers or skin infections.

His hair would probably grow unchecked, becoming extremely long, tangled, and matted. Natural oils and environmental grime would coat the strands. His scalp would likely be greasy and flaky, potentially developing fungal infections or sores.

Chronic stress and/or a hostile environment might lead to hair thinning or falling out in patches, leaving his hair uneven and unhealthy. Facial hair and eyebrows would grow wild and untrimmed. His eyebrows could become bushy or overgrown, while facial hair might be uneven due to breakage.

Without proper hydration or circulation, his eye would appear sunken with dark shadows underneath. The sclera (whites of the eyes) might take on a yellowish or bloodshot hue, depending on certain environmental conditions.

Lack of sunlight exposure could make his eye hypersensitive to light, resulting in discomfort or impaired vision if exposed to bright environments suddenly. Without oral hygiene, his teeth would be severely decayed, discolored, and potentially covered in plaque or tartar buildup. Gums might recede, bleed, or develop infections like gingivitis or abscesses.

Chronic bad breath would result from unchecked bacterial growth in the mouth. Poor oral conditions and stress could lead to sores or ulcers inside the mouth.

Fingernails and toenails would grow long, brittle, and uneven, curling or thickening over time. Dirt, debris, and bacteria would accumulate underneath. Nails might develop fungal infections, leading to discoloration (yellow, green, or black), crumbling, or detachment from the nail bed.

Lack of movement would lead to severe muscle wasting, resulting in thin, frail limbs with little strength or definition. He would likely be unable to move easily if the Void did not actively preserve muscle function.

Prolonged inactivity in specific positions could cause skeletal misalignments, such as hunched shoulders, a curved spine, or stiff joints. Since the Void negated the need for food, but if it still preserved his form, his body might become unnaturally thin or emaciated, appearing skeletal and unhealthy.

Alternatively, if the Void “maintains” his weight without sustenance, it could result in a bloated, stagnant look due to fluid retention or environmental factors.

Without access to hygiene, his body would emit a strong, unpleasant odor due to the buildup of sweat, natural oils, bacteria, and environmental grime.

If the Void did not account for bodily waste, he would be covered in dried urine, feces, or other bodily fluids, further contributing to his smell and risk of infection. Prolonged lack of movement would cause his joints to become stiff, limiting his range of motion.

He might develop contractures (permanent shortening of muscles or tendons), leaving him unable to fully straighten limbs. Without physical stress or exercise, his bones might lose density and strength, making them brittle and more prone to fractures.

He might appear unnaturally preserved in some ways (due to the lack of food or water affecting survival) while decayed or degraded in others, creating a disturbing contrast.

And like, depending on how Color’s already existing wounds translate into a more humanoid form—the cracked bones, flames, missing eye socket, cracked open skull, etc—it could cause even more complications.

Severe skull injuries might leave deep scars and deformities, such as visible indentations or asymmetry in the skull.

Without full healing, fractures might not fully fuse, leaving areas of his skull weakened or sensitive to pressure.

Old head injuries could lead to recurring headaches, migraines, or phantom pain in areas that were damaged. Pain might also result from nerve damage, which would remain unhealed.

If the head trauma caused brain damage, the lack of stimulation or medical care would likely exacerbate cognitive and neurological issues. Symptoms such as memory problems, dizziness, or difficulty focusing could persist and worsen over time.

Even with Color’s healing abilities, possibly borrowed from Kindness, scar tissue or improperly healed areas might make him more prone to infections or complications in those regions.

Given his missing eye socket, assuming it translates to a missing eye and not like — a severely damaged eye that had to be surgically removed once free from captivity— the socket could remain hollow or filled with scar tissue. If poorly healed, it might appear sunken, misshapen, or raw around the edges.

Without access to prosthetics or proper hygiene, the area might gather debris, causing irritation or infections. The absence of one eye would cause significant facial asymmetry, especially as the surrounding tissue and muscle shrink or scar further over time.

He would probably experience phantom sensations or pain where the eye used to be, especially in a state of isolation or stress. Large gashes across his chest would leave prominent scars that might remain red, raised, or jagged, depending on how well his healing abilities worked.

If healing was incomplete, scar tissue could form improperly, resulting in tightness, pulling, or restricted movement. Scars across the chest could cause tightness in the skin and muscles, limiting flexibility or the ability to stretch the torso.

The chest wounds might remain as physical weak points, vulnerable to reopening or tearing if strained by sudden movement or pressure.

If the cracks in Color’s left arm where the flames are coming out of translate into a hole in the arm and didn’t fully heal, it could remain as a visible gap or cavity, with scar tissue forming around the edges.

The surrounding muscles and tendons might be partially regenerated but remain too weak or damaged to restore full strength or range of motion.

Depending on the location of the wound, nerves or blood vessels might not have fully recovered, leading to chronic numbness, tingling, or poor circulation in the affected arm.

If the hole affected the bone, it might heal incompletely, leaving the arm fragile and prone to fractures or breaks in the future.

If it translates to a fractured or broken arm, the fracture may have healed crookedly or not at all, depending on the extent of their healing abilities and whether the arm was immobilized after the injury. A misaligned bone would create visible deformity and cause chronic pain or limited mobility.

Around the fracture site, internal scar tissue might cause stiffness, reduced flexibility, or susceptibility to re-injury.

Reduced function in the arm could impair his ability to grip or manipulate objects, especially after decades without practice or rehabilitation—adding on to his missing eye.

Kindness’ healing abilities might close wounds to prevent infection or death, but they might not restore the original tissue structure. Scars could be prominent, possibly raised, discolored, or ridged. Over time, scar tissue could thicken, creating keloids or contractures.

Partially healed wounds might appear functional on the surface but remain weaker internally, creating areas prone to reinjury or chronic pain.

If the Void doesn’t allow for hygiene, improperly healed wounds (e.g., the hole in the arm or the chest gashes) could become infected or inflamed, even decades later.

Without hygiene or regular care, any partially healed wounds would be more prone to infection, causing further scarring or tissue damage.

The lack of movement or stimulation could lead to atrophy in areas surrounding the injuries, making it harder for the body to maintain even partial healing.

If exposed to an environment with harsh conditions (e.g., extreme temperatures, dampness, or dirt), the scars and injuries could worsen over time, becoming more pronounced or irritated.

His body would bear the lasting marks of his injuries: sunken, hollow areas where tissue failed to fully regenerate, scars that stretch and pull unnaturally, and deformities from improperly healed bones or wounds.

He might appear frail and asymmetrical, and some people might find them unsettling. His posture or movement could be restricted by tight scar tissue or poorly healed fractures.

Despite Kindness’ healing abilities, his physical state would serve as a constant reminder of their injuries and confinement, making him look permanently weathered, damaged, and disconnected from natural recovery processes.

If the flames coming out of his skull, wounds, and body translate to actual burns marks and wounds, the burn wounds could leave thick, uneven scars called contractures, which occur when skin heals improperly and tightens over joints or facial features.

The skin might appear rough, shiny, or leathery, with a mixture of red, pink, and white discoloration depending on the burn’s severity and how it healed.

Burn scars could distort the facial features, pulling the skin unnaturally. The cheekbone, jawline, and eyelid might appear stretched, sunken, or misshapen.

The missing eye socket could be surrounded by irregular scar tissue that makes it appear collapsed or puckered, giving the face a severely unbalanced look.

Without proper hydration or care, the burned skin would become cracked, dry, and potentially prone to ulceration or irritation. Flaking and peeling might occur in some areas.

The surface of the burn scars would be uneven, with raised areas (hypertrophic scars) and pits where the tissue was destroyed (atrophic scars).

Scarred areas might feel tougher or harder than the rest of the skin due to fibrous tissue buildup. Surrounding the missing eye, the burn scars might cause the socket to close partially or completely. The eyelid, if present, could be fused to the surrounding skin or warped, leaving the socket exposed or malformed.

If healing was incomplete, the area might appear raw, with sensitive, red tissue visible beneath thin layers of skin. Burns on the cheek might tighten and pull the skin downward, distorting the right side of the face and limiting jaw movement.

Severe scarring on the jawline could create asymmetry, causing the mouth to droop or pull to one side. If the burns extended to the ear, part or all of it might be missing, shriveled, or fused to the side of the head.

The nose might be partially burned, leaving uneven scars or holes in the cartilage. Burns near the lips could cause tightness or cracks, making it difficult to smile, speak, or move the mouth naturally.

The burned area would show discoloration, with a mix of red, purple, or dark brown marks depending on the burn depth and healing process. Lighter scars might appear white or pink, contrasting sharply with surrounding skin.

If infections or poor healing occurred, the scars could have darker, jagged edges, indicating necrotic tissue damage. If the burn scars were deep and healing was incomplete, the skin might remain fragile and prone to splitting, especially in areas with frequent movement (e.g., near the jaw or mouth).

Chronic irritation or inflammation could leave parts of the wounds perpetually red and raw, giving the impression of fresh injuries even decades later.

The nerve endings in the burned areas might be damaged, causing chronic pain, numbness, or heightened sensitivity to touch or temperature.

Phantom sensations around the missing eye and burn scars could create an ongoing sense of discomfort or pain.

Scarring and contractures would limit his ability to make facial expressions, giving the right side of his face a stiff, frozen, or mask-like quality.

The burned area might remain vulnerable to infections or irritation due to the lack of proper healing or hygiene, causing periodic swelling, redness, or discharge.

The right side of his face would be probably be asymmetrical, with features obscured or distorted by a combination of burn scars and the missing eye.

His eye socket might be hollow and surrounded by thick, irregular scar tissue. His skin would appear tight, shiny, and uneven, with discoloration and cracks that reveal the underlying damage. His cheek and jaw might be pulled into unnatural shapes, distorting the profile and limiting movement.

If the burns extended to their scalp, patches of hair might be missing, leaving scarred, bald areas on the right side of his head.

[readerstories]

In Rain and Mud - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 2/4

Saw the movie in theaters finally, brainworm ofc came in strong. (Part 1) (Part 3) (AO3)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, blood, gore, eventual smut

Wordcount: 2023

Summary: Your cabin lays far away from anything and everything. And with the rainstorm currently battering the woods this night you don’t expect to see or hear another human being until you leave for town. So when there’s banging on your door, you switch your book with your shotgun from its place on a sidetable, loading it as you approach your door.

You are not sure what woke you up, a sound, a smell, or something stupid like a weird dream, but you are wide awake you don’t even know how many hours after you fell asleep. It’s been long enough though that there is some semblance of light bleeing through the clouds not currently filled with rain, and the wind has slowed down, though far from died.

Then you hear it.

A branch snapping.

It’s not an animal.

They stay clear of your cabin.

The mix of human and wolf smell keeps them away.

So whatever or whoever it is, it’s not good news.

You get out of bed, padding on silent feet as you step out into your living room, as it sounded like the noise had come from the front of your cabin.

You feel the hair on your neck thicken, transforming into grey and brown fur, then raising as a low growl threatens to escape your mouth.

It does come out when there’s movement to your left, but it’s only Logan sitting up from the couch, blanket slipping down from his torso to pool in his lap, your eyes following the motion, as quick as it is. You had completely forgotten that there was two other people in the cabin.

“What-“ He starts, but stops when you put a finger to your lips and tilt your head to listen more closely to what’s happening outside.

He frowns, but mirrors you, listening.

Multiple sets of footsteps, cocking of guns, hard to decipher how many.

“Grab Wade and go out the front as distraction, I’ll go out back and don’t do anything until I show myself.” You keep your voice low, a whisper to make sure those outside can’t hear you, but you know Logan can with the way he focuses on you. His voice is just as low when he answers.

“Why the fuck would we-“

“Just shut the fuck up, grab him, and get him talking, I imagine that won’t be difficult.” Logan squints at you and scowls, but gets up to walk on surprisingly quiet feet to your guest room where Wade is snoring.

You set your sights on the back door, stripping out of your clothes as you go, not wanting them to get ripped and ruined as you transform. You slip out into the cold and just windy morning, praising yourself for oiling that old squeaky door last time you were here. 

Shivers shake your body in a mix of excitement and bite from the cold, but they mostly stop as the hair all over your body starts to transform into fur. You stand still to listen more, trying to figure out how many people are around, but it’s difficult with how the wind howls and whisks away any smells other than those of the woods.

You hear Wade and Logan inside, Wade getting up with minimal complaining and no jokes.

Doesn’t last long though, as he opens the front door and steps out.

“Oh look peanut, we got company! And here I thought we were going to have this romantic getaway for ourselves.” After that you don’t pay attention to his words or anyone else’s, your slowly shifting form taking precedence. 

You fall forward on all fours, legs and arms growing longer, twisting and transforming, making you grow taller and larger with every passing second. A deep growl grows in your throat as your snout appears, but you hold it back to not alert anybody of your presence.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you inch forward so you can peer towards the front of the cabin, looking through the small gaps of the shed attached to one wall that stores your firewood.

You can see at least 20 people, all dressed in tactical gear, guns trained towards the front of your cabin where Deadpool is still blabbering, somehow not yet stopped. A guy in the front yells something back, perhaps a boss or leader of some sort. 

Not that you care. 

Your eyes are on someone else. 

A single person standing on the edge of the group, gun aimed like everyone else, just far enough away from another person they will be easy picking.

Weak link.

Without much more thought, you crouch down slighly, finding steady footing on the wet ground, and push off. You run around the corner with a snarl, catching everyones attention, though too late for anyone to react before you have the lone persons torso in your teeth, their gun landing in a mud puddle with a splash.

They scream and wriggle in your mouth, you bite down hard, hearing bones breaking and crunching.

There’s silence, a stunned one, before it’s broken by a laughing and clapping Wade.

“Oh my fucking god, that’s a big secret sweetcheeks!” You look at him and growl, blood dripping out from between your teeth and the by now barely moving body inbetween them. All he does in response is gasp and clap some more, joy somehow shining through his mask. Logan is standing next to him still, scowling, fists clenched, metal knives(?) shining from between them, his eyes flicking between the two of you.

Wade opens his mouth, but whatever stupid thing he was about to say is cutoff by a shot ringing out, and pain shooting through your left shoulder. 

You throw the person still in your mouth to the side with a flick of your head, their body landing with a thud as you turn towards where the gunshot came from.

All the guns are now trained on you, but you can tell it’s the person closest to you that shot, their gun reaking of gunpowder more than the others. The bullet is already being pushed out from your healing skin, fall to the ground slowed by your thick fur, but it hits a puddle with a plop.

You growl, crouching down, eyes trained on the person who’s gun is starting to shake, ever so minutly.

“Oh you guys are so fucked !” Wade yells, your answer to that is a snarl, and in seconds you have your jaws around a new person. 

There are gunshots, some of them hit, but the pain of them barely registers as you attack person after person.

Ripping of limb after limb.

Crushing skulls.

Chasing down screaming runners that don’t get very far before your paws push them into mud and sharp teeth rip their head off.

You drag one man is circles, his body bouncing around as he tries to get a hold of the slippery ground to no avail, not even his companions shooting you giving a reprive from his situation before his heart gives out on him.

One guy swings at you with his knife in a desperate attempt to stop his own death, and though he manges to stab you in your front leg, all he gets for his troubles is his stomach ripped out. You pull the knife out with your teeth, dropping it to pounce on the next person in your eyes sight.

You get an arm in your mouth, the fear reeking from the man as you bite down, the scream he lets out grating on your ears, so you let go of his arm to rip his throat out instead.

Another person you throw up into the air like a ragdoll, catching him with your teeth on his way down, shaking him like a chewtoy.

“Oh that is fucked!” You hear someone laugh and drop the body. For more than a few moments you had forgotten there was other people here than the ones that you were killing. You look over to the cabin, Logan is sitting on your porch, while Wade is still standing, watching you with hands on his hips, leaned slightly forward.

“Sorry about this reader, but I gotta.” Wade shifts, standing a little more straight as he spreads his arms wide, yelling “PUPPY!” at you.

If you could laugh in this form you would at least have chuckled, instead your answer to the clearly crazy man is to pad over to the porch, then giving him one long lick from head to toe, covering him in a mix of spit and blood.

“Oh, that is SO gross!” Wade sounds absolutely delighted, at least you can still scoff at him as a wolf. You glance down at Wolverine.

“Don’t you fucking dare bub.” You’re tempted, even as he holds up a closed fist, the knives that turns out to be more like claws appearing from between his knuckles.

It would be funny.

You would get stabbed for your fun. 

Probably.

You don’t feel like being stabbed by those sharp and shining things.

So you don’t lick him.

For now.

Instead you bark at him once and turn around, looking over the scene you’ve made.

Bodies and body parts strewn all over the clearing in front of your house, guns discarded, bullet casings littering the dirt and mud. Tracks in the ground where your claws dug in, or desperate feet tried to get away.

What a mess.

With a sigh you pick up a torn off leg and start walking away from the cabin.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to start gnawing on that like a bone.” You stop, sending Wade as an incredulous look you can manage over your shoulder before you keep walking. 

You don’t go far, still visible from the cabin as you drop the leg you had been carrying and start digging in a spot that haven’t been completely transformed into a mud puddle by the rain or the fight.

You dig and dig, the blood in your fur being mostly replaced with mud and dirt, the occasional bullet falling down into the hole as you dig and heal. 

Wade and Logan starts to gather up bodies as you dig, at least helping with the cleanup after letting you take the fight alone. Not that help was needed or really wanted, you were just protecting yourself and your things from whoever the mystery people were. 

You have a sneaking suspicion that they weren’t even here for you, but instead for Logan, who is picking up bullets and guns, and Wade, who is dragging what is left of a torso while complaining how heavy it is. 

You finish digging, hole now deep enough to hide everything and everyone, so with a few pushes and some throws, the hole is filled with bodies, guns, and bullets.

“Most people skip over this part when writing you know.” You ignore Wade, you don’t have an idea what nonsense he is talking about. 

You cover the hole with dirt, spreading the leftovers around where the hole once was, stamping it down, blending it in so it looks like there was never anything dug down here. It mostly successful, the water and more rain that you can smell is coming will do the rest of the blending.

“Job well done champ!” Wade reaches up and heavily pats your shoulder, seconds later leaning into you fully to get a full face of fur. “So soft….” You shake him off you with a huff, turning to walk over to the cabin, quickly catching up with Logan who reaches the porch just before you. 

As your front paw touches the wood, you let yourself transform back into you fully human form, back on two legs instead of four. You are still covered in blood and mud, though less with your smaller form. You hear a sharp wolf whistle behind you.

“Nudity! God damn, I love fanfiction.” You growl at him, Wade winks, as he get within reach you push at him, making him land on his ass in the mud.

“Deserved.” Is all you say, glancing at Logan, catching an ever so slight uptick of his lips as you all head inside, you first, Logan and Wade following, closing the door to the rain that seemed to start up as soon as Wade got up off his ass.

“I’m taking a shower, you can have it later of you ask nicely.”

“I can even beg handsome.” You don’t gratify Wade with an answer to that.