#Hulk Unleashed

[ungoliantschilde]

some more Arthur Adams

[vertigoartgore]

1992's Fantastic Four: Monsters Unleashed tpb cover by Art Adams.

[theodore-sallis]

“Several Meaningless Deaths Part 1”, Monsters Unleashed (Vol. 1/1973), #8.

Writer: Steve Gerber; Penciler: Pat Broderick; Al Milgrom

[cartoonfanaticmonsterrobotalien]

Solar Opposites: Unleashed Scene: You’re Making Me Angry

When Korvo finds out Terry has gone after Windigo woman, he turns into his human form and has decided to go after them. But then, Mark Baine came and attack for getting him fired after the incident at the laboratory when the gang rescue Cooke. Baine attacks Human Korvo, which ends up scaring the kids who is protected by Phoebe which causes Human Korvo to turn back into his Shlorpian form. He tells Baine he is making him angry and transforms into his Super Shlorpian form. After throwing Baine to the wall, knocking him unconscious, Super Shlorpian Korvo grabs the family and flies off to find Terry.

[chernobog13]

A Geoff Darrow variant cover for Marvel Comics’ Monsters Unleashed.

[cinnamnt]

oh god oh hhhhrbnbbngghhh i miss sanji so bad Sorry don’t worry about that guy that was the one piece relapse talking. haha don’t worry about it

[mechahero]

//kicking around oc ideas instead of actually doing stuff on here and idk how yall would feel about one miss barbie 

[dix-rose]

I would like to apologize for the person I become when harry styles sings as it was it sends me into a pit of horrors and I black out so whatever happens at that point I have no control over

[alnilaem]

actually i’m so insane at the thought of reader unleashing Ghost, who’s some…creature that’s been locked away (whether in purgatory and awakened by a seance, or from an ovomorph) for a millennia. he’s soooo fucking pent-up it’s insane. so doggish. so rough. and here comes a silly girl wading in water way too deep, face-to-face with some hulking brute. bonus points if he’s some Venom-esque beast who fucks you with his insane tongue

[msbigredmachine]

Black Sweatpants (Roman Reigns)

Why did the Tribal Chief arrive late to the Pat McAfee Show? Based on Roman's appearance on March 22 2024. Pat was forced to cut a promo on the fly because Roman took too long to come out 😂

Pairing: Roman Reigns/OC

Word Count: 1.8k

Warning: Smut

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

You knew he would get out there late, and you accepted full responsibility. But given the way you were getting dicked down right now, it was totally worth it.

Your blood-red lace thong dangled from your right ankle as Roman jackhammered into you, his thick shaft stuffed inside your tender walls. Biting down on your bottom lip, you wrapped your arms tight around the big man, long-awaited pleasure coursing down your spine all the way to your pastel-colored toes as he pounded you out in the corner of the spacious locker room.

"Oh, ohhh fuck," you couldn't help but cry out at one particularly deep thrust.

"Keep it down before someone comes in here," he growled. Hunched over you, the wicked gleam in his eyes watching you struggle to suppress your moans, told you he was relishing every second of your agony.

"I'm trying, you ain't helping," you whined back.

"Not hard enough," he countered, nudging your legs wider and making you watch his dick disappear inside your wetness. He slapped your hand away when you placed it on his abs to push him back because he was getting too deep. "Naw, you wanted this dick all day, you better take it now..."

When you ordered the new all-black hoodie and joggers set from Nike for Roman, you knew he would look good in it. However, when he returned for his scheduled private flight to Iowa for Pat McAfee's show wearing it, you didn't expect him to look that good. And you certainly did not expect his dick print to be on display like that. You had endured three tortuous weeks of no sex because he'd been away spending time with his two kids he shared with his ex-wife. So you were excited to have him back, and judging from that not-so-little bulge between his legs, he was excited to see you too. You could all but see it, that long, thick brown cock that time and again wreaked the unholiest of havoc in you, protruding against the cotton material and calling for your attention. But the man had the gall to play hard to get, deliberately spurning your advances, acting all platonic and professional, like the rest of his team didn't already know you were lovers. Never one to back down, you ramped up your actions, rubbing his inner thigh throughout the flight and on the ride to Field House, brushing your body against him every chance you got, teasing him right back, trying to get him to crack. As soon as he ordered everyone out of his locker room just minutes after arriving, you knew you succeeded.

Roman planted wet kisses along the side of your neck, the soft prickles of his thick beard unleashing another flood between your legs. His hulking body stretched over yours, his sweatpants rolled down to just underneath the curve of his ass cheeks for the purpose of this quickie. He was so hard inside you, demanding your pleasure as he impaled you with no mercy, his tempo hot and frenetic from the very start. His big hand slipped from your breast downwards to twirl his fingertips around your clit, your throaty whines music to his ears as your sweet moisture pooled around his fingers. The squelching noise pierced the air that was already thickened by your heavy breaths and his hips smacking into yours.

"Mmm, wet as fuck, just the way I like it," Roman grunted, leaning down to suckle on your left nipple, his saliva smearing the puckered skin when he released it with a wet pop, "I can tell you was goin' crazy without this dick, right, baby?"

"Yes, and yet your punk ass still ignored me all day, too fuckin' busy making your damn TikTok videos," you griped.

"Quit your whining, Daddy always gives you what you want in the end. Unh, how you feel so good all the time? I love it," he moaned, his brown irises rolling back briefly before they landed on yours again in an intense stare. Through the lustful haze of passion, you felt your heart thumping rapidly inside your chest as you looked into his eyes. It didn't matter if you were having sex or not; it always sped up in his mere presence.

You fell in love with him not long after you became his personal assistant a year and a half ago. You worked hard to please him, on the job and off it, and he showed you his gratitude in a plethora of ways, carnal and otherwise. You were a walking cliché, but you couldn't care less, not when it bagged you a man like that. The sex appeal oozed from his pores. He was confident and self-assured and had worked his ass off to get to where he was today. He got along with all of his team, was a decent and fair employer, and was generous to a fault, showering his staff with presents on birthdays and Christmases. The diamond pendant he gifted you for Valentine's Day currently hid between your cleavage he was kneading with his big hands. He was everything you could ask for in a boss and a boyfriend, which was honestly an impressive feat.

You placed one hand behind his neck and tugged him down to flick your tongue inside his warm mouth. His thrusts remained indulgent as you kissed hungrily, branding you, marking you, wiping out everything from your mind except the euphoric feeling that engulfed you every time he kissed and fucked you dumb. He pushed your dress further up your waist and gathered your supple ass cheek in his competent hand, lifting you right up against him. He was all up in your stomach and your walls suckled his cock greedily, holding him in a vice-like grip. The gruff yet sensual sounds pouring from him teased your core, making you need more of it, more of him.

"Awww, shit, yes," Your eyes fluttered shut when he began to wind his hips, circling clockwise and then in reverse, the head of his cock churning your sweet spot, his triumphant growl accompanying every thrust. In and out, in and out, the erotic loop punctuated by the low, husky groans of your Tribal Chief, causing your head to rock back from blinding bliss. "Ooooh baby, baby right there, ahh," you whimpered.

"Uh huh, I'm deep in that shit. Got this pussy feelin' good, huh?" Roman said, his haughty taunts disappearing in another moan as your pussy rippled around his dick over and over. He kept up his grinding strokes which seemed to intensify the throatier and more desperate your moans grew, as though the mere sound of them fueled his ruthlessness. His paw curled around your throat, his display of dominance leaving you a sopping, dripping mess as he made you take every inch of him. You were dizzy, on the verge of falling apart, and your body burned for release, yet all you could do was hold on while this man continued to destroy you, rendering you helpless and pathetic and under his heady spell.

"I'm gonna come, Daddy," you gasped. Your fingernails clawed at his forearm holding your neck, moaning his name as he fucked you harder, making sure there was no way you would last long with the kind of pounding he was giving you right now.

"Mmm-hmm, come on my dick, give it to me," he ordered, barely hanging on himself. He groaned as your pussy walls held his cock hostage, making him swell inside you as his climax beckoned. "Fuck, babe, ahhh, fuck..."

Burying your face in his broad chest, you barely kept your scream muffled as your orgasm tore through you, your body arching, legs trembling around his waist as you came hard. Time and space and coherence blurred into one sensual puddle. His heavy weight almost smothered you as he chased his own orgasm, his eyes glazing over in a telltale sign that he was right there with you. His hips jerked as his dick began to throb and twitch inside you, and you gasped at the feel of his seed spilling inside your walls, his big body shivering from the force of his release, his deep voice exhaling guttural moans as he succumbed to you. It felt so good, feeling him fall with you, toppling over the precipice of pleasure together.

After he finally caught his breath, Roman shifted back a bit to observe you, taking in your face, flushed with satisfaction, your lips plumped and ravaged by his own. You looked damn beautiful, and he showed you by brushing your mouths together in the gentlest, sweetest kisses.

"Happy now?" he smirked.

You grinned from ear to ear. "Very happy, Daddy. I've missed you. Love you so much."

"I love you too, baby," he replied with one last soft kiss, both of you moaning as his drained dick slipped out of your warm confines. You dragged yourself to a seated position when he climbed off you and hurriedly tugged his pants back up. Adjusting your dress, you checked your watch and sighed. "Great, you're two minutes behind schedule. You're not even mic'd up yet," you said, fishing out Roman's bottle of Jean-Paul Gaultier cologne from his backpack and giving the room a few quick spritzes to stifle the cloying scent of your latest sexscapade.

"Well, Pat's gonna have to wait," he answered flippantly as he raked his hair back into its trademark bun. He watched you reach for your underwear that had tangled around your foot and beat you to the punch, snatching up the tiny scrap of lingerie and tucking it into his back pocket.

"Roman!" you exclaimed.

"What? It's mine now," he declared, grabbing his gold championship belt and standing to his full height. You bit your lip as you drank him in, your gaze stopping between his sturdy thighs. You just had sex but you found yourself getting aroused again.

"Your dick print is still showing," you pointed out, licking your lips reflexively.

"Course it is, I got that thang on me," he bragged, smoothing his big hand over his groin, his body tingling from the memory of your delicious warmth. Noticing the heat in your eyes, he smiled that suggestive half-smile of his and tapped your backside. "Down, baby girl, Daddy's gotta go to work. You can have me all you want after TV tonight."

As you followed him out of the locker room and stepped into the cold sunshine, you caught the slightly pronounced limp in your man's walk, his glowing, kiss-swollen features, the extra width in his smile, and beamed with pride.

Yeah, I did that shit.

THE END

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

Another short one. Thoughts?

I have a few more Roman ones I'm working on and hope to get out soon.

Thank you all so much for reading!

Banner made by me. Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

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[tojisun]

cw: builds up to dubcon

kyle is sooo possessive of his partner; hulking like a shadow, never a step away – yes, but also the little things.

he asks if he can help you dress up today, and chooses somethings from your closet. some of them are bought by him, some by you, but it’s the principle that puts the beast lurking at the back of his mind at bay. it’s the knowledge – the experience that you two shared there, on your room, in front of your closet – that he holds close. and when the boys tell you that you look beautiful, when they jokingly ask you to give them a twirl, when johnny runs a hand along your sleeves because that’s one beautiful cardigan, kyle won’t even hold back his smile because he did that. what you have on right now is something he’s chosen, and to see you proudly wear it is just so good to him. the principle is what matters.

until even that isn’t enough.

then it’s the monitoring; the tracking devices. then the questions, the suggestions, the clinginess. thing is, kyle frames it differently. he posits it carefully because he is smart and experienced. he offers you half truths – his life is always going to be so vulnerable because of his job, and there will eventually come a time when he has to leave for longer periods for an operation, so this desire he shows you is means of comfort for him – all the while shielding the murky reality that kyle will do, and has done, everything to keep you close. closer.

and of course he is your boyfriend, the one who’s always been there whenever you needed to have someone in your corner. the one who knows what to do for you even without you having to communicate it. the one who just understands you. so of course you take it all in, accepting it with soft palms and a beating heart, because you have never met a man as attentive. as… loving.

(there is a reason why price had warned ghost of garrick – the worst of us, one day, he said. there’s something dark in him and being here – price nodded to where garrick and mactavish were debriefing – just helped hone that. gave him the space he needed to unleash it.)

[theodore-sallis]

“Several Meaningless Deaths Part 2,” Monsters Unleashed, (Vol. 1/1973), #9.

Writer: Steve Gerber; Artists: Pat Broderick and Al Milgrom

[correlance]

It's 6:00 AM in the morning, and I can't sleep, but random thought...do you ever think that Alastor seeing Charlie go into her demon mode ever turns him on, or makes him a bit excited and tingly? I feel like he would be simultaneously thrilled, as well as a little scaroused, especially if Charlie starts unleashing her inner demoness on him. I could even see Alastor going as far as to provoke her a little bit, akin to pulling her pigtails, because he likes seeing her getting so angry and pissed off at him. It reminds me of one of Bruce Banner's fangirls trying to provoke him into becoming the Hulk on purpose.

Just look at the second image. That is the face of a man who feels absolutely hungry whenever he looks at Charlie, knowing her power. Cue that one Markiplier meme of him simping for Lady Dimitrescu from Resident Evil: Village, and saying "it's about the power".

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 13.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death

story playlist

The tailwind brought them over the bay and the Gullet with ease, the gargantuan body of Vhagar looming over Driftmark as they passed over the island. 

Aemond looked at the churning seas below them, the mood of the tides changing like a coin flip. A few Velaryon ships were going to port in Dragonstone as they approached the ancient isle, no doubt rife with supplies and workers of importance to the pretender’s cause. 

“Dracarys, Vhagar,” he hummed low, his form prone to the saddle as his dragon unleashed molten fire from her maw, bathing the Velaryon ships in her cleansing flame. 

Sunfyre trilled from the clouds above, settling upon the craggy cliffs of the mainland that overlooked Dragonstone. Vhagar, once dispatching the remainder of the ships, followed. The older dragon settled in the soft grasses, smoke trailing from her nostrils. 

Aemond descended from his perch on her back, looking to his brother, who was staring over the water to the island. 

“Your predictions of the weather patterns were right,” Aegon said, gesturing to the unobstructed view of Dragonstone from their vantage point. There wasn’t a low hanging cloud, nor fog. The hulking bulwark of a keep was as visible to the two brothers as they were to it— moreso, visible to the denizens inside. “They should be able to see us loud and clear, I’d wager. I suppose all of your effort in being the scholarly worm paid off.” 

“They’ll have to look from two sides, however,” Aemond responded as he watched over the skyline as a fleet of ships came into view. “The signal of smoke from the Velaryon fleet burning is as good of an indication as any.” 

The ships flew the flag of the Triarchy, three sigils to represent the Three Daughters— the cities of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They crossed the narrow sea with a vengeance, wishing to give the Sea Snake a message in salt, sea, and blood. 

The alliance between the infamous Triarchy and the King didn’t come without a price— the Stepstones would be awarded to them after the war was finished, as well as a sizable amount of coin. 

The Stepstones were an easy give, as the blasted shore of rocks and stone were nothing more than a watery graveyard, fought over for too long. Its debated governance, or lack thereof, had haunted the council room before Aegon was even born. It seemed an easy enough decision to give the islands to someone who actually had the means and knowhow to manage it— in Aegon’s mind, at least. Aemond knew it would be an issue to deal with in the future.

The two brothers watched as the foreign fleet encircled the passage of water between Dragonstone and Driftmark, skirmishing close with some of the smaller Velaryon vessels. The proximity of the two opposing forces would make it difficult for any of Rhaenyra’s dragonriders to dispatch the Triarchy— not without severe losses to the supply and size of the Sea Snake’s brigade. 

It was a delicate balance now, the Triarchy cutting off supplies and passage to Dragonstone, while keeping Driftmark at heel. The former was effectively sealed off, dragon flight being the only way off of the island. 

This is where Aemond’s careful planning of the weather and their positioning across the cliffs came into play— it was a clear message, a threat. The giant mossy colored dragon, coupled with the distinctive golden dragon, were a side unmissed on the crags. 

The missive was unmistakable in its intention; ‘We are watching.’

“Although,” Aegon looked to the ancient stronghold, built upon a volcano that housed and borne fire-bellied beasts. “It would be easier if we just…” he slammed his hand into his other fist, making a crude explosion sound.

“You’re the one who stopped me from going down that route,” Aemond’s tone was flat, unamused by his brother’s antics. “We made our choice— we play the long game now.”

“Suddenly showing restraint now, Aemond? How unlike you,” his brother sneered. “You’d burn the entire continent if someone gave you passage to do so.” 

Aemond shoots Aegon a look, violet eye sharp like a dagger. His jaw clenched, followed by an acute sting of pain in his eye socket, the nerves within lighting like a mass of torches. A storm swirls inside of his head, words flowing from his mouth on their own. “It’s difficult…” he swallows, looking almost sheepish as he speaks, a look that doesn’t quite suit him. “It is difficult to show restraint. To quell myself.” It isn’t exactly what he wished to say— the vulnerability was too much.

He screamed to himself, the searing agony of his socket drilling it into him. She is a few moments away upon Vhagar and I cannot get her. I have the largest dragon in the world and I’m still powerless when it matters. Powerless, powerless. It was moments like these where he felt like a child with no dragon again, two-eyed and physically whole but grasping at any semblance of his heritage, of his bloodline. He was bereft of it except for name and likeness alone.

“We’ll get her back, brother. I promise you that– as your King. And… as your brother too, I suppose.” Aegon didn’t look at his younger sibling, he didn’t need to, he could feel the torment swirling within him. It was familiar to all of them.

—

“Undefended! You left the city undefended whilst you two traipsed to Dragonstone to… taunt Rhaenyra? Primp yourselves like benign peacocks?” Otto was as furious as his two grandsons had ever seen him, apples of his cheeks red with anger. “I expected this foolishness from you, Aegon, but not you Aemond. You’ve been taught better than this!” 

Aemond let his grandsire rant and rave, only cutting in when the older man stopped to regain his breath. “To clarify, the city wasn’t undefended. The queen was watching over upon Dreamfyre. I’m sure the smallfolk were pleased to see their queen among them, defending them so stalwartly.” 

“The smallfolk? What would they do if Rhaenyra and Daemon came upon their two dragons and took the city after slaughtering your sister? How do the smallfolk amount to dragons with lords atop them, Aemond?” 

Aemond closed his mouth, looking over at his skulking brother. Even though he wore the crown and held the power of the Kingdoms in his hands, he was still so easily torn down by a tongue lashing from his grandsire. Aegon was turned away, collapsed into himself as he bit at his already stubby nails. 

“Thank you for your insight, lord hand. I will see you at first light for the council meeting. I suspect we’ll have much to discuss in terms of next moves now that Dragonstone has been cut off.” the prince, in so many words, dismissed his grandsire.

Otto narrowed his gaze but said nothing, leaving the two brothers alone. 

Silence stretched between them until Aegon looked to his brother. “Do you think I’m foolish?” 

“Depends on the situation.”

“You see I am trying, don’t you? I am the fucking King and yet I am still treated like less than a lecher by him, by them.” 

Aemond began to loosen his riding gloves, finger by finger. “The plan was well executed, Aegon. I think you may find that there are many people grateful for their King’s valiance,” he said, glancing towards the open balcony that overlooked the sprawling city. 

Aegon considered him for a moment, locking eyes with his brother before his expression softened. “War isn’t only fought by lords. I’ve spent enough time in those streets to know. Once, when I was coming back from the Silk, I saw a mass of people tear a raper limb from limb. ‘Twas deep in Flea Bottom, no lords or guards or laws there, only the code and anger of those who live there,” he paused, “A dragon can kill thousands— but thousands can kill a dragon, too. Their unrest shouldn’t be underestimated.”

The prince looked at Aegon, blinking slowly. The king did have a unique perspective on the smallfolk, and mayhaps he cared more for them than the monarchs that came before him. It may prove to be useful in the future, if Aegon was ever given the breadth to make his own choices. Aemond thought his brother sloven and foolhardy at best— inept, brainless and sinful at worst— but the few days of his reign had changed his view ever so slightly. He was still lazy like a fat tom cat, and yet, a fat tom cat may still catch as many mice as any other cat. He just may have a different way of doing it. 

—

The lucidity was too much. It was too bright, she wanted to go back to sleep. 

Bright, too bright. Shera sobbed silently, tears falling across her cheeks without any toil. Stars and figments of candle flame danced before her eyes, igniting a phantom pain in her eye that she thought gone. Her suffering that stemmed from Driftmark didn’t manifest in nerve pain in her eye like Aemond’s, but rather pain in her throat and her seizing episodes. She just wished for darkness and Aemond. 

“P-pl… please let me go back… to the weirwood,” she mumbled. “He was waiting… for me…”

Her hand was in Jacaerys’, held together by a sash that bound them as husband and wife. It was colored with red and gray thread, the color of their two houses. 

Shera felt… exposed. Exposed and cold, like a terrible draft was whistling through her, using her bones like windchimes. 

The room was barren, save for Rhaenyra and the two newlyweds. It was dark, too, the only light dancing from candles and dragon heralded sconces. The brightness that tortured Shera was her nerves on fire, a deep throbbing pain coming from her scar. The man who had officiated had left, the only semblance of his presence being the words that continued to echo in Shera’s mind. 

The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.

It felt like a curse— a curse she knew was coming, a curse she had been waiting for. Something she thought thwarted by giving into her heart’s throes with Aemond.

How silly of an idea to avoid fate.

Her stomach was in knots, or mayhaps not there at all. “Jacaerys,” Shera whispered, a familiar feeling of weightlessness catching up to her. “I’m going to fall,” she squeaked, “Please don’t let me fall.” her plea wasn’t out of want for comfort, but rather necessity.

The prince untied the sash and supported Shera with a hand on the small of her back. “Like this?” 

“My… my hip,” she continued. “It is where… where Moongeist holds himself.” she lamented to be touched any further, her skin on fire and writhing with each misplaced caress. But she would hate to fall, legs crumbling beneath her like a newborn fawn. She felt like a tortured child, her feelings all too large for such a small body to handle. Her mind went back to the basest of needs— she wanted Aemond, she wanted Helaena, she wanted Moongeist. 

Jacaerys adjusted his hold with a confused and slightly anguished look. “Mother,” he addressed Rhaenyra, who looked on in stoic concern. “She needs… she needs a cane, or… or something.” 

Rhaenyra’s face didn’t crease in traditional consternation, her features unmoved. There was only a twitch of her brow and the dilation of her pupils that gave away the inner turmoil. “Go fetch the maester. He will have something made up for her, surely. I will escort her to your chambers.” 

Your chambers. Your chambers. No, not hers. Jacaerys’ chambers. The realization and panic washed over her as unforgivingly as a riptide. Was she expected to consummate the marriage?

“N-no, please,” Shera blubbered as Jace helped her into the arms of his mother. “I want to go home, I want to go home.” 

There was a solemn hollowness in Rhaenyra’s voice as she helped Shera walk down the corridors. “You are home now, dearest,” her voice was fauxly soothing, “I know it is difficult. I wouldn’t have wanted this for you— not… not like this,” there was something inherently warm about her touch that broke through any outward reservation, her hand caressed Shera in a way that could only be described as maternal. “I will do everything in my power to see to your comfort. You’re safe now, Shera.” 

Her body and mind were at odds with one another. Her brain told her that this wasn’t right, it wasn’t— it was all a facade, it had to be. Her body, however, leaned into Rhaenyra’s hold, her gentleness stirring something long dormant inside of Shera. 

She never really had a mother, in truth. Her life was riddled with surrogate mothers like Alicent and whomever her father had assigned to take care of her when she was a babe. Alicent did her best, of course, but there was always a fine line separating Shera from her own borne children. The nursemaids and stewardesses alike at Winterfell never had a gentle touch or affectionate words— not like a real mother would. Out of Shera’s myriad of issues, the mother-shaped hole in her heart was the least of her worries, easily pushed and locked away like a bad memory. 

But times like these— times where Shera’s constitution of mind and body were being tested, broken past her already fragile limits, the hole turned into a chasm, swallowing up the earth beneath her feet and making any further pain unbearable. 

As Rhaenyra sat Shera down on the feather-filled bed, she pushed a stray auburn lock from her face. 

Shera grasped at her hand, holding it with both of hers. “P-please, don’t go,” she whispered, her voice broken and far-away. She hardly recognized it as her own, thinking it more alike to that of a young child. “P…please, I do not… I don’t wish to be alone… n-not yet.” 

“Jacaerys will return quickly, dearest, you won’t be alone for long,” Rhaenyra replied, letting the frightened woman hold her hand, head cocked in slight confusion.

“N-no, no,” she cried, squeezing tighter upon the queen’s hand— a plea, a cry of a child long gone, forgotten. “Please.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for long enough that Shera thought she might’ve left, even if she was still holding her hand. A soft breath left her nose as she shifted, sitting down next to her now good-daughter and wrapping both arms around her, taking her into an all-enveloping embrace. 

No more words were exchanged, only the sound of Shera’s wheezing breaths, shaking body wracked with sobs filled the room. 

Jacaerys did return to his chambers, with the cane in hand, but upon seeing his weeping wife and mother, he bowed his head out and didn’t return that night. 

Rhaenyra stayed with the poor girl all eve and into the early hours of the morning, shifting Shera into a lying position on the bed and covering her with a blanket. It gave her some despair to see her cry herself into exhaustion and eventual sleep. 

As the queen left the room, her mind was flooded with thoughts, swirling like tumultuous waves. 

Have I done the right thing? Am I righteous in my choice? 

She passed her son in the halls, Jacaerys bowing his head to her. “Is she… alright?” he asked, eyes dark as he already knew the answer.

“You know her better than I,” Rhaenyra looked back to the closed chamber doors. “Is that… her normal air?”

“No, it isn’t her usual demeanor. She is very… morose, of course, but this– what exactly are you letting Daemon give her to render her so?” his tone took a turn, almost accusatory in its nature. 

The queen was taken aback by the snap in his words– it was unlike him, always the dutiful and polite son. Courtiers walked by them in the hall, their gazes averted, but she knew they were staring, listening. She pulled Jacaerys into an alcove. “Daemon has been dealt with for making such rash decisions without my consent,” she hissed, “You must trust in me, Jacaerys— as your mother and your queen. This is just one of the many pieces moving on the board, moving towards my ascension, to my throne.” 

“Shera is just a pawn, then? A means to an end? And by marrying her to me, am I not the same?” Jace folded his arms over his chest, moving back from his mother. “Am I merely fodder for your fight against the usurpers? Usurpers, amongst whom is your dearest childhood friend? You and Daemon talk so openly of war, but you had cast the first stone with Shera’s… abduction!” 

“What would you have me do? Ask kindly for my birthright back? Chalk it up to a misunderstanding and give them pats upon their backs and a place at my court?” Rhaenyra scoffed. A thorn lodged in her heart at Jace’s implication of Alicent, a ghost who had haunted the queen’s very thoughts since she heard news of Aegon’s crowning. “My father was a great King in many ways, his reign one of peace— but he was blind with inaction. I will not stay my hand when the time comes to strike. I will have my throne, in fire and blood if I must.”

Indignation flashed in Jacaerys’ deep brown eyes— but like a storm, it dissipated into calm waters and clear skies. “You’re right, mother,” he murmured, bowing his head. “Your grace.” 

— 

Shera finally felt well enough to walk by herself. Although, her legs felt cold and wobbly without Moongeist. It was midday, the skies clear around the island. The sun was even shining, warming her skin just a touch.

The maester upon Dragonstone had prepared a walking cane for her— an instrument hewn from dark gnarled cherrywood. The exterior was a deep brown, whilst the inside was a deep, bloody red. She had worn small grooves on the top of the handle with her nails, exposing the inner layer of cherry, the color staining her fingertips sanguine. 

Rhaenyra had instructed Shera’s handmaidens to dress her in a more Valyrian-style wardrobe to ‘help her adjust’. She felt like an impostor wearing the garments, usually tailored in red, black and gold, coupled with intricately braided hairstyles, fashioned to her head with a dragon pin. A small veil was afforded to her after much pleading, one that only concealed her eyes and left her nose and mouth barren. Her choker was replaced by looping golden chains, imbued with rubies. 

Shera’s nails laid in the indents of her cane as she arrived into the dining hall. The Queen apparently likened to having her family lunch with her at least once a week— a tradition that became more sparse when the war began. 

She slunk into the hall as quietly as possible, the scattered sounds of Viserys and Aegon playing, as well as Lucerys and Joffrey conversing animatedly about swords and dragons, muffled the noise of her cane hitting the stone floor. She settled into her seat next to Jace, who looked irritated, a mood that befell him more often than not as of late, as he tried to serve in his mother’s war council, but was met with blockage after blockage from the other courtiers— something that Shera didn’t hear the end of for at least a fortnight. 

Despite the newly wed couple’s proximity to one another, Shera sleeping next to Jacaerys each night, they weren’t intimate in any way. They had come to an understanding, knowing their souls were each entwined with another’s. They didn’t need to muddy the waters any further with meaningless sex. 

That being said, they did confide in one another to some extent. Or rather, Jacaerys would vent his frustrations of the day, of the bickering of the council, of Daemon’s recklessness, of his own mother’s discounting of his skill— and Shera would listen intently. 

“Wife,” Jace murmured, clasping a hand over Shera’s as she took her seat. His jaw was clenched, bone grinding against bone. “Thank the Gods you’ve come.” 

“Has something… happened?” she whispered, glancing around the table. The children were unphased— but the older ones had an air of ice around them. Baela had both hands on the table, head angled downward as she bore holes through a wall. Rhaena was despondent, looking down at her hands. 

Daemon, however, was lazed. He leaned back in his chair, inspecting a singular grape as if he had no care in the world. “Shera,” he said, not meeting her gaze. Rather, he addressed her with such informality that it made her cringe. “A Valyrian vision you look to be. Mayhaps we should send her into the Dragonmont to bond with a dragon, since she now looks so much the part.” 

“A sheep changes wool rather easily,” she began picking at some fruit on her plate, stabbing her fork into a juicy piece of cantaloupe. 

“Ah, yes. Our wolf in sheep’s clothing, is it? Or mayhaps, a wolf in dragon’s clothing, better yet,” he squeezed the grape until it burst between his fingers.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra cut in, hand up to stop him from saying anything further. “How are you doing this morn, Shera?” 

“I’m… well,” Shera kept her eyes down at her plate, wishing to shrink into nothingness. 

“Enjoy the fruit while it lasts,” Baela piped up. “They’re blockading the island.” 

What? Blockading? Her mind raced with the possibilities, but she stayed quiet. 

“I’m sure we can go without such frivolous things like fruit,” Jace scoffed, pushing his plate away. 

“Fruit, grain, most meat, silks,” Daemon drawled. “I don’t understand why we don’t stop the situation.” 

“Do we wish to go toe-to-toe with Vhagar? Sunfyre can be easily dispatched by Syrax, but do you believe Caraxes can survive her?” Rhaenyra snapped, placing down her cutlery on the table. 

“That hoary old bitch is cumbersome,” he continued, dismissing any shred of Rhaenyra’s concern as if it were nothing. 

Vhagar. Sunfyre. Something bubbled in Shera’s chest at the mention of the two dragons, who were undoubtedly with their riders. She continued to stare down at her hands, trying to contain a smile, biting her lip until it bled. 

“Cumbersome she may be, but her jaws could snap any of our dragons with ease. Mayhaps Caraxes and Meleys may pose a threat to her but…” the queen’s voice trailed off, her fingers drumming on the table. 

“… there’s been no news from grandmother, nor Driftmark, your grace,” Baela sighed. “The ships appear to be… dispatching any ravens attempting to cross the Gullet.” 

“We will just have to wait, then. They cannot fare forever against Corlys’ fleet. Jacaerys, any word from the Greyjoys?” 

Jacaerys shook his head. “Our letters have gone unanswered.” 

“Lord Greyjoy is just a boy of sixteen, Rhaenyra, no older than Lucerys. Untested in the matter of war, unblooded. We must seize Harrenhal and raise a land army.” Daemon stared at his wife, brow furrowed in agitation. “I will go with or without your leave. I have no need for passage.” 

There was a long stretch of silence, the chatter of the children stopped— it was as if the whole of the table held its breath. 

“We will speak upon it later, Daemon.” Rhaenyra finally said, the bags under her eyes more prominent than usual. She opened her mouth to speak once more, but was overcome with a strangled sigh. “Gods,” she whispered, clutching her stomach. It was almost easy to forget that she was in her last days of pregnancy, belly round with child, all whilst the war was being waged just outside. She writhed slightly, face pinched.

“Mother?” Joffrey spoke, his voice small and scared. 

The entirety of the table erupted as handmaidens, maesters and nursemaids alike were summoned, gathering around the queen as her labors began. 

Shera stayed sitting, watching as Daemon glanced over the situation before leaving the room, no doubt off to skulk. 

Soon enough, the room was empty. She blocked out the cacophony of agonized screams echoing from the corridors as she stood up to leave. A small pool of blood was beginning to dry in Rhaenyra’s seat. A chill passed through Shera then as she turned to the window, leaning against the sill. 

A green dragonfly rested upon the trellis of growing vines on the wall of the keep, the leaves withered and crusted in salt. 

Hordes of boats were littered in the sea, arcing around the island like a noose. Glancing to the cliffs, she sees a glint of gold off in the distance, coupled with a hulking mountain that almost reminds her of… 

No, it couldn’t be. 

It isn’t.

She wouldn’t let herself look again, she knew it would only end in disappointment.

As she went to walk away, something pulled her back. She clung to the window, peering out as if in hiding. 

Her hopes were true as the golden vision of Sunfyre came into view, the sun shining off his pale yellow and pink scales. Next to the gorgeous beast laid a stirring mass— the Queen of all dragons. Vhagar. 

Shera’s heart raced, thumping against her ribcage like a caged bird. Aemond— Aemond and Aegon had come to save her, they had! She vowed to never let herself be separated from Aemond again, never to let them be apart. Surely Aegon would dissolve her marriage to Jacaerys and let them marry, wouldn’t he? Oh, of course he would. 

The giddiness she felt was elating, her swimming pain and sorrow temporarily abated. She watched as Sunfyre took to the skies, Vhagar behind in a slower pace. They’re coming to get me now, they are! 

The dragons climbed in altitude and drifted off from the bay— in the opposite direction of Dragonstone. They were flying away from Shera. She stood still for what felt like an eternity, not breathing. That can’t be right.

Any semblance of happiness was crushed instantaneously, her feverish pulse stopping for a beat. They were leaving. They were leaving without her. They weren’t coming to get her. 

[fanaticsnail]

i love your sapsorrow series — even more when i read that Shanks snippet where he thought he was safe OH GOD AHAHAHA please!!!

Ah, you see. They all think they're safe from the clutches of the foul curse of Sapsorrow. Their knees shall bend, their backs shall break and their hearts will perish before her mighty claim - should they ever fail in their task to woo their intended.

(Image Source)

Sands of Time

Themes: Sir Crocodile x f!reader, reluctant bride, enemies to lovers, kidnapping trope, rake!crocodile x royal!reader, forced proximity, longing from afar, injured x caretaker, time limit to love, haunting spectre, Sapsorrow fairytale au, suggestive themes, forced/arranged marriage.

Mihawk Sapsorrow masterlist here, Shanks Sapsorrow here, Masterlist here

Sir Crocodile's intentions below the cut.

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“What is this? A fitting gift for an apprehensive bride. I shall gift this to my intended before we wed on the morrow. Perhaps it will be near enough for her to open her legs and share her bed tonight.”

Hunched over the writing desk, half-moon glasses drawn down the bridge of his nose, sat the hulking sir crocodile. He shook his head, unsure of what commotion was going on behind the door of his darkened office. A wedding? Unlikely. 

Managing inventory, arranging wage statements and smirking at his half-composed letter to the lord of Kuraigana regarding his collection of debt; his ears pricked at a whisper of motion within the room.

“It has been found, reptile,” the echoing voice sinisterly whispered. A rumbled roar began erupting within the chasms of his chest as he released fragments of sand out to grasp the ghostly form of the witch to encase her spirit in a layer of dust. 

“I was rid of you, witch. You have no claim over me nor my soul,” he growled, prompting the spectre to unleash a wave of echoed maniacal laughter. Her voice was haunting, her tone was low and deliberate as she taunted further. 

“I was lost to you, but now found and will be placed on the finger of a bride within the hour,” she taunted, slowly raking her undead soul towards him. Strands of her hair began moving as if beneath the crashing waves of water, her sinister smile and unblinking eyes bore into the hulking man in front of her.

“What conditions have been laid to have you curse me, witch?” he asked, sitting back in his chair and removing his glasses, “I had your band stolen from me by the Don of Dressrosa, thus casting your curse onto him, not me.” He chipped the end of a thick cigar, drew it to his lips and ignited the tip with the flick of his flint. 

“To answer first: she has laid no such conditions as yet,” the spirit confessed as nonchalant as a spirit could ever be, “And to answer second,” her spectral essence passed through the desk and stood still, towering over the form of the crocodile, “My curse cannot be given twice to the same individual.”

Sir Crocodile held his breath. His usually bored and slackened jaw was now clenched firm atop his cigar. 

“What must I do, witch?” He spat, staring up into the cement eyes of the ghost of Sapsorrow as she smeared her sharpened canines down at him. As Sapsorrow began to bare another thought down onto the crocodilian man in front of her, an echoed voice rang throughout the room.

“I am not cattle to be bought with such an item, nor am I simply a broodmare to bear your spawn within my belly. You think this enough for me to share my bed on the eve of our wedding? I would never.” 

Sir Crocodile bore his eyes into the ever rising smirk of the Sapsorrow Queen in front of him, listening to the echoing words ricocheting from the chasms of his mind and reverberating in his soul.

“If you desire me to be your bride, you will have me love you with all that I am. You will earn my affection, you will slave for my adoration - but my love will be only passed onto you when I truly think you love me completely in return.”

The malicious laughter echoed throughout the room, the sands currently revealing the Sapsorrow spectre falling atop the desk, littering the papers and ornaments scattered below. 

“Make haste, Sir Crocodile,” she taunted him once more, “She is set to marry him on the morrow. That should put a damper on things, do you not you agree?”

Sir Crocodile began to shake, his shoulders stumbling below his aggression. He violently thrust his forearms down atop the desk, his balled fist of his remaining hand indenting beneath his powerful thrust, the tip of his golden hook sunk into the mahogany and encaptured it within his circlet. 

“H-How,” he began, his voice staggering as his mind caught up with the conditions laying claim to his soul, “How could someone measure that? How could someone ever dream of proving that level of blind devotion?”

“Therein lies the rub, reptile,” Sapsorrow’s echo felt further from him now, flittering up towards the ceiling akin to the smoke from his sour cigars, “You may never truly earn it, and I may yet collect the debt of your soul.” 

“You have a year,” her voice began to crack as it faded up further, “Until the sands of time pass the last grain to conclude its final hour, your form shall crack like glass and your soul will belong to me.”

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Notes: I will be working on Shanks, Buggy and Sir Crocodile spinoffs once the Sapsorrow Au fic is concluded for Mihawk. If there is a gentleman you would like to see flung into this particular fairytale curse, let me know and I will aim to create it! I only have 10 rings to work with!

There are other fairytale au's in the making, if you enjoy an interpretation with your beloved characters:

@gingernut1314 is doing "The Luck Child" for Buggy

@writingmysanity is doing a "Hans My Hedgehog" interpretation for Corazon.

@sordidmusings is doing a "Three Ravens" interpretation for Sanji.

@cinnbar-bun has many a thought about the Crocodile, and I am looking forward to see what she comes up with.

Allow me to take the opportunity to thank @since-im-already-here, the "smol snail, fanatic in the making," for making me do this one. I love writing for it, and it's amazing to see how many there are of you that enjoys being whisked away with my words.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @cinnbar-bun @carrotsunshine @feral-artistry @i-am-vita