#Nor he who weeps all is ended!

[nemesyaaa]

rafe cameron x sleepy!reader

summary : you were just the sleepiest girl of the town. (kinda sweet smutty prompt / etablished relationship. soft! boyfriend!rafe.)

warnings : except smut, nothing much. bad sleeping shedule.

author's note : /.

“ I’m fucking tired.” you yawned as you entered the room. since the beginning of the evening, you had only been looking forward to getting back to the soft comfort of your bed.

you couldn't help but become sleepy, which meant letting your boyfriend take care of you because you were unable to stay awake. you never needed to be careful because rafe cameron always had his eyes on you. and as long as you were next to him, as long as he could feel you even if you were dead asleep and drooling over his chest, he allowed you to take a nap on his lap for hours. it was one of your few privileges.

something he didn't allow was people waking you up. if it he had to shut down every fucking noisy kook in a room to let you sleep, he would do it. it was his own version of let me burn the world for you but in a better way, more like let me quit this entire world for you.

you loved these moments of calm and peace when you slept wearing only one of his t-shirts acting like a dress around your naked body, and white high socks.

rafe was spooning you while you were already falling asleep, the reassuring and warm feeling of his cold fingers slipping under your t-shirt, his large hands covering the flesh of your waist , letting his strong arms gently slowly pulling you towards him. the shushing sound of his lips hovering your neck as you were dragged by his thick fingers. your barely covered body lazily comes closer, as soft breaths break the silence of your mouth, quickly followed by the sleepy whines of your tall boyfriend that holds his grip tighter in your hips, making sure you can't go anywhere, even if you were in a deep sleep.

you had a complicated relationship with your sleep schedule because you were sleeping both too much and not enough at the same. you could be fully awake at 5am but literally dead asleep at 12pm. for the simple reason that you were not sleeping at the right time, nor at the right hour, nor in the right place. you were one of those sleepiest girls who would disappear for hours not because you were going out on the town with friends or even stepping foot outside, but because you would sleep for hours on end.

you told rafe that you were just closing your eyes to take a nap but you ended up waking up in the evening.

when you woke up, you were completely lost and disorganized but above all so tired. it was almost ridiculous. your boyfriend was now used to your eyes half-closed, your hair completely messed up and across your exhausted face, drool on the corner of your lip with that oh-so-stupid expression.

he lay down on the bed, while you looked at him with wide opened eyes. at this point, you weren't even sure you recognized your own boyfriend. “ rafe ? ”

“still asleep, babe? "

his voice was usually low, while he brushed away the trail of drool that was leaking from your mouth with his thumb. you nodded, and he smiled. “ such a baby. ”

you were a terrible temptation. he could have fucked you while you were sleeping. and maybe that was even what you wanted sometimes when you slept so scantily dressed, leaving your tiny thong in full view while you lay on your back, legs unconsciously spread.

“let me help you…” he whispered as he flipped you onto the bed, pushing your thighs apart to make himself a place. he had pulled down his boxers without removing them completely, before forcing your legs open with one hand. "fucking wet. i bet you dreamed about that dick inside you."

the smirk on his face was pretty charming and sick, and he pushed the fat tip of his cock against your soaked slit, before making morning slaps on your little glistening cunt. his length was so hard, hitting your sensitive bud. the plushy mushroom getting glossy from your weeping hole. he looked at you, holding his dick in a hand with your wetness dripping from the shaft, as you had a hard times focusing on his movements but he squeezed your cheeks on his hands, pulling your face closer to him. “ get that mouth open, want to be able to spit on it whenever i want. ”

it was also a pretty excuse for him to force you to keep your eyes open. when he first pushed in with a hard thrust that literally arched all your body, you screamed out of pleasure and pain. he didn't wait before starting working his dick faster in your swollen cunt. you always take him so good, and he can't help but pound you even deeper every time he hears your sleepily voice moaning softly, the whining getting louder and bigger as he stretches you open. you were too good, a forbidden pleasure for sure, your sloppy pussy fully soaked him.

little by little, you begin to be fully awake, eyes filled with shining tears. you were a mess that was crying and panting from the roughness of your boyfriend, crybaby whines begging for rafe’s attention. your mouth getting muffled by his, he shushed you through the kiss, heavy breath and drool falling between your lips. “ s-s-slow down ! ” you cried out.

he mocked you gently, answering with a wicked smile. “ what about faster ? thought that's what you wanted ? ”he was still fucking you, but now a hand reached your throat, as the thickness of his length stuffed the inside of your walls, hitting all the spots. “ r-rafe. ” you exploded.

you were shaking, gasping for air and throbbing, eyes still locked in rafe's gaze while you lost your mind, thinking of how deep he was inside you. your cunt still twitching around his cock, making you unable to catch your breath and literally choking against the hand pressed on your throat. you were already tired, the inner of your thighs dripping with arousal and legs breaking with each thrusts. and those massive orgasms didn't help. his face was now sweaty from the heat and the sex, hot breaths escaping his lips and absolutely no sign of exhaustion. he could fuck you to death. and you wish you could reach this level but you were already too drained by the fast back and forth. “ this is how i should wake up my sleepy girl every morning. don't you think ? ”

he finally managed to cum, spilling thicks of loads inside you. your head failing in the bed as he slowly pulled his dick out, before pushing it into your mouth. the sight of your tongue licking every single drop of juice left him even horny, your pretty lips weeped with cum and wetness, that he smeared with the tip of his cock, before letting you clean everything.

“ it was not a fuck, it was an attempted murder. ” you told him.

“ don't inspire me for round 2, you will regret it. ”

“ don't complain me about why i sleep this much when you fucking me like that. ”

“ i'm fucking tired…” you said, a little yawn leaving your mouth as rafe and you entering the room after a living pool party, were you literally rested on your boyfriend’s lap during all the event, falling asleep on his shoulder as he was still talking with his friends.

he was now used to since he dated you from a long moment. he was now able to take care of you every time you fell asleep. as always, there was no warning. you could be smiling, living the party, it doesn't mean you were not sleepy. He sometimes complained about how much you slept, but at the same time, how much you didn't get enough sleep.

“ no shit. you were literally drooling over me. ” he said sarcastically. “ lift your arms. ” he commanded, before helping you remove your dress.

he almost passed out when your breasts literally bounced out of your bra as your arms leaned down, his dick slightly growing and forming a bulge inside his pants. but damn, it was not the moments because he knows for sure that you will now fall asleep. AGAIN.

“ do you think topper is mad at me for sleeping at his birthday’s party ? ”

“ do i look like the type of boyfriend that i care about what another man is feeling about my girlfriend ? because, i'm not. ”

“ it was rude…. it's his birthday ! ”

“ babe, i could even fuck you right in front of him that he wouldn't even care or remarks. don't you see how he was just drooling like a dog because of my sister ? ”

“ maybe, i should call…”

rafe had raised an eyebrow, his jaw twitching slightly as you pulled on one of his t-shirts. “ since when do you have topper’s number ? ”

“I mean with your phone. Why would I have his number. Anyways, i'm sorry for this…it's pretty embarrassing. ”

“ What about looking me in the eyes if you at least want me to believe you about your apologies?”

“ Don't fight me right now, i'm tired.”

“ And actually, when you're not ? ” he mocked, and you finally looked at him.

“ When i'm sleeping, it's obvious. ”

“ You forget when i fuck you’. It doesn't seems like you're very tired. ”

after showering and brushing your teeths, you moved to your favorite place in the world — your bed. you loved the clean of the sheets. you covered yourself with the blanket, dropping only your head out.

when rafe appareaded, you couldn't help but stare at his perfect body. you followed his moves, lurking to the good and big shape of his biceps, the well-sculpted ridges of his abs, the visible v-line curved on his hips. “ don't look at me like that. ” he warned.

“ then i will look at someone else. ”

“ funny. ” he said, chuckling without smiling. “ that you think i will let you do such a thing. but keep daydreaming. ”

“ no need to be jealous. there is no kooks better than you. ”

“ does it mean there are pogues better than me ? ”

you sighed, shaking your head and crossing your arms.

“ i don't even hang out with pogues ! don't take it in the wrong way. what about watching a good movie before sleeping ? ”

“ be serious. i know you well, you're gonna fall asleep before the movie even starts. ”

“ no ! i'm fully awake. ”

“ which movies do you want to watch ? and there is no way i'm gonna watch that fucking film with a black cat and a ladybug. ”

“ then what about five nights at Freddy's ? ”

“ sounds better. ” he simply said, while typing on the dashboard.

your gaze leaned down on his ringed fingers, fast and thick. your slowly opened your lips, imagining how much they can stretch your mouth, leaving her with a pool of drool from how wet they're from your saliva. but also, how much they will manage to keep your mouth open without effort.

a sparkle shone in your eyes, and you wrapped your arm around rafe's one, making him look without really giving you full attention. “ what you want ? ”

“ nothing. did you find the movie ? ”

“ you like horror movies ? ”

“ no, i like josh. ”

“ bet he died at the end of the movie. ”

“ rafe ! ”

“ yea, keep crying. ”

he started the movie but you were very sleepy. again. you forced yourself to keep your eyes open but it was really hard. you blinked so many times to fight the urge of sleeping, but you're finally falling asleep.

rafe didn't stopped the movie because he was now too invested in it, but let your head rest against his naked chest, stroking your hair gently.

at the beginning of your relationship, it was so new for him to be this close to a person, to reach this type of intimacy but now he was craving for it, finding peace and comfort.

you were his sleepy girlfriend that was now sleeping over him, but will probably wake up in five hours when he will be dead asleep while, you will be looking for a nocturnal activity, trying to not wake him up.

sometimes, and a lot of times, you have sleepless nights that make you even more tired, and fall asleep early or late in the morning. you could feel though the sleep, rafe's arm loosening around your body as he manages to leave the bed to start the day while you just catching your night.

“ good morning, rafe. ”

“ it's 7pm. ”

“ ... ”

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #45

Mine, Mine, MINE!

Imagine this….

I know Damian is raised in an environment where he is treated as a prince, the only grandson, the heir. Sure those privileges may come in the price of ripping his innocence and childhood away from a very young age. In the end he got everything he  ever wanted nor needed. A single word from him and all gather around to get what he needed.

But there will be a day where there is something you cannot get no matter your demands or commands.

….

By the time Damian could form full sentences, he had learned the art of taking. To demand was his birthright; to receive was merely the universe setting itself right. If another child had a toy, Damian wanted it. If a servant carried a blade of exceptional craftsmanship, it belonged in his collection. Even as a young boy, his chambers were overflowing with silken robes, masterfully forged weapons, and rare treasures pilfered from across the world.

His first words had been "Mine." He was greedy from the cradle, claiming everything within reach with an iron will and a clenched fist. As an infant, a single furrow of his brow or a half-formed cry summoned an entire team of wet nurses, attendants, and servants who scrambled to appease him, terrified of drawing the ire of the Demon’s heir. His crib was adorned with silk imported from lands that no longer existed, and gold-threaded blankets were replaced the moment they became even slightly soiled.

When he took his first steps, the world shifted to accommodate him. Marble floors were polished before his feet touched them, and his path was lined with offerings—daggers forged by masters, scrolls of ancient knowledge, carved figurines from forgotten civilizations. Every item he glanced at was quietly removed from its place and added to his collection, regardless of its original owner. He collected without remorse, hoarded without gratitude. His chambers grew into miniature treasure vaults, filled with relics and riches that served no purpose beyond feeding his insatiable desire to own.

Neither Talia nor Ra’s al Ghul discouraged his possessiveness. To them, it was simply a symptom of his lineage. The blood of conquerors and kings ran in his veins, and if he took, it was only because he was destined to. The League of Assassins reinforced this belief with every passing day. He was not taught humility or restraint—only power, precision, and domination. He was forged to rule, molded to believe that the world was his birthright.

But then there was Danyal.

His twin, born under the same stars, shaped from the same blood, yet utterly alien in his quiet nature. Danyal never demanded, never claimed, never expected. While Damian amassed trinkets and trophies with the entitlement of a young emperor, Danyal existed in the spaces left behind—content with simplicity, with little, with the unremarkable. When Damian snatched one of his brother’s few meager toys and added it to his already overflowing pile, Danyal gave no protest. He simply let it go, his eyes soft, his hands uncurled, his expression free of malice or resentment.

To Damian, this was a maddening contradiction. They were both of noble blood. They were descendants of kings, warriors, legends. Danyal should have yearned for greatness, fought for it. But instead, he bowed his head, stepped aside, and surrendered without a sound. Damian saw weakness. He saw foolishness.

When Danyal died on a mission gone wrong, Damian did not weep. His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not stray from the trail of blood that marked the last place his twin had stood. The League moved on without pause, the death barely a footnote in their endless ledger of sacrifice. There was no funeral pyre, no rites or remembrance. The corpse was retrieved, cataloged, and discarded like a failed weapon. Damian told himself it was fate, a destiny trimming the weak from their bloodline.

Danyal had never fought for more. He had never claimed what was owed to him. In Damian’s mind, that made him unworthy. A noble soul without the teeth to defend its title. A flickering candle smothered by the wind. And so Damian forced himself to move on. He trained harder, sharper, faster. He swallowed whatever little grief he has and reforged it into ambition.

At ten years old, when he was finally sent to Gotham, he carried himself like a young prince returning to his rightful throne. He arrived at his father’s doorstep cloaked in expectation, armored in superiority. His every step was deliberate, as if the very ground of Wayne Manor should bend to his will. He was the blood heir, the legacy reborn. Everything in the manor should have been his.

But instead of reverence, he was met with resistance.

When he challenged Drake—Timothy Drake, the imposter who had dared to stand at his father’s side—Damian expected combat, a duel to settle succession. He anticipated a fight that would end with his place solidified and his father's acknowledgment finally secured. But Drake refused. He did not raise a hand. He yielded with words instead of steel, and Damian, raised in a world where weakness was unforgivable, saw it as cowardice.

Worse still, Bruce his father had intervened. Not as a warrior stepping into the arena, but as a father—shielding the usurper. Protecting someone who had no claim, no birthright, no Ra’s al Ghul in his lineage, no biological connection that is burning in his veins. Damian had lashed out. Fury surged through him like fire through dry kindling. How could his father not see it? He was the true son. The legacy of both Bat and Demon ran through his blood.

But here, in this foreign house built on sentiment and ideals, that blood meant nothing.

His hours of grueling training, his flawless blade work, his mastery of languages, poisons, shadows, everything none of it mattered. In the League, every achievement was tallied like gold, every drop of noble blood a weapon to be honored and sharpened. In Gotham, he was just a child with a name. No better than the orphans his father had chosen. He was expected to earn his place not through heritage, but through heart.

And that was a battlefield Damian had never been taught to fight on.

…..

By fourteen, Damian had changed. The transformation had not come swiftly, nor easily. It had been carved into him over years of clashing ideologies, quiet lessons, and countless moments of silent observation. The boy who once barked orders, who demanded the world bend to his will, had been slowly, methodically unraveled.

Gone was the child who screamed, "Mine!" at every turn. In his place stood a young warrior with weary eyes and calloused hands, one who had tasted loss, rejection, and the sting of unearned entitlement.

He had learned, through long nights spent watching others from the shadows of Wayne Manor’s hallways, that love was not given by birthright but earned through sacrifice. He had watched Dick steady the weight of leadership with a smile, watched Tim endure with patience and quiet brilliance, watched Jason bleed and rage and come back again and again for the family that had once failed him. And he had watched Bruce—not the detective that his grandfather would say nor the beloved that his mother would whisper of bedtime legends, but a flawed, weary man who carried his family not with a sword but with open hands.

The League had taught him to take. His siblings had taught him to stay.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” He had not heard the phrase spoken aloud, but he lived it in the moments that unfolded around him. He saw it in the way Alfred laid out tea for children who weren’t his. In the way Cass would wordlessly spar with him until exhaustion broke his fury. In the way Stephanie left notes on the fridge with dumb jokes just to make them laugh. These people—none of whom shared his blood—had chosen each other again and again.

And yet… in the quiet corners of his mind, sometimes, he still wished Danyal were here.

Danyal, who would have thrived in this strange and stubborn family. Danyal, whose softness would have been a strength here, not a flaw. Danyal, who had always looked at Damian not with envy or resentment, but with quiet love.

Damian had spent so long dismissing that gentleness as weakness, never realizing it had been a gift. Looking back now, he could see the missed moments—the times he could have shared instead of stolen, the times he could have listened instead of taken. His brother had not been lesser. He had simply been different. And Damian, in his arrogance, had mistaken compassion for cowardice.

Now, with Danyal long buried and the world colder for it, Damian carried the weight of that realization like a blade across the ribs—never fatal, but never forgotten.

…...

Then came the mission with the Flash. A time anomaly had rippled through the fabric of reality. Barry had worked tirelessly to fix the damage, racing through different timelines  until order was restored. But this time, though fixed, have a new aftermath. A vision stitched together from remnants of a path not taken.

The Justice League, ever analytical, treated it like a curious glitch in the multiversal code—a harmless projection of a possibility that never came to pass. They gathered to observe it as they would a peculiar ripple in a still pond, detached but intrigued. Damian had been pulled along by Jon, who bounced with his usual boundless energy, unaware of what the vision would show. Damian followed, armored in detachment, a practiced indifference in place.

But then he saw it.

The flickering image glowed before him like a memory he had never lived. There, seated around the long dining table in Wayne Manor, was a scene so mundane, so heartbreakingly normal, it rooted him in place. His father sat at the head of the table, a rare softness in his posture as he poured tea. Nightwing laughed mid-conversation, shoulders relaxed, while Tim rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Jason leaned back with his feet on the table, earning a nudge from Cassandra. And at the center of it all, smiling as if he'd always belonged—was Danyal.

His twin. Whole. Alive.

Danyal passed the bread basket to Tim with a crooked grin, said something that made Alfred chuckle. He nudged Damian's double with his elbow, teasing him, effortlessly folded into the rhythm of a family Damian had once believed unreachable. It was a life that had never happened, a universe where Danyal had lived—not just lived, but thrived.

Damian’s breath caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell once, twice, the motion sharp and sudden. His fingers, usually so still, twitched at his sides, as if the rest of him hadn’t caught up with the emotion rising within. Before he could wrest control back from his heart, his hand extended—reaching, aching, needing.

And the word tore from him before thought could stop it.

"Mine."

It escaped in a whisper but echoed like a roar in his ears. Not the scream of a spoiled prince demanding treasure, but the broken, silent cry of a boy mourning what he had never known he needed. It was not greed that moved him, not anymore. It was grief. Regret. A raw, unfiltered longing for the life that had slipped through his fingers before he had ever realized he wanted it.

Around him, the room shifted. Justice League members who moments ago stood in detached curiosity now exchanged curious glances, as they saw the projection and Robin’s reaction to a projection that is just showing a what-if scenario.

The projection flickered. Danyal’s laughter shimmered and dissolved into static. The dining table faded. The light dimmed.

And Damian remained frozen, hand still half-raised, reaching for a future that was never his to claim.

…..

In the heart of the Infinite Realms, where time unraveled and rewound in endless loops and rivers of light, a lone figure hovered silently above the drifting threads of fate. Clockwork, the Master of Time, ancient and eternal, gazed down upon the scene unfolding within the mortal world. His staff gleamed as it gears ever turning, ticking in rhythm with realities both seen and unseen.

His eyes that is both ageless and all-knowing, rested on the image of a boy no longer a child. Damian Al Ghul Wayne stood still before the dying glow of a vanished vision, his heart laid bare. Once a prince of shadows, molded by assassins and pride, Damian now stood not as a conqueror, but as a brothe still grieving. He no longer sought to possess or dominate, but to reclaim something that had always been just out of reach: family.

The Observers had spoken long ago, their verdicts cold and absolute. Danyal’s future, they had said, was a path carved in steel and soaked in blood. The catalyst of the Infinite Realms, the one who will bring the end. But Clockwork had always known better. Time, after all, was not a straight line, it branched, curved, rebelled. And in one of those near-forgotten offshoots, he had seen a flicker. A possibility so faint it could have been dismissed as error. But Clockwork did not dismiss.

He had seen a future in which the Infinite Realms chaotic would finally know peace. He had seen a king . And that king—against all odds—had come in the form of Danyal Al Ghul Wayne.

A soft, amused breath escaped the Master of Time as his gaze shifted across the layers of existence to a shadow nestled within the Realms themselves. There, hidden among the currents of ectoplasm and fractured echoes of forgotten souls, stood a young ghost. His white hair drifted like mist in the realm’s gentle current, his glowing green eyes solemn yet radiant. Gone were the dark locks, icey blue eyes and quiet smiles of Danyal Al Ghul. In his place stood Daniel Fenton—Danny Phantom—the Halfa. Half-human, half-ghost. A being unlike any other. A bridge between life and death.

Clockwork observed him with fondness, a rare warmth in his otherwise distant demeanor. He remembered the moment clearly, the crack between timelines where fate had faltered just long enough for intervention. The Observers had turned away, believing that Clockwork will carry out their verdict to execute the young boy, but Clockwork had seen the glimmer of what could be. He had rescued the boy from his grave and scattered his memories.

He had delivered the amnesiac child to a quiet home in Amity Park, into the waiting arms of the unsuspecting Fenton couple—eccentric, brilliant, and just compassionate enough to raise him without ever questioning the mystery of his arrival. The boy was given a name, a room, a place to grow. And on that fateful day, when Danny stepped into the portal and his molecules split between two worlds, Clockwork had watched it happen with a quiet, satisfied nod. That had been the moment. The transformation. The birth of a future king.

The Infinite Realms would have their High King.

And now, as the Realms shimmered in resonance with Damian’s grief, and Danny’s own presence and ignorance hummed at the edge of understanding, Clockwork let the corners of his lips curl just slightly.

He had never told the Observers about this faint possible of a timeline. The one he saw only once, a future so far removed it flickered like starlight on the edge of perception. This timeline where, both the Realms have their king but he will have a granchild.

Clockwork kept that knowledge close. Even for a being beyond time, some secrets were too precious to share.

As he look at the grieving Damian telling his family a future could have been and Danny enjoying his somewhat normal routine for a young Halfa like him not knowing the immediate danger that is quickly closing in on him.

Clockwork smiled, All in due time.

…...

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: Again it got too long for my liking....

PPS: I got a bit carried away, hehehehehe.....

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Ghost, Simon & You [SMUT]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, Implied Breeding Kink, Implied Forced Pregnancy, Stomach Bulging, Possessive! Ghost, Kinda Evil! Ghost, Simon and Ghost are Separate People in the Same Body, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’.

Backed up! Simon who uses you as his personal cum dump whenever he returns from deployment. You know you’re in for an absolute pounding when you hear him banging on your front door, only to see him standing there, tall and dark as a shadow, looking down at you with an almost manic gaze.

He hasn't even been home to change first, still clad in his balaclava, eye paint and the under-layers of his tactical attire. He pushes his way in, kicking the door shut behind him with his boot and pressing his lips to yours. It doesn’t matter that you can’t feel his skin, that he’s almost crushing your skull as he grips your cheeks and brings you as close as physically possible, that you can taste gunpowder, dust and death on his mask. That this isn’t Simon at all, but the unholy spirit that possesses him. 

Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.

It also doesn’t matter that he literally tears your shirt from your body, a rumble reverberating through his chest when he sees you without underwear. You were expecting him. Good.

Simon – Ghost – is never gentle when it comes to the first round. He never strips all the way down, either, always leaving his mask on, too. He just yanks his pants down as far as necessary before pressing the hard, aching, weeping tip of his cock to your entrance, pushing in with neither care, nor restraint.

He sees the way you fist the sheets, face down against the mattress but your cries still managing to reach him. He just doesn’t care. Especially when your familiar warmth encompasses him, pulls him into the here and now.

It’s at this point that Ghost sees why Simon loves being around you so much, loves being with you. In you.

His member protrudes, a bump in your stomach evident like a tombstone. Whenever you try to press it, try to flatten your hand against it to get a feel for just how big it is, he takes your wrists in his hands and presses them against the mattress. The message is clear: you don’t interfere. I’ll cum when I say so, not by your hand.

Ghost doesn’t stop until you’re raw and red and leaking with either his or your juices, a ring of white forming at the base of his shaft where you can’t fit any more of his length inside you. You feel it, pulsating and battering and alive in your middle, feeling as if it’s nudging everything else out the way so it can lie uninhibited inside your warm cavern.

He’s hard and fast, rough yet thorough. He never leaves an inch of you unmarked, unbruised, by the time he’s done. Whether he’s aware or not, you always end up finishing first, your walls tightening and pulsating around Ghost’s cock as he continues to abuse your hole, hitting your most sensitive point over and over again, prolonging your orgasm and leaving you utterly spent yet satisfied.

When Ghost cums, it’s long, hard and hot. So, so hot – as if the all fire of his anger he’s had building up these last few months is now cradled within you, an unspeakable offspring. He never immediately pulls out. No, he waits, hands about your waist, no doubt bruises from where he’s gripped you, where he’s kept you so he can make sure you don’t crawl away.

His load is thick and there’s so much of it – you feel like you’re being filled past full.

If you’re capable and fertile, he often considers not giving you birth control after the fact, rather letting you stay dormant in bed and tying you up so you have no choice but to let his seed take. The idea never fails to send a shiver down his spine, making him hard all over again as the image of you, bedbound and incapacitated by his hand is enough to make him retreat to another room just so he doesn’t act on the fantasy. 

The look on Simon’s face, he often wonders, when he finds you’re marked as Ghost’s, carrying a permanent reminder that he got to you first; when he realises that the creature he entrusts his dirty work to, his militant alter ego, has utterly ravaged and claimed you from the inside out.

The horror. The futility of apology. It’s enough to satiate Ghost for now. Enough, enough.

And with that, he pulls out, taking the blazing heat of his body with him. He leaves you on the bed, ass up, face down, with his cum dripping out of you. Leaves you for Simon to clean up, to deal with. 

And to your side does Simon come rushing, for once Ghost removes his mask, so does he the haze he casts over his unwilling creator, letting him return to humanity. The vague pulsing of his member, the wetness coating it and the sheen of sweat clinging to Simon’s body is enough to let him know – remind him – what’s happened.

He comes to your aid, scooping you up in his arms and tending to you in every way he knows how - in every way that’s routine. He apologises, over and over, for letting Ghost do this you, for letting him have his way with you, for not being able to protect you–

You shush him. Look at him with kind eyes. You tell him you’re happy to do it, that you’d rather it be you than anyone else, that you wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t love Simon. Which you do. Monumentally. And Simon loves you, too. He just fears that Ghost may be growing to love you, too – in ways he shouldn’t. 

He feels him now, watching you bathe, sweeping over the bruises on your wrists, your hips and waist, the pressure in the back of his head mounting as Ghost lusts for the control to do it all again.

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[lambilegs]

DRENCH THROUGH MY CHEST, THE IMAGE OF YOU AN IMPRINT ON MY BRAIN. (SEVIKA X READER)

𖤓 sevika lets you oil her hair. that's really all there is to it.

𖤓 contains: fluff, angst, familial issues, mentions of violence, can be interpreted as being set in zaun or modern!au, self-deprecation on sevika's end, sexual jokes, reader is described as: wearing a bra, having pimples on their back and skin spilling over their bra 𖤓 pngs in header/collage and divider respectively by: @/pngcabinet and @/cafekitsune 𖤓 inspired by: hair oiling being suchhh a love language for me + the quote "you can fuck anyone — but with whom can you sit in water?” from ilya kaminsky's poem, while the child sleeps, sonya undresses

There are only a few things that have been thrusted so consistently into the chaos of Sevika’s life that she’s sure they’ll leave imprints on her brain forever. One is the sight of blood on her fists. Since she was a child, she’s been filled with a rage for the world, for everything unfair. When she got taunted and bullied, instead of weeping into the skirt of her mother, she lashed out, punching and kicking. She’s not sure how much of it was derived from the insult of being bullied as opposed to the general rage that one person could see so little humanity in her. 

Another image is the anger on her father’s face. The way he’d scream at her for how rash she was, for spending too much time with what he deemed to be the wrong crowd. Her father thought most emotions were a waste, and anger was one of them. At least, anger in the way she wove it. Her father’s way of releasing rage was through authority and discipline, treating her less like a daughter and more like a subordinate throughout her teenagehood. Her anger was more volatile, like a forest fire no one could put a stop to once she set her mind to something. Until she reached adulthood, the emotion was something unforgiving to anyone – you got caught in it, you had no choice but to burn.

Then, there’s you. One of the nicer things, stamped into her consciousness on so many days that at this point, she’d probably need medical surgery to extract you out. Not that she thinks she’d ever want to. Even if you guys break up, as sour of a thought that is, she’d still want you there. Lingering and kept alive in the corners of her brain. After eight months of being yours, she barely knows how to do without you anymore, let alone exist without the thought of you. Nor without the images of you kept inside her brain like some sort of private scrapbook.

One of her favourites is the one she’s facing right now. Laying in her bed, smoking a cigar, she watches you with levelled eyes, unable to look away. Your back, dimpled and covered in a sprinkle of spots and pimples, bra digging in and coaxing some skin to spill over the straps. The curve of your ass is barely hidden by the ragged old underwear you’re sporting, tight over your cheeks. Your hands are buried in your hair, fingers scratching away as you apply coconut oil. 

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal to her. If it were anyone else, she’d barely give two shits. But, since the first time you did it, probably three weeks in, she’s found herself unable to walk away when you’re engaging in this weekly routine amongst the tiles and stained walls of her bathroom. Even when you’ve been livid at her, stomping away and slamming the door shut due to all her days away doing Silco’s work, she still lingers in the bedroom, keeping you tucked in the corner of her eye. Those nights, she takes an extra long time to flatten out the sheets of the bed, hoping that that excuse is enough to buy her some time to simply… Jesus, it’s embarrassing, but to simply admire.

Pathetic. She knows. And to think she used to mock the people who’d actually prioritize romantic love and make it the center of their world. Who knew it’d take just some pretty eyes and cooing remarks to get her buckling like this, weak and soft?

Her eyes roam about the back of your neck as your fingers curl into the curve of your head, pressing in and circling methodically. It’s a long-standing practice for you, one that you slip into with ease. She likes to think the twenty minute period every week gives you some respite from the world. An escape you deserve. 

When you’re combing the remnants through the locks of hair, she asks, voice rough as though it craves your company in order to be smoothed over, “You done?”

“Why, you miss me?”

She scoffs. While the answer is a resounding yes, she sure as hell isn’t going to admit that to you. “Nah, I’d just rather not have the electricity skyrocket because you insist on spending so long in there.”

“Yeah, but if I did it in the dark, how would you watch me then?” you say staring at her past the dip of your shoulder, the corner of your lip quirking up adorably. 

Sevika resists the urge to grimace. So much for subtlety. 

“I have legs, they can get me closer.”

“Then, why don’t you just come closer now?” You draw out the last word in a low tone, bottom lip jutting out in that way that drives her insane.

All it takes is the click of the light switch, and Sevika is discarding her forgotten cigar, heaving herself out of bed. Cat’s out of the bag – might as well enjoy the rest of your show.

Immediately, her thick arms, worn with scars of fight and passion, engulf you, pressing tight into your midriff. She leans her face into your shoulder, her nose burying into your neck and breathing you in as though she’s downright greedy for it. And she’s never really been one for greed, in spite of her many vices. Even her gambling has less to do with the reward itself as opposed to the thrill of the game and the instant gratification it gifts her during the long, dreary hours of little to no progress in her work.

The sweet, husky scent of the oil worms its way through her nostrils. It’s one she can barely catch a whiff of without thinking of you now. You, her girl – the stain she can barely muster the strength to wipe her brain clean of. Kindness epitomized, too precious for her rough hands, smelling of the oil whose addictive scent she can barely decipher between belonging to its own properties versus your pretty hair.

“Smells good,” she says in a low tone, the words taking a moment to fully come out. She’s not used to this, either. The compliments. It’s something you made clear your stance on early on, demanding affection and honesty from her. While her initial reaction had been incredulity, wondering how easy you must’ve had it in life to make a big deal out of whether or not she calls you pretty, part of her had been a tad – just a tad – impressed. You weren't going easy on her, insulting her by only expecting the bare minimum and simply settling. No, you were making sure she knew what you expected, and actually trusting her to show it. It was kind of attractive – in an irritating sort of way. But, she’d throw her head into a wall before telling you that.

“Thank you, baby,” you hum, massaging the last of your ends.

Baby. Baby, baby, baby. She feels like a lovesick teenager with the way her stomach flips from it.

She simply grunts, her palm rubbing circles into the soft of your tummy, continuing to breathe you in as you set the bottle to the side of the sink.

“You know, I can do yours, too.”

In the reflection of the mirror, she pinpoints you with a deadpan look. Already, you’ve turned her into your personal doll one too many times, wrapped in a fit of giggles when giving her two unflattering ponytails that stuck out like antennas, snorting out your juice at the sight of her glare after applying bright blue eyeshadow on her.

Besides, this would be different from those times. Those were annoying, and grating, and about a hundred other synonyms, sure, but for you to oil her hair… That made her tap into something she didn’t like and spent many moments of the day avoiding. 

“No.”

“Babe,” you complain with a pout. “It’ll be so relaxing for you. And God knows you need that.”

She chooses to ignore the thinly veiled dig, lightly pinching your stomach and ignoring the yelp that shoots out of you. “Cute. But, no.”

“Sevi–”

“No.”

“But,” you huff, turning your head to give her a glare in the dark shadows, “why?”

She tenses up, her fingers flexing. This is one of those moments – the kind where she can choose to retreat and stay away from those darker shadows in her brain that feel like they’ll clog her body anytime she’s near. Or she can make the decision to take your hand or enter it with you. As much as she tends to instinctually lean towards the former, the idea makes her uncomfortable with guilt. You deserve better than that. 

She clears her throat. “My, uh, my old man used to do it for me. Stopped after I cut my hair.”

When she says it out loud, it sounds so simple, barely covering the surface of the pain she had felt back then at sixteen. Because the full truth is: her mother used to do it, she died, her father kept it up for the sake of giving Sevika some silent comfort and the reminder of her, and then, stopped to prove a point once she cut her hair short. It was the last feminine thing of hers to go, and her father was too stubborn to prioritize nostalgia above pride. And so, the years of tradition had crumbled into pieces, and Sevika took the glass bottle to an alleyway and shattered it against the wall. She thought doing so would give her catharsis and let the rage burn a little stronger. Instead, she had immediately crumbled to the ground, trying to desperately collect the shards as angry sobs choked from her throat.

You seem to sense the thickening tension in the air, slowly turning in the lock of her arms and winding yours around her neck. She has to look away from that sympathetic, tender stare. “I’m so sorry, Sevi.” A beat passes, then you mumble, “I’d love to do it for you. I love your hair.”

She knows you do. You’ve never failed to show her your attraction, and while she’s aware of her own game and ability to get a woman when she wants, she’s never been the most certain of her physical appeal. If she were to confess this to you, she can already imagine your immediate conclusion, spoken confidently in your voice: childhood trauma.

Feeling slightly off balance from the praise, her eyes dart away. “I know.”

“So…” you trail off, combing your fingers through the dark strands, fingernails grazing against her scalp.

She clenches her teeth. A menace you are. You know exactly what that does to her.

And even with every drop of willpower it takes to resist from turning putty under that satisfying touch, she can’t find it in herself to say no to you. Both for not wanting to disappoint you, but also because to say no would be to admit she’s afraid of hair oil of all things. She understands the sting that comes with it, but that doesn’t mean she needs to give into it and cower away. That’s never been her preferred method of handling things. 

“Fine,” she relents, letting go of your waist to retrieve a chair, pointedly ignoring your squeal of delight.

With how tall she is, she’s left sitting in front of you, the wooden bar of the chair pressing into the soft of her neck as she leans back, letting you have your way with her. She can feel the faint squelching noise as you pour the oil into your palm, and unable to resist, says from under her breath, “That sounds familiar.”

You use the back of her hand to thump against her shoulder blade, an admonished gasp shooting from your lips. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“I’m just stating facts.”

“Yeah, about my pussy, which is unneeded during the romantic gesture of me oiling your hair.”

“It may not be as romantic as you’re picturing it,” she snickers, rubbing her hands. “Maybe you only look good doing it.”

“Hey, just like you with sex,” you snark back, tugging on a lock of her hair, earning a sharp stare in return.

When she’s facing the wall of her bedroom, now adorned with polaroids and photo strips you insisted on pasting there so that she “can wake to something nice,” she lets a smirk curl at her lips. She doesn’t even feel the need to retort. You both know exactly just how well she treats you in that regard.

Her face tightens when your warm, slick hands slowly make their way into her hair, palm mindlessly pushing and pulling at her scalp. Her stiff body speaks of mountains of discomfort, completely unaccustomed to her hair being so gently tended to. Her mind is immediately flooded with memories, trying to remember the last time she did this. 

And that’s the thing – she can’t even pinpoint that with certainty. The last time her dad did that she didn’t even know it’d be the last time. And she doubts she appreciated it all that much at the moment. Probably hated being this close to him after all the fights and biting words that had festered into their relationship at that point. Despite it all, the idea makes her stomach heavy with guilt. Maybe she should have savoured it a bit more. It was one of those things that felt like a drag throughout her teenagehood, but then, was constantly searched for to be replicated once it was gone.

But, maybe she needs to accept that feeling will never return, even if it’s frustrating to not remember how it last felt. You yourself do it differently. While her dad was efficient and unfaltering, his rough hands pressing into her head in steady, consistent motions, you’re a lot softer, more messy with it. One moment, your nails are scratching into her scalp, fingertips making little circles that barely cause her pain, then the next, your fingers are melting in her strands, combing through slowly so that they don’t pull too much.

Sometimes, she wishes you’d handle her a little rougher, give her the amount of gentleness she really deserves. There are people, actual good people, who’d kill to have this kind of domesticity. And Sevika, who everyone is half-terrified of, who’s withdrawn from anyone who can’t benefit her, who has more horrors on her hands than she can count, is the person to receive it? What did she do to earn this? Even back when you guys first met, you gave her this understanding, as though she automatically deserved it. But, she knows herself – she doesn’t deserve it. Honestly, doesn’t deserve you most of the time either.

But, she tries to do right by you, anyways. Even if she thinks you’re too good for her, she’s not about to be one of those idiots who uses that as an excuse to sulk and do nothing because they consider themselves “undeserving.” If anything, she uses the doubt as motivation to prove herself to you.

Lost in her thoughts, she finally relaxes under your touch, her shoulders easing as you continue carefully prodding and twisting in her hair. Leaning back into you, she feels a shiver run down her spine as your nails drag along her scalp, sweet words falling from your lips as your fingers get further lost in her hair, rubbing into her hairline.

She gets why all the women like doing this in her culture. It’s like a massage, lulling her into complacency, the rigid contours of her body numbing out. It’s a feeling she usually avoids, both due to her personal stress and distrust for the world. But, with you, it’s welcomed. With you, there’s trust.

The thought strikes her hard. When was the last time she even felt such trust? When her dad did this with her, she never felt fully at ease, the muscles of her shoulders taut and tense as he applied it. But, with you, she feels like she can sink into it. She can get lost in the sensation, and get wrapped up in the memory of what it was like for her mom to do this. Of what it was like to have that link to her dad, her culture, severed in ways she fucking hated thinking of. Ways that still left a bitter residue no matter how hard she tried to not think of it.

Just like when she was bullied as a kid, the sense of injustice comes piercing through. Did she not deserve better than that? Shouldn’t her dad have acted like a fucking adult and just spare her of the back-and-forth? But, why should she even care? Why does she still care? What’s wrong with her?

Is it all coming back because you’re touching her like this? Her body has been subjected to punches and fights and bruises more times than she can count, and she’s nowhere near to being inexperienced sexually. She’s experienced touches of all kinds, but who does she trust to oil her hair? Barely a handful of people, and most of them are gone. 

She’s too late in biting back the hot tears that roll down her face. She grits her teeth together, embarrassment unfurling in her, filthy and painful. She can’t bear to lift her hand up and wipe at her face lest you see, so she keeps them fisted in her lap.

But, you notice, anyway. You always do.

When her voice is rougher than usual upon being asked if it feels good, you’re immediately bending down to peer at her. And while she usually faces any movement, any threat, head on, she immediately turns away.

“Oh, baby,” you quietly coo, your hands slipping from her hair, body circling around the chair to sit on her lap.

She feels cornered, given no choice but to meet your curious gaze, her own eyes still stinging. That’s another thing. While you demand to have your own feelings acknowledged, you do the exact same thing for her. In the areas of life she’d like to avoid and discard as filthy corners in the alleyways of her mind, you shine a bright light into them, promising to be at her side each time. “What is it?” you softly ask, arms hanging off her shoulders, careful not to touch her skin with your oil-drenched hands.

She tentatively places her large hands on your back, drawing random shapes. Not wanting to dive too deep into it, she says, “Just thinking. About the past, is all.”

“The oil stuff?”

“Yeah. In a way.”

“I’m so sorry he did that, Sevi. It’s so shitty.”

She ignores the protective instinct that immediately kicks in for her dad. You’re right, it is shitty. And it’d be stupid to deny that in favour of some familial obligation that still hangs over her head.

“Yeah.” She presses her lips together. “It’s fine. That’s just how things go.”

“No,” you firmly respond. “You don’t have to accept or resign yourself to that kind of stuff. You should never be treated like that. Never should have been either. I hate that you got used to it.”

She swallows hard. Getting used to it was necessary for survival. She was enraged by the injustice, yeah, but when she was still living under her dad’s roof, it was just easier to stomach it.

“I know,” she says absent-mindedly, rubbing her calloused thumb on the plush of your hip. 

“I wish–” you stop yourself, sucking in a deep breath. “I wish I was there, then.”

She forces herself to stare at you. She wants to match at least half of your guts in this regard. She hates to be weak and hide away.

“What, when I was sixteen?”

“Yeah,” you softly say, your hands stroking through her hair. “I would’ve oiled it back then.”

The image of both of you, budding teenagers, you cradling her to your chest, keeping up the tradition her dad tossed aside like it was nothing, has her stomach aching. A shuddering breath brushes past her lips. “Stop. I’m – fuck, I’m not used to this.” The words are meant to come out firmly, but they get caught halfway in her throat.

“No, I won’t stop.” You lean in closer, kissing the bridge of her nose, fingers beginning to coax at her scalp again. “Just let me do this, okay? You’ll get used to it in time. And trust me when I say so, because I intend to do this for you for a long, long time.”

Fuck. Someone needs to create a rulebook on shit you’re not allowed to say. Already, she finds herself tightening the lock of her jaw, trying not to let more tears leak out. There’s a kind of determination you say the words with – a promise that you would have been, and will continue to be, at her side for however long she lets you. Not just for tonight, or for a month, or for as long as your relationship lasts. Forever is what you’re promising her. A lifetime of you devoting yourself to her.

And she wants to let you. She doesn’t deserve it, that’s for sure. But, how long has she spent her life giving something up for one person or the other? Maybe she’s allowed to be a bit selfish.

It can’t be all that bad if it’s with you. She reckons there are worse things to be selfish about than you, undressed and on her lap, rubbing oil into her hair and pressing mindless kisses to her face. No one hurt, nothing damaged. Just you, turning stone into glass, easing her into your embrace with promises of a future and your presence in it.

And like an idiot, she’ll believe them all. 

“Yeah, if I let you,” she mutters when your lips brush hers.

“You know you will,” you whisper teasingly, pressing a wet kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Who else would you let do this to you, even if it’s just once?”

“Nobody, I guess,” she relents, dipping her forehead against your chin. She usually prides herself on being alone, but the admission causes a sting in her. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, tugging on her hair. “So, thank God for me, right?”

She snorts, squeezing her eyes shut. 

Even if there is a God, she’s sure they have nothing on you. Because you’re right – she’d let tons of people fuck her, fight her, and spit on her. But, only one who she would let dig into her scalp and soak through her hair, drench through her chest.

[yandere-romanticaa]

Marriage was often used as a tool of convenience - be it to upgrade one's own social status, get some much needed silver and gold, or to just get one leg up over your enemies, it really did not matter in the end.

Like it or not, you were tied to that person till death did you part.

That was a chant that has been sung to you ever since you came out of your weeping mother's womb. As the daughter of the household, it was natural for you to wed one day. However, the family was one of average standing, it had no special titles tacked onto it nor did it have any grotesque reputation which could sully it to the darkness and back. In its own way, it was oddly blissful, being invisible like that. No one expected you to act like a stuck up lady who would be locked away deep in a tower and you were also safe from becoming a measley wench who would be forced to spend the rest of her miserable days stuck rolling around in the mud, selling her body to all sorts of horrific strangers just in order to eat for a day.

You had the privilege of being born into a happy life. Perhaps a slightly dull one sometimes but regardless, a good one at that. You were content with everything which was given to you, perhaps even happy.

However, all things come to an end, and your end came in the form of a man riding on horseback.

He was strong, capable, handsome... But you kept that thought to yourself as you helped the wounded stranger get back on his feet, his midnight black steed happily trotting away somewhere as it accidentally shook the rider off its back once it locked eyes on you, a stranger in the woods.

"And who might you be?" asked the dark haired man, his curly hair framing his pale face so wonderfully that it took the breath from your lungs away.

You held onto him tightly and pressed him close to your body, the odor of blood and sweat covering him from top to bottom but you couldn't be bothered to care. He wore simple clothing which made you think that he was in a similar position like yourself in terms of finance, which gave you a slight glimmer of hope.

It was embarrassing how much you were swooning over the stranger.

Taking him back to your hut took longer than expected but all was well in the end. The handsome stranger had a name, Robb he said it was, and you couldn't hide the adoration in your voice whenever he would speak to you. The night flew by like a summer breeze - too fast and too sweet. Come first daylight he had to leave, which you understood.

That didn't stop you from feeling a little blue.

He mounted his horse like a knight in shining armor, its mane tussling proudly in the bitter north wind as Robb looked down at you, his warm blue eyes desperate to tell you many stories and secrets, but time was cruel and scarce.

He would come back to you, he promised.

And you gave him a smile sweeter than any juicy fruit, telling him that you would gladly wait for him.

He rode away all the while looking back at you, sending you a heart stopping smile which could make anyone weak in the knees. The horse left large hoofprints in the snow and you focused your attention on that, rather than the bitter stabs of pain in your heart.

There would never be a day when you'd see Robb ever again.

You were due to leave for the South in a few weeks time, in order to finally be wed off. The fantasy of Robb was saccharine and enchanting, many hours of sleep were lost due to him. Even if you barely knew him, the matters of the heart were reckless and stupid.

The heart wants what it wants and your heart ached for Robb.

All the while, you hadn't a clue of him and his plans. The men in Winterfell grew tired of his constant ramblings of this lovely woman he met, this sweet little thing which made his heart sing like no one else. He would walk in the corridors with a pep in his step as he thought of all the ways he could take you back to his home and give you the life you deserved.

His candied tirade quickly came to an abrupt halt once his mother had informed him of the grave news, that you had been promised to another man.

Robb was furious.

Who was this man?! Who did he think he is?! Ever the meticulous man, he got to work immediately. In less than a few days he had managed to gather all the information he could on this mystery fiance of yours, all the papers sprawled across his massive table. The candles in his chambers glimmered gently, the shimmering light a stark contrast to the raging flames in his heart.

If he could have his way, he'd be out for blood. Robb was too much of a jealous man for his own good but he needed to think, he needed to prepare if he wanted to do this right.

In less than a day, he had everything set up. If the man wasn't willing to take the gold he was offering him, he was not above using any scare tactics. His anger ended up getting the better of him though, so a bizarre combination of both was used.

The way in which your fiance left you made your heart sink. How were you going to break the news to your parents? Whatever could you have done so wrong to earn the ire of this lord whom you haven't even met yet...

You weep in your room, staining the mattress with your salty tears, completely oblivious to the small cavalry with House Stark banners raging on your front door.

Robb Stark had come for his bride. And she had no idea what sort of future awaited her...

[natewriteslol]

Delicious In Dungeon Having a Crush on You HC's!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:

Summary: Just like the title says, how they would act if they had a crush on you including how you find out!

Pt.2 w Kabru, Shuro and Falin!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ ☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*°☆.。.:*

Senshi:

-I'm not going to lie it is going to take a fat minute for him to fess up his feelings for you let alone for people to notice because it is the little things that stand out.

-Senshi is really good at keeping secrets and is a really private person and fights for his peace

-So what if he may slip a little bit more food onto your plate, make your favorite dishes only for you if the ingredients for it just so happens to be in his bag, is always the first person to get you out of a dangerous situation? It's all out of convenience and being kind

-But his lack of casualty is also really telling like when giving out compliments he sometimes has a tinge of shyness to his voice, "You look...very nice y-yes"

-The way you find out he has a crush on you is because he eventually comes to a realization that he cannot keep running away from his problems because that has never ended in anything good and confesses his feelings for you

-It happened whilst everyone was asleep and it was just you two alone by the fire, the embers were crackling and you always enjoyed watching it ablaze while talking with Senshi. Eventually he piped up after staying silent for so long and having you take the lead in talking,

"I don't mean to corner you, nor do I expect you to feel the same but...I have feelings for you, genuinely Y/N. And, meeting you in this party means the world to me, as you all are unique treasures but you. I couldn't imagine just walking away without letting you know how much you mean to me."

-Honestly, Senshi is one of the least in denial about this predicament with his feelings and will come to you sooner

Marcille:

-A person who completely avoids her feelings for you like the plague and will deny like her life depends on it

-She swears to others that it's just because you're an amazing friend!

-She brings you your favorite sweet treats, offers to cast magic for your slightest inconveniences, she just so happens to bring books that are about the things you mentioned one off or are a specific interest you love

-The contrast of how she treats others vs. You is so jarring and it's really obvious that she has a crush on you. She is really protective and a bit possessive (not in a weird way) over you and she does not really care about the other people in her party like that

-Anytime she's afraid of something, she holds onto you, Marcille is VERY touchy with her crush

-The blonde blushes pretty consistently and is really shy when it comes to you and tries to appear nonchalant but fails miserably

-It's honestly so bad that even Laios caught on after Senshi threw him a clue and one time when it was just him asked her, which resulted in her coming clean and being VERY distressed as if she committed a crime

-The way you find out she has a crush on you is when you're on a mission in a dungeon. She was near a weeping willow exerting mana, rumored to grant wishes to anyone who asks.

-She held a piece of paper and was on her knees, looking up at the grand tree on the soft blades of grass. She began speaking to the tree once you silently walked in through the cave hole to check on her and the half-elf was completely unknowing of your intrusion,

-"Please they're the love of my life, and I'm not asking to force them but maybe...show me a sign if they like me back. They make me feel like no other and I am just so confused and I need guidance, Ancient Willow."

Chilchuck:

-Deny. Deny. Deny. Deny.

-Oh, and did I say deny

-He absolutely hates being the person caught with egg on his face and being in the wrong, so the fact that he himself Mr. 'No Party Romances' violated his own rules?

-He wants to fall into a hole right on the spot

-While he is a grown ass man and doesn't want to be a coward, Chilchuck doesn't want to face this problem head on surprisingly (sarcasm)

-He shows his love for you by trying to keep you the safe the most out of everyone in the party, scolds you HEAVILY when you mess up that could've cost you your life

-Some may say that it's just Chilchuck's explosive nature, Senshi was actually the first to see through it and grow suspicion over his behavior but honestly didn't have enough evidence for his theory and was shot down by Laios and Marcille

-It's not extremely obvious his slight shift in treatment until you had been kidnapped by the Chain Devil to protect Chilchuck from it's clutches

-And multiple times have members of the party have been kidnapped and although shaken he was able to keep his cool...but this time it was heavily different

-He let out a horrified scream that they had never heard from the Half-Foot before. He scrambled to his feet after watching you getting pulled into the darkness, his eyes were glassy and full of panic as he asked the rest on what they should do

-When they get you back, you were too tired to really stand so you laid in the sleeping bag as everyone else slept as well, but the brown haired man never left your side and watched as you slept

-...or so he thought

-You find out about his true feelings as you laid in your sleeping bag. As you were drifting in and out consciousness but felt light weight on the side of your body and Chilchuck began to talk to you, asking if you were awake

-"Good, you're fast asleep...I hope you know that I'm not hard on you because I don't like you that's...not even close to the truth.

I love you, so much and...I get so damn scared for you."

Laios:

-Constant. Monster. Facts.

-One of the things that makes Laios so attracted to you is that you listen and like when he nerds out so please be prepared. You're a safe space to spew out knowledge and it means the world to him

-Consistently gives you small little gifts, but then sometimes gifts to the others so it doesn't look suspicious. Maybe it was something with the light but, the look in his eye as he gave you the bracelet and put it on you was so different.

-Usually doesn't care about other people being in a towels or shirtless, but when it's you he feels like a victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time. When he sees your collar bones and he tries to keep it very lokwey, but is highkey blushing

-Gives you some sketches of your favorite creatures, always "accidentally" makes your favorite dish for dinner nights, pouts a little when you need to be gone without him for a little

-If you're ever feeling insecure he might open his gob a little too much, "I get maybe why you'd feel that way but, if you ask me I think it's pretty hot" he says with a blank, enthusiastic smile on his face not at all understanding how that could come off

-You find out that the knight has a crush on you the first time he gets absolutely hammered with Senshi, Chilchuck as he was convinced by the two to get drunk

-The bar was packed in one of the "safe spaces" in town and you and Marcille were kinda the designated sober people within your party, and whilst the half elf was in the bathroom you decided to get some fresh air and got up from the stool seat

-"Whatcha' doing party is jus' getting started?" Laios asks

-You shot him a look over the shoulder and responded softly, "I need some fresh air hun, I'll be right back."

-And there went his inner dialogue. Out his mouth.

-"Woah, how sexy. Being in love really sucks sometimes since I'd really do tricks like a dog to be with them good god."

-The look you gave dobered him almost completely, and if that wasn't enough Marcille was right behind him and heard every word

-Love is cringe but he is free I guess.

Part Two:Kabru, Shuro and Falin!

[iydiamartinx]

HIS SOUL TO GIVE

Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 1.3k synopsis: Death wasn’t the end Jason Todd expected. In a frozen purgatory where pain and sorrow taint the very air, he meets a demon. She offers him a choice: rise… or shatter. All she wants is one thing—his soul. a/n: I enjoyed this idea so much more than I expected. warnings: talk of death, demons

When Jason Todd died, he had expected pain. Or maybe fire. Something to match the way he’d gone out.

Yet, that wasn’t what the afterlife was, it wasn’t fire and brimstone like the stories said. It was worse. It was cold. Bleak. A wasteland stitched together from sorrow and regret, where the air hung heavy with the taste of eternal torment. The horizon bled endlessly into a cracked sky that neither brightened nor darkened. There was no sun. No stars. Just the dullness of a world that had no end.

Time was meaningless in such a place.

The condemned wandered endlessly, locked in loops of their own guilt—some weeping, some silent, some laughing as they tore themselves apart, over and over, because they thought they deserved to. And worse, some who didn’t think they did, who clawed at invisible cages until their hands were nothing but bone and denial.

Jason moved through this realm like smoke through cracks. He wasn’t bound like the others. Not yet. But the place pulled at him. 

The land shifted with mood, bent to memory. One moment he walked through the hollow wreckage of Wayne Manor, its grand halls scrawled over with Joker’s laughter, family portraits slashed and bleeding—and the next, the concrete wreckage of Crime Alley stretching on endlessly, a tunnel of echoing gunshots and broken laughter, a cathedral of his failure. The ground was littered with rose petals. Or blood. It was hard to tell.

His final breath still echoed through the concrete. He could hear it—if he stood still long enough.

And that’s when she came.

The shadows peeled back like burnt paper, curling at the edges, revealing something that should not have been. A figure stepped forward—not a woman. Not really. But shaped like one. 

Her hair fell in waves like onyx fire and rom her temples curled a pair of horns—like a ram’s, black and ridged, adorned with dangling chains and strange, delicate jewels that chimed softly with her steps. Her skin was the colour of polished midnight, gleaming with a purple sheen that shimmered between starlight and shadow, as if she were carved from obsidian itself.

And her eyes—God, her eyes. Jason couldn’t look away. They shifted between gold and blood-red, as if lit from within by coals that had burned for centuries and had yet to cool. 

She walked barefoot, and the hem of her gown—dark as dried blood, light as smoke—dragged through the ash that coated the earth. If he listened closely, he could hear the whispers of it as it moved.

Jason was frozen at the sight of such a dark ethereal creature. He would’ve thought she was an angel if it weren’t for the large, bat-like wings looming upon her back, with sharpened points along the points. She was a creature from hell, fallen from the heavens he didn’t know.

Jason stood frozen.

The sight of her rooted him where he stood, breath caught somewhere between awe and instinct. A dark, ethereal thing—too terrible to be divine, too divine to be anything else. For a heartbeat, he might have mistaken her for an angel. But then he saw them.

The wings upon her back. Massive and bat-like, they loomed behind her. The thin membrane shimmered like oil slick, while the edges of bone curved into jagged, sharpened points at the tips.

No. She wasn’t an angel.

She was something fallen. Something cast down from a heaven he didn’t believe in, or perhaps risen from a hell he hadn’t yet learned to fear.

Every soul in this place was assigned a tormentor—and she was meant to be his. But the moment she laid eyes on him, she knew something was wrong. He wasn’t what she expected. The boy was young—no longer a child, but not yet a man fully grown, yet that wasn’t what made her hesitate.

His soul glowed too bright for a realm built on rot and ruin. It didn’t carry the weight of malice or cruelty. It wasn’t blackened by betrayal or blood. His was a soul marked by pain, yes—but not corruption. There was purity still lingering in him, one that had no place among dark and tainted. 

It shone like a beacon to the damned—calling to every dark creature that skulked through this realm, ones who would tear him apart just to taste the light in his bones.

“You shouldn’t be here,” She purred. Her voice was like velvet. 

The scent of his fear swirled through the air. But still, he lifted his chin, defiance smouldering behind such fierce eyes.

Her lips twitched with amusement.

He balled his fists. “Who the hell are you?”

She tilted her head, and the delicate chains laced through her horns gave a soft, musical clink.

“Names are meaningless things for mortals,” she said—voice light, almost bored. “But among the creatures of the dark, they hold value.” The edge of warning threaded through her words. A flicker of sharp white canines flashed behind her smile. “Still, if you need something to call me to soothe your pride, you may call me whatever suits your fear.”

She watched his throat bob with a swallow he tried to hide. Brave. But not foolish. He seemed to take the warning she gave to heart.

Her gaze dipped, and she stepped closer, leaning in just enough that her breath brushed the shell of his ear.

“You shine, little bird,” she murmured. “So bright, I’m amazed you haven’t been devoured yet.”

He tensed.

“You’re not like the others,” she continued, circling him with slow, deliberate steps. “The condemned cling to this place because they earned their suffering. But you…” Her voice trailed off as she came to stand before him again, head tilted slightly, gaze sharp and gleaming. “You’re barely tethered. You shouldn’t be here—which begs the question… why are you?”

She studied him in silence, eyes glinting with a hunger that wasn’t quite cruelty… but not quite benevolence, either. She wasn’t the worst of her kind. But she was still a creature of the hells.

Her question was answered as an unnatural green began to bleed into the blue of his eyes.

“Ah,” she breathed, a slow smile curving her lips. “That’s why.”

He gasped sharply, one hand flying to his chest as he collapsed to his knees. “What’s… happening to me?”

“Someone’s clawing at your grave,” she drawled, voice laced with dark delight, almost sing-song. “How lucky for you.”

Another cry tore from him as his hands flew to his head, fingers fisting in his dark hair. It felt like fire in his veins, like his mind was being ripped apart thread by thread.

Her smile faltered.

“How long have you been dead?” she asked, brows lowering just slightly.

“I—I don’t—” He choked on the words, barely able to speak.

With a sigh that rang with the weight of ancient boredom, she sank into a crouch. Chains and jewels clinked softly as she moved. With one sharp, lacquered nail, she delicately tipped his chin upward, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“It’s been too long. Hasn’t it,” She murmured more to herself, as she continued studying him. “The body may rise, but the mind will shatter. All that rage, all that passion and determination, all of it soon to be lost to insanity.”

“Please,” he whispered. He didn’t even know what he was asking for—relief, release, salvation—maybe all of it at once.

Her smouldering gaze narrowed, considering.

Then, she sighed. “You’re lucky I like broken things.”

She leaned closer, her voice smooth as sin.

“I’ll offer you a deal, little bird. I’ll give you strength—enough to rise again, without your fragile little mind devoured by madness. In return…” Her eyes gleamed. “I want one simple thing.”

She paused, savouring the moment.

“Your soul.”

A fresh wave of fire tore through him, stealing breath, breaking thought. He convulsed, the scream catching behind clenched teeth.

“Yes!” he gasped, eyes wild and unfocused. “Deal!”

A slow, dark smile curled across her lips.

“A kiss,” she purred, “to seal the deal.”

She leaned in. Her lips brushed his brow—warm and deceptively gentle.

For a moment there was nothing, and then suddenly Jason screamed as his body was consumed in flames of green.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Saw your most recent thought about writing Gambit, PLEASE DO ITTT!! He has been my favourite ever since i was young... After watching Deadpool & Wolverine, the one who played by Channing Tatum... OH GOD I need him more now 🤚😔💥 ((But please take your time to write tho!! Don't wanna rush or pressure you about it ✨️

Part two here

‘What if this is it. What if this is the ending we get because we were the unlucky ones and that this is where we were meant to be regardless of how hard we try.’ You say one day and Remy stopped shuffling his cards.

‘And what made you come to that bleak conclusion, mon cher.’ He asks softly, having a feeling that you had been withholding this thought inside for a while, and it wasn’t only until now did it feel like coming to light in the presence of someone you felt safest with, or at least he assumed you did with how often you tended to stick to his side. You had lost your friend Jubilee a while back to Alioth and ever since then you’ve been stuck to Remy and admitting things to him in confidence that he beloved you would’ve told Jubilee…had she stayed a little while longer.

You shrug. ‘Merely an educated guess. That and the copious amounts of times where we’ve tried and failed to escape but I’m pretty sure that’s evident, considering that we’re.still.fucking.here.’

Remy sighs, gets up from the table and walks across the room and takes his place next to you, shoulder to shoulder and as your thighs briefly touch. ‘You may think me stupid for thinking this mom cher, but it is the truth of my heart, and that truth is that I’m glad we’re here.’ He admits but starts laughing soon after upon looking at your confused face, finding it adorable.

‘Care to elaborate on that?’ You then said as you started at as though he had grown a second head. What did he mean by that? That he was happy he was trapped here? Had Remy finally gone mad, you weren’t quite sure but decided that you would hear him out in hopes that there was a logical explanation after a confession like that after all.

‘With pleasure,’ Remy began, ‘the reason I say this because if I weren’t here then I would’ve never met you, built a friendship with you and so on, so while I share your want to leave this place.’ He then leans in real close to you, so close to the point you could feel his breath fanning your face and his lips ghost over your own as your heart went nuts in your throat. ‘I can’t help but thank it for brining us together, for I wouldn’t have thought to experience a love quite like ours mon cher.’ Remy concludes and you couldn’t help but smile.

Remy has once told you that you did exist in his timeline, just with a minor detail in the fact that you weren’t a mutant like him. You were friends, close friends, but one day you died protecting him, he’s never forgiven himself since and still hasn’t. ‘Brave soul, courageous heart you had.’ He had said while fighting back tears as you held him just as he began to weep over a you that wasn’t you; Regarding whether or not you were together was a question that was never answered nor asked, for you didn’t want to reopen old wounds Remy chose to close for a reason.

You had a Remy back home but he was with Rouge and you weren’t even remotely as close as Remy and his variant of you were. You were barely even on speaking terms because of how little you interacted with one another. So needless to say your absence wasn’t felt nor missed in the slightest, but you didn’t have the energy nor the ability to care about that anymore.

You gently shove him in the chest. ‘Cheesy bastard.’ You muttered as Remy chuckled, pulling you into his arms as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, breathing you in as you melted into his warmth, feeling safe from all harm and most importantly; loved.

‘Don’t you know. All Remy’s to ever exist are romantics at heart mon cher?’ He playfully said as he tightened his grip on you, planting one more kiss on your forehead, humming in content.

‘No. I only know one Remy who’s a romantic at heart,’ you told him as you lifted a hand to gently boop him on the nose, ‘you and that’s the only Remy I need to know, for you are the best Remy out of all of them. At least in my opinion.’ You finished as you then kissed him on the cheek.

Remy smiles softly at you as he felt himself becoming more content with his fate if it meant sharing these moments with you for the rest of his life, you made life here bearable and he couldn’t imagine going back to a life where all he had to remember was your name scrawled into a cold, unforgiving headstone. ‘And your opinion is the only opinion I ever want to have for the rest of my life.’ He says as he held you tighter before smothering you in kisses, smiling widely as he heard you giggle and squeal for mercy, while back home you may not be anything to him, but here? You were everything to him and more.

[trappolia]

── O, BRIDE OF THE UNDERWORLD

thanzagmeg. amongst the dead of the underworld, a reprise of a love story blooms.

Your mother-in-law once called you the beating heart of the Underworld.

It was a startling thing to hear from Persephone — she who had forsaken her mother's name to marry the God of the Underworld; she who the Earth weeps frozen tears for in her absence; she who has made a dark spring bloom here with just her presence.

The Underworld already has a heart of its own. It thrums with a steady, distant pulse, like the distant drum of a song for soldiers fallen in battle. It is in the shadows that move with purpose, and the chill of death of once warm bodies wandering the halls of the House of Hades and engaging in idle conversation about how they died as if they are merely discussing the weather.

The quiet hum of eternity.

You wonder if she simply sees a bit of herself in you. You were once a nymph of the grassy plains above before Death. Now you are a bride of the Underworld, who has founded a home in this realm of ink-black rivers and whispering shades, its gilded halls and blood-red roses, its ceaseless churn of souls. You walk these corridors not as a mere visitor, nor as one damned, but as something precious; as Persephone is.

Or maybe she simply thinks too much of you. Places you against the greater portrait of the Underworld and all its hellish circles. You have always seen yourself as something more minor, though no less significant. The portrait of a lover, rather than something belonging to the whole of the Underworld; Prince Zagreus’s consort, chosen and beloved.

And not only his.

The scent of laurel and iron is familiar when Megaera finds you first. She is leaning against a cold obsidian pillar where you turn a corner in the hall, caught in your daily wandering of the House of Hades. Her whip coils lazily around her hand, and you have felt the touch of those fingers too often to worry about what that hand is capable of against your beloved prince. You know Zagreus well enough to understand that even he takes some pleasure from their semi-daily spats.

Her golden eyes are alight with amusement when she catches you.

“Looking for someone?”

Her voice is smoke and steel, the kind of teasing only she can pull off — sharp enough to wound, sweet enough to make you crave more. It's a delicious rasp, one that pulls you in.

"I thought you were working," you say softly, meek even in your approach. Under Megaera's gaze, you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. It's a delicious feeling, like flames licking at your skin.

"Tisiphone is dealing with your fool of a husband, sweetling," she muses, reaching out to brush your hair out of your face. Her fingers drift, pinching your chin playfully. "Had it been me out there, Zag wouldn't be coming home in time for supper."

Before you can answer, a weight settles against your back, a touch cold as the space between stars. A hand, deathly pale yet soft in its tenderness, trails over your wrist before curling around your fingers. Megaera raises a brow as she lifts her gaze to the newcomer.

Thanatos does not need words. He never does. His presence alone speaks volumes — the weight of inevitability, of endings — pressing into you like the certainty of a final breath. And yet, there is warmth in him, one you have come to know intimately—a paradox of comfort in the arms of Death himself.

“Zagreus is coming,” he murmurs, voice quiet as the rustle of the Fields of Asphodel. “He was waylaid.”

“Waylaid,” Megaera echoes, smirking. “That’s one way to put it.”

You tilt your head up as you feel Thanatos shift, his golden eyes gleaming under the torchlight. He is beautiful in his quietude, just as Megaera is beautiful in her storm.

"Were you helping him again, Than?" you inquire.

It has been a long time since aiding the Prince of the Underworld in his escapades was seen as some form of treason by Hades. Even then, Thanatos still averts his gaze, his grey skin flushing with a dark shade like the murky waters.

"Helping is a generous term, dear," he mumbles.

Megaera snorts.

Their bickering is dry, almost entirely deadpan. There is none of that theatrical flair of Zagreus arguing with his father for eternities, but it is no less entertaining for you to watch. You've learned to take delight in the sharpness of their words, the furrow of their brows. In a way, it is strangely domestic.

You cannot help the little grin that tugs at your lips as you watch them in front of you. The laugh that tumbles out of your mouth is entirely accidental, and you squeak as two pairs of golden eyes snap to you.

"What are you laughing about, little flower?" Thanatos muses, his voice soft and utterly smitten.

"Isn't it obvious? They're laughing at you," Megaera scoffs, though it lacks in her usual malice.

Suddenly, the scent of wine and pomegranate blossoms floods your senses.

It comes before you even see him. You close your eyes, basking in the scent of it as if it were the spring that you have not felt in a lifetime. Beside you, Megaera and Thanatos fall silent.

Then, there he is: breathless, grinning, battered from the inevitable chaos that follows him everywhere, the floors of hell burning under his feet. His underworld-forged armor bears fresh scrapes, his knuckles bruised from the skirmish, but his smile—his smile is for you.

For all of you.

"There is your husband," Megaera drawls.

Zagreus is panting when he reaches you, still dripping in the blood from the River Styx. You have learned to disregard the viscera, delighting only in the way his hands reach—finding yours, Megaera's, brushing against Thanatos's in an unspoken promise.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Zagreus breathes. “Got a little distracted.”

"Distracted, he says," Thanatos deadpans.

Megaera rolls her eyes, but she lets him pull her closer. Thanatos sighs but does not resist the touch.

Death, treachery, rebirth; how odd for a maiden of the Earth to surround themself with. But you have learned like the goddess before you that love tends to find creatures like you in the strangest of places, like a stubborn dandelion blooming through the cracks of a cobblestone path.

You beam, lifting yourself up on your toes to press your lips against your husband's cheek, then your two other lovers. Their hands are cold like the touch of Death and unbearably warm like the flames of Asphodel, and you stand at the very center of it—something that was once warm and breathing and now is not; beloved in your death as you were in life.

"Shall we have our supper together now?" the bride of the Underworld asks.

And like any damned creature in love, the Underworld listens.

[starsofang]

in which ghost is a ghost.

tw: nsfw, mdni, fingering, p in v, monsterfucking if u squint?? kind of and also yes

there was a ghost haunting your house.

all your friends called you crazy. they blamed it on your recent breakup, telling you that you weren’t used to living alone, that moving into a new house took getting used to. you didn’t agree.

there was no doubt in your mind that a ghost haunted your new home.

it showed in the way the floorboards creaked when nobody was there to step on them. or the icy draft that lingered in the hallways, sending chilled shivers down your spine. or the shadows that played tricks on you in the dark when you’d wake in the night to use the restroom or grab a glass of water.

you knew it wasn’t a figment of your imagination. the only explanation was a ghost. you just didn’t have solid proof.

things began to shift to something more strange the longer you lived in the house.

at night, you could feel prying eyes staring back at you from the depth of the shadows, yet when you’d look around, nothing would be there. or sometimes, the achingly familiar feeling of a fingertips caressing the skin of your ankle would coax goosebumps to rise on your skin.

whatever ghost resided in your home was increasingly growing more comfortable as time passed with you invading their space. they teetered on an edge, making careful calculations of their subtle touches as not to scare you away, while keeping you hooked with curiosity. really, you should’ve been scared, and you should’ve ran away.

that was precisely what went through your head when the touch of their hand would venture. beginning at your ankle and inching up and up every night that passed. it was a game between the two of you. they tested your limits while you threatened to further them.

it was dangerous, really. messing with a ghost who you had no clue if they were evil or not. demonic, even. none of that seemed to cross your mind when the touches soothed the agonizing ache of loneliness that squeezed your heart every waking day.

your curiosity was growing, though. you yearned to learn about the ghost who was tormenting the comfort of your home, to learn who kept you up at night with a racing heart and a lump in your throat. there was no harm in asking, right?

he didn’t speak much when you did. he told you his name was ghost, but that he remembered being called simon. how fitting ghost was, but how humanizing simon could be.

he remained a shadow when he appeared to you, masking his identity, one that you were unsure if it was a personal choice or he was stuck like that. regardless of it, you shouldn’t have grown attraction to it.

of course, you did. who could blame you? you had learned the name of the ghost who had been haunting you for months, touching you, teasing you. it was hopeless. there was nothing to fight, nor did you really want to.

it was the exact reason on why you ended up with your legs spread, the chill of the room and ghost sweeping over your skin as if being dunked in ice water. a ghastly hand was pumping its way inside of you, fingers curling into that spongy spot you can’t quite reach with your own, wrenching gravelly moans from you that filled the air with song.

it became a nightly routine of yours. ghost fucking you with his fingers, freezing to the touch, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you until you were a weeping mess on the bed, riddled with blissful exhaustion.

then, his fingers became his cock. it was strange, fucking a shadowy ghost that had muddied features you couldn’t make out. you didn’t know what he truly looked like, but you imagined he was as rugged as his voice in the most handsome way.

his cock was much more intoxicating than his fingers. he fucked you with a goal in mind, and that was to take and take from you until your energy had transferred to him. he was sucking away bits of your soul with every long night of coming with him buried inside of you, making up for it with ghostly kisses on your skin once you were burnt out.

things were evolving into dangerous territory. having sex was already dangerous, but now, he was becoming possessive.

if you had a guest who was a male, he’d cause a poltergeist like a pouty child. throwing books off the shelves, knocking over glasses and shattering them on the floor, whispering taunting threats in the ears of your guest. his aim was to have them running out the door and never come back, and it always worked.

what did you think this was? you let him claim you. ghost or not, you were his, and you’d be confined to this house just as much as he was.

[blacksea2109]

BATMAN BUY YOUR CHILD SUPPORT FOR YOUR POOR OVERWORKED WIFE 🦇👻

DPXDC

Doctor danny nightingale

The batfam jokingly adopt danny as their mom and make this Bruce problem . They go to him when they are angry or want to piss Batman off , poor danny nearly every night he found an injured vigilantes inside his apartment till he gives up and just fixed them and get them to sleep and eats , the funny part Alfred know and he helped them ( he secretly adopt danny 😉)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

( Yes, this includes you tim no more coffee for you, mister). Yes, they in the end tell danny their identities, saying that now he can't get rid of them

Poor danny trying to relax after a very long long long tiring and traumatizing day at the hospital makes a huge cup of coffee mixed with chocolate and put a silly horror comedy sitting in his super comfy couch wearing an oversized hoodie and shorts, then suddenly there are a loud sound coming from his window , and someone swearing and yup here comes his unofficial kids to make his night more tiring, he just go and get his tools ready when he get back to the couch,

A bleeding nightwing with red hood waiting for him while red Robin so rudely drinking his coffee and Robin eating his vegan dinner,

Red hood : yoo, mom , can you fix big wing here ? This stupid birdie here he shot instead of RR

Danny, with a big tired mom, sings: I really am gonna make batman buy his overdue child support, and you RR stop drinking this and go sleep

Red Robin whined: but mooom i don't wanna

Danny with Alfred famous raised eyebrow : sleep now or i am telling Alfred, Robin sweetie there are also some vegan dessert and drinks for you , now let's fix you Wing and you are grounded till you get better

Nightwing: Not fair, mom . we all know that you have a favorite child 😢

Red hood : and that is not you big bro 😂 enjoy your time being grounded hahah

Danny: Hood, you too are grounded, don't you think I don't know about you trying to kill again!

Red hood : mom not fair and you aren't against killing like B then why 🥺

Danny : I don't care about those low lives. You can kill them, but you need to stop sometimes, honey, for your own good, ok ? And I don't need more stupid ghosts to annoy me 😒

After he fixed nightwing injury , and make sure ALl of them had ate something other than COFFEE Tim it is not FOOD YOUNG MAN , and get some Sleep Tim god help me of i didn't find you in the bed sleeping instead of working or you are so grounded,

( and danny had fight Tim and forced him to eat and sleep while jason laughed at them and get scold and this time Damian laughed in their faces while smirking because he knew that he is the favorite kid here fools mom will never grounded nor scolding him no matter what he do or not do 😎, because it will go like this)

He stabbed the suspects mom (dick)

Ma baby dami "gasped" lies he is just a baby (danny)

Wtf (Duke)

Just look to his innocent face , ma baby will never do this (danny)

I had it recorded ( jason)

I don't see anything wrong. Ma baby defended himself and saved the victim. I'm so proud of him while weeping a single tear (danny)

Mom gets mindcontroled(tim) because why else We get scolded and demon brat get a cookie 🍪 😒

Batkids: I don't have a favorite, my ass 😒

Damian 😏😎

After they finally FINALLY get to sleep, danny just finished what is left of his dinner and coffee while trying to relax with his kitten dami ( of course danny don'thave a favorite kid ), a black cat with green eyes ( was a gift from Damian) , batman get inside from the same window trying to intimidating danny but

Batman growled: Stop stealing my kids from me they are mine

Danny, with his eyebrow rising while stroking his kitten, is unimpressed, pointing at batman with the anti creep stick : well well see who finally showed his face , look here you furry , it is about time you get to buy me your overdue child support

Batman: my what now!!!

Danny : Your kids, plus your father ( bruce was so betrayed here how can they even you alfie ) adopted as their mama and I tried really hard to make this stop and what did they do just showed me their faces saying: now you can't get rid of us congrats your are a mom now and look they get me a nice apron saying: best mom in the universe and a little Robin also get my this beautiful kitty i named it dami say hi

Dami, the kitty with a glare that made Damian so proud: moew

And what makes this all funny is that it was recorded as a blackmail ( thanks, oracle). bruce won't get to live this down anytime soon 😂😂

So finally, bruce accepted defeat because how can he go against Alfred!! And he maybe maybe start to find this messy haird overworked pretty doctor just so gorgeous, opps the kids are planning to make this joke becomes a reality they start operation let's get doc mom and bat dad together 🦇👻, and Alfred already started the wedding preparation and pre ordered the rings 💍 ( let's get real here he is ALFRED " I will kill you on site if you dare hurting my family " pennyworth , )

Then behold gotham, Clark " cried " I'm so happy for you bruce,

The big news now read

Bruce wayne, the beloved prince of gotham, finally gets married from a lovely scary doctor who can get you fixed so he can kill you again and again!! You better fares for your life here comes danny wayne the gorgeous deadly princess of gotham .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hii my little spooks i hope you like this post,

I will add more to it later on, and for my other post

Red hood wife will get more parts, and i have so many different posts that only need to get edited first, sooo fell free to add or make you own piece but credit me and send me a link or tag me i will love to read your work , have a great night or day, and don't let the cute little blob ghosts bites you 🦇👻🦇👻🦇👻🦇👻🦇👻🦇👻

[saeun]

"suguru, shoko... it's been nice knowing you guys. i always loved you both. please, tell y/n i loved her too, yeah?"

it's a tense moment. after satoru received your social medias, he did some snooping around and found the harsh truth — or so he calls it. comparing himself to what he found did nothing but install a depressing, hallow sadness into his system.

"satoru, get the fuck down from that chair," shoko's having none of it. the moment she glimpsed group-chat's notification she practically teleported to satoru's. her heart dropped, palms got sweaty, throat dry at the thought of satoru ending his life. when she arrived, suguru was already there, weeping for his dear friend's life.

it must've been serious, right? it wasn't.

what came into her vision was a grown, silver-headed man standing on his desk chair. around his neck held one of his ties. now, this is where it got unserious. everything seemed true until shoko's eyes traveled to satoru's neck. his tie was wrapped around it with his very own hand holding the longer piece of the tie.

in short, he's fucking dramatic. suguru doesn't fall far, too. it must be hard on shoko for being the only one with a decent brain... kind of.

"shoko, how can you be so... so mean?! he's dying over there! your own friend!" suguru wipes his tears, furious at his other friend's own indifference to such a sight.

"don't," she begins, walking to satoru's position to kick him off the chair. "don't piss me off."

satoru's now on the floor; laying on his back, body straight, arms clasped on top his stomach. this must signal his final moments. it's peaceful in his mind.

"satoru, i swear to god. get the fuck off that floor." she nudges his body with the front of her shoes, eyes twitching at the foolishness.

it takes a mere minute before satoru's tired of ignoring the obnoxious foot harming his body. so he sits up, hanging his head low.

"i just can't, y'know? it hurts," his voice cracks, radiating sadness throughout the room. his words receive two varying responses.

from suguru: "it's okay, satoru. there are many other fishes in the sea."

from shoko: "this is why you mind your business sometimes."

at shoko's response, he sighs loudly, "it won't kill you to be nice, shoko ieiri."

she sits on his bed, placing a pillow on her lap, fixing her posture, and re-positioning her imaginary glasses. "well then, satoru. tell me what you felt, what you saw, and what you think. you can let it all out to doctor shoko."

suguru stifles a laugh, eyes switching between shoko's new persona and satoru's defeated expression.

"okay, doctor shoko. i felt horrible — no, nauseous. i went through her followings and saw that she follows other men. she knows other men. i'm sick to my stomach," his rant begins. it all started when he decided to go through your profile. this meant snooping through followers, followings, tagged photos, and even comments. you both are in — what the youngsters call it — a talking stage.

there are no labels within this relationship, nor are there any confirmed feelings but this? this betrayal? what do you mean he's not the first man on your profile? this is devilish. all went well until he saw one specific comment that said: "baby you're so sexy ily," to which you replied: "i love you more."

the fiend ( as he calls them ) had the profile photo of a man. when he did the internal math, the unbearable truth was found. he is not the only one you're talking to. he feels hurt.

suguru, too, shares his friend's pain. shoko, however, doesn't. why? it's because the commenter was in fact not a man. had satoru did deeper research, he'd have known that the profile photo is the famous singer the weeknd, and the profile belongs to one of your girls who's a diehard fan of him. well, who's shoko to tell the truth? she'll wait for satoru to come to a realization.

[kckt88]

Sanguis.

Summary:

'Hell is empty and all the devils are here' - William Shakespeare.

Deep in his grief over the loss of his wife Aemond desperately seeks the help of a wood witch and his wife is returned to him, but he ignores the witches warning and soon he is confronted with the horror of what his sweet wife has become.

Warning(s): Character Death, Resurrections, Language, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex (M & F Recieving) Fingering, Anal Play, P in V, Blood, Gore, Death.

AEMOND x Y.N

Word Count: 9352

A.N - I have taken a few creative liberties, I hope you don't mind!!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Prince Aemond Targaryen, in utter despair, knelt before his wife's linen-wrapped body. The cold stone floor of the Red Keep felt like ice against his knees, but he barely noticed.

 His eye, red and swollen from endless weeping, stared at the lifeless form of his beloved wife Y.N.

The once proud and fierce prince was now a broken man. His love, his light, had been taken from this world in an act of violence that left his heart shattered.

Y.N had fought valiantly, her courage unmatched as she defended his niece and nephew against the assassins who had snuck into the Red Keep.

They sought vengeance for Aemond's involvement in the death of Lucerys Velaryon, and they had found it in the blood of his beloved.

Y.N had been gravely injured in the attack, and despite his desperate efforts to save her, she had died in his arms. Aemond could still feel the weight of her body as her life slipped away, her final breath a haunting whisper against his skin.

Since her death, Aemond's world had ended. His life had unravelled, leaving only a dark void where Y.N's love and care had once been.

Aside from Vhagar, Y.N had been the only good thing he had in this world. She had loved him, truly and deeply, and now she was gone.

Aemond's heart ached with a pain he had never known possible. The thought of living without her was unbearable. He couldn't live without her. He didn't want to.

His hands, trembling with grief, reached out to touch the linen shroud, his fingers tracing the outline of her face beneath the fabric. "Please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please come back to me."

He prayed to the gods, his pleas a desperate litany of sorrow and longing. He begged and pleaded, tears streaming down his face, but the gods remained silent.

The chamber was filled with his cries, the raw agony of a man who had lost everything.

"Y.N, my love," he sobbed, his head bowing low. "What am I to do without you? How am I to live in this world without your light?"

The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the room a stark reminder of her absence. Aemond's shoulders shook with the force of his grief, his tears falling unheeded onto the cold stone floor.

Aemond clung to her shrouded form, his despair a heavy shroud of its own. The pain of her loss was a constant, gnawing ache, a wound that would never heal.

He had lost his love, his heart, and without her, he was nothing. He was lost in a world that had turned cold and dark, and he saw no way forward.

As the hours passed, Aemond remained by her side, his silent vigil a testament to the depth of his love and the vastness of his grief. He was a prince, a dragon rider, a warrior—but in this moment, he was simply a man who had lost everything that mattered.

His face pressed against the linen shroud that covered her still form. His tears soaked through the fabric, mingling with the last remnants of her scent.

"There has to be a way," he murmured, his voice choked with desperation. "There has to be a way to bring you back."

In the depths of his despair, a thought flickered to life. If dragons existed in this world, great and fearsome beasts of legend, then surely bringing someone back from the dead wasn't entirely out of bounds. He clung to that thought, a fragile thread of hope in the overwhelming darkness.

Then, through the haze of his sorrow, he remembered the rumours. Whispers among the common folk spoke of a witch in the woods, a woman with skills beyond the natural world.

He had heard the stories many times, often dismissing them as mere tales meant to scare small children and the weak of mind. But now, he was desperate. He had to try. If the gods would not return Y.N to him, then perhaps this witch could.

Aemond's heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination. He lifted his tear-streaked face from Y.N's body, his eye filled with a fierce resolve. "I will find her," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I will bring you back, my love. I swear it."

As night fell over the Red Keep, Aemond Targaryen moved with a grim determination. He waited until the shadows were deepest and the guards at their most inattentive.

Silently, he lifted Y.N's body into his arms. Every step was a careful manoeuvre to avoid detection, every breath a silent prayer that they remain unseen.

Once outside, he managed to secure her onto a horse, cradling her close as he pulled a heavy cloak over her still form. The hood of his own cloak was drawn up to conceal his identity. Aemond whispered a command, and the horse began to move, carrying them through the dimly lit streets of King's Landing.

The city was quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of life replaced by the eerie stillness of night. Aemond kept Y.N close, his arms wrapped protectively around her, as he navigated the winding streets. The walls of the city soon gave way to the open fields and the looming darkness of the Kingswood beyond.

Taking a deep breath, Aemond urged the horse into the woods, leaving the path behind. The trees closed in around them, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.

The forest was a living thing, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves, the occasional screech of a raven, and the haunting hoots of owls.

Time lost meaning as he pressed onward, each step taking him deeper into the unknown. The forest seemed to go on forever, an endless labyrinth of shadow and sound.

Just as despair began to gnaw at the edges of his resolve, he came upon a muddy bog, its surface broken by the stark silhouettes of wooden crosses.

Ahead, a small wooden dwelling came into view, covered in moss and illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight through a cracked window. Relief surged through Aemond, giving him the strength to dismount. He secured the horse's reins to a nearby pole, ensuring Y.N was still concealed beneath the cloak.

With a deep breath, he approached the door. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it to knock, but the door creaked open of its own accord.

He peered inside, the air thick with a nauseating odour. "Hello?" he called out softly. "Is anyone here?"

The room was dim, lit only by a few guttering candles. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles of various coloured liquids. The severed remains of animals lay strewn about, adding to the grim tableau. Aemond's eye scanned the room, taking in every detail.

A noise outside made him spin around. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, their presence almost spectral in the candlelight.

The figure's voice was a rasping whisper, "Welcome, Prince Aemond."

Aemond stood before the hooded figure, the words he had rehearsed tumbling from his lips. "I have come because—"

The witch interrupted him, her voice a rasping whisper that cut through the gloom. "I know why you are here, Prince Aemond. You seek to defy death and bring back your lost love."

He swallowed hard, his grip on Y.N's body tightening. "I need her back. I cannot live without her."

The witch's eyes gleamed with an unsettling light. "Such a thing comes at a great cost," she warned, her voice echoing in the small, dimly lit room.

"I don't care," Aemond replied, his desperation evident. "As long as Y.N is alive, that's all that matters."

The witch laughed, a sound that was almost a cackle. "The young prince does not realize what he asks for," she muttered, running a sharp blackened fingernail down his arm.

"I have no patience for your ramblings," he snapped, his tone hardening.

The witch's laughter echoed again. "Very well. I will need the body."

Aemond nodded, turning to retrieve Y.N. But as he moved, a sudden darkness overcame him, a moment where he seemed to black out.

When he came back to himself, he was confused to see Y.N already laid out on the table, her form bathed in the eerie candlelight.

"How...?" he began, but the witch cut him off again.

"Y.N must be free of her shroud," she said, her voice brooking no argument.

"No," Aemond protested, but the witch's eyes were firm.

"It must be done."

Reluctantly, Aemond took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. The witch drew a small, sharp knife and began to cut away the linen, the fabric parting with a soft, tearing sound. As the shroud fell away, Y.N's face was revealed, pale and serene in death.

Aemond let out a small sob, his gaze locked on his wife's visage. She looked as if she were merely sleeping, but the cold reality of her lifelessness tore at his heart.

The witch moved with a slow, deliberate purpose, her hands deft and sure as she completed her grim task. "Be warned, little Prince," she said softly. "She may return in body, but she will not be the wife you remember. She will be-more."

"I don't care," Aemond whispered, his voice breaking. "I just need her back."

The witch's laughter rang out once more, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Aemond's spine. "Very well”

Aemond watched with bated breath as the witch moved with an unsettling grace. She snipped a lock of Y.N's hair, the strands glinting like spun gold in the dim candlelight and tossed it into the fire.

The flames roared briefly, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Aemond's stomach churned as the witch opened Y.N's mouth and poured in a dark, lumpy, foul-smelling liquid. The stench was nearly unbearable, and he had to stifle a gag.

The witch then took her knife and cut open Y.N's cotton shift. Aemond gasped, his eye widening in horror as he saw the knife wound that had taken his wife's life.

A tear slipped down his cheek, his heart breaking anew. The witch began muttering in a language he did not understand, her voice a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to make the very air around them vibrate.

As she chanted, the candles in the room all flared to life, their flames burning impossibly bright for a moment before everything went silent. The oppressive stillness was broken only by Aemond's ragged breathing.

"Is that it?" he asked, his voice trembling.

The witch shook her head and handed him a shovel. "She needs to be buried."

Aemond recoiled, anger flaring. "No! I brought her here to bring her back, not to bury her."

The witch's eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. "You brought Y.N here, and now you will listen to what I say, or she will be lost to you forever. Choose a spot and dig."

Reluctantly, Aemond took the shovel and stepped out into the pouring rain. The sky had opened up, the deluge soaking him to the bone as he dug.

Mud clung to his boots and splattered his cloak, each shovel full of earth feeling like a betrayal. The witch stood silently, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

When the hole was deep enough, the witch commanded him to stop. Filthy and wet, Aemond threw the shovel to the ground and trudged back into the cabin. He lifted Y.N's body into his arms, holding her close one last time as he carried her outside. He hesitated at the edge of the grave, his heart shattering. Gently, he kissed her forehead before laying her in the hole.

"Now you need to finish it," the witch said. "Cover her with earth."

Aemond wept openly as he followed her instructions, each scoop of mud feeling like it was tearing pieces from his soul. He watched in despair as Y.N disappeared beneath the earth, the finality of it almost too much to bear.

When she was fully buried, he threw the shovel down, his hands trembling.

"Leave," the witch commanded. "Return to the Red Keep. Three sunrises, three sunsets, and she will come."

Aemond's grief turned to anger. "If you are lying, I will return with fire and blood."

The witch cackled, a chilling sound. "I do not fear you, one-eyed prince. I have been alive much longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that."

"What are you?" he demanded, his voice a mixture of awe and revulsion.

"You will find out soon enough, little prince," she replied, disappearing back into the cabin.

Aemond's gaze lingered on the freshly turned earth where Y.N was buried. His heart ached with every beat, the rain mingling with his tears. He mounted his horse and rode away, each step feeling heavier than the last as he made his way back to the Red Keep, hope and dread warring within him.

For the next two nights, Aemond was plagued by relentless nightmares. As he lay in his bed, his dreams were twisted and cruel, reflecting the torment that consumed his waking hours.

He would hear Y.N's voice calling out to him, her tone filled with desperation and pain. In his dreams, he would stand over the grave where he had buried her, only to see her clawing her way out, her skin decayed and peeling, maggots writhing over her rotting form.

The witch's cackle echoed through the trees, mingling with the foul stench of the dark, lumpy liquid she had poured into Y.N's throat.

The warning that Y.N would come back different gnawed relentlessly at his thoughts, a constant reminder of the grave mistake he had made.

With no body to bury, Aemond had been forced to lie to those around him. He had claimed that Y.N’s body had been burned by Vhagar in accordance with her wishes. The lie was a heavy burden, one that gnawed at him as he faced the mourners.

He could not tell them the truth of what he had done, the truth of the witch's promise and the body now rotting beneath the earth.

As the third day approached, Aemond waited anxiously by his chamber window. His heart leaped with every sound, every time someone entered his quarters, hoping against hope that Y.N had returned to him.

Each time he was met with bitter disappointment, the empty space only deepening his sorrow. The nights were the worst, filled with anguish as he wrestled with the realization that he had been manipulated by the witch. His beloved was lying in the earth, her body decomposing, and he felt like a fool for believing in the witch’s promises.

As night fell on the third day, Aemond sat alone in his darkened chamber, tears streaming down his face. The weight of his grief and anger felt unbearable.

The realization that he had been deceived by the witch filled him with a cold, bitter rage. He vowed to himself that on the morrow, he would return to the witch. He would make her pay for her treachery.

He lay down in bed, his heart heavy with both sorrow and fury. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his mind was consumed with visions of vengeance. The image of the witch’s mocking face and her cruel laughter fuelled his determination. He would make her suffer for what she had done.

Aemond was jolted from a restless sleep by a gentle, touch against his face.

His heart raced as he opened his eye, the darkness of the chamber slowly revealing a form sitting on the edge of his bed. It was Y.N, or at least someone who looked like her. For a moment, he thought it was a dream, a cruel twist of his imagination.

But then she spoke his name, her voice a soft, hollow echo in the dim light. "Aemond-"

His breath caught in his throat as he sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out with trembling hands and pulled her close.

Her body was cold and filthy, covered in layers of grime and dirt, but it was undeniably her. Y.N had come back to him, just as the witch had said she would. The realization was almost too much to bear.

Aemond's tears flowed freely as he held her tightly. "I never thought I'd see you again," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought I had lost you forever."

Y.N's eyes, though sunken and haunted, met his with a glimmer of recognition. She placed a muddy finger gently against his lips, silencing him. "Shush," she said softly. "I will never leave you again."

Her words, though whispered and tinged with the rot of death, were a balm to his shattered soul. He clung to her, his tears wetting her dirty clothes.

Aemond wrapped his arms around her, determined to cherish this second chance, even as the haunting reality of the witch's promise lingered in the back of his mind.

Aemond’s hands trembled with both anticipation and fear as he summoned the maids to prepare a hot bath. The sight of Y.N’s return was a beacon of hope, but he wanted to ensure that no one discovered her presence before he was ready.

He instructed them to fill the tub with steaming water, their murmurs of surprise and curiosity ignored as he hurried them along.

Once the bath was prepared, Aemond dismissed the maids, locking the door behind them. The chamber was now a private sanctuary, his heart racing as he approached Y.N, who waited patiently on the balcony.

“Come inside,” he called softly, his voice a mixture of tenderness and urgency. Y.N stepped into the room, her presence a stark contrast to the grim reality of her appearance.

Despite the dirt and grime, she moved with a grace that reminded him of the woman he had loved.

“I’ve had a bath prepared for you,” Aemond said, trying to mask his anxiety with a comforting tone. Her eyes brightened at his words, and a faint smile touched her lips. She began to remove her filthy cotton shift, revealing her pale, cold skin.

As she climbed into the bath, Aemond took a stool beside it, his gaze never leaving her. The warm water enveloped her, and he gently began to help her wash away the layers of dirt and muck. His fingers moved through her hair, carefully dispelling the mud that clung to it.

Y.N looked at him with gratitude, but as he tended to her, Aemond couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in her. The knife wound on her side had healed into a scar, and despite the hot water, her skin remained unnervingly cold, and her eyes seemed different—lighter in colour, almost ethereal.

He tried to dismiss these unsettling observations, focusing instead on the joy of her presence. “I’ll help you clean up,” he said softly. “The maids won’t assist. I want to be the one to help you.”

Y.N nodded, her expression one of quiet acceptance. “Thank you, Aemond,” she said, her voice carrying a faint echo of the life she once had.

Aemond continued to wash her with careful attention, his heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. He scrubbed away the dirt, the water turning murky with the remnants of her previous state.

Despite the lingering strangeness of her appearance and the coldness of her skin, he was overwhelmed by the joy of having her back.

He told himself that it didn’t matter—that she was back, and that was all that mattered.

Aemond carefully helped Y.N out of the bath and dried her with gentle, attentive hands. The contrast between her cold, damp skin and the warmth of the towel was stark, but he did his best to make her comfortable.

He selected a clean nightgown, soft and fresh, and helped her into it, adjusting the delicate fabric to fall gracefully around her.

Aemond led her to the bed, his heart heavy with a mix of emotions. Y.N sat down and, as he moved to adjust the bedding, she reached for the laces on his breeches. Aemond’s breath caught, and he gently stopped her, his gaze searching hers with concern.

“Y.N,” he said softly, “you don’t have to—”

But she looked up at him with a pleading expression, her voice low and earnest. “But I want too, I love you.”

Aemond felt his resolve wavering as Y.N’s hands resuming unlacing his breeches, letting them fall to the floor once they were undone.

She pressed a series of tender kisses to his bare stomach, her lips brushing against his skin.

Aemond closed his eye and let out a low groan as he felt her teeth grazing against him.

Then Y.N removed her nightgown and lay back on the bed, her bare body on display, she reached out for him and pulled him on the bed.

“Let me take care of you” muttered Y.N as she placed kisses along Aemond jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she took one of his nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down gently.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does issa Valzȳrys like that?” asked Y.N as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My husband).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

When she reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon issa zaldrīzes” replied Y.N (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down at his naughty wife, his mouth hanging open as Y.N’s warm, wet mouth quickly wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Y.N!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Y.N ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When Y.N moved and engulfed Aemond’s cock in her mouth again, he squeezed his eye shut. She was driving him crazy.

But Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he needed to watch as his wife sucked his cock. 

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Y.N’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Y.N smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth. 

Then she moved her other hand over his stones, caressing them before she slid one of her fingers towards his hole.

“F-Fuck” moaned Aemond as she gently massaged over the tight ring of muscle.

“Do you like that raqiarzy?” asked Y.N (Beloved).

“Y-Yes” exclaimed Aemond.

“What about this?” asked Y.N as she put a finger into her mouth and then returned it to his hole before she gently slid the tip of her finger in.

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

“More?”

“Y-Yes. P-Please. M-More” groaned Aemond.

Y.N responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her finger slowly moved inside him.

“Another-p-put another inside me” begged Aemond his body rocking against her.

Y.N smiled and gently added another and Aemond began to whimper as she curled her fingers inside him.

“Shit-Y.N. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Y.N’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Y.N.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond as Y.N removed her fingers from him and wiped them on her night gown.

“Are you sure” asked Y.N.

“Sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond, his cock already twitching with interest.

Y.N hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cock sleeve" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Y.N’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Y.N her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it Issa dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Y.N.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Y.N.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Y.N, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Y.N "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Y.N; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Y.N was giving off a slew of whispered swear words, moans, and pleas.

 Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby,” moaned Aemond.

Finally, he felt Y.N’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Y.N’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she came.

After a few minutes, Aemond gently urged his wife to move down, so she was hovering above his cock.

Her hand wrapped around him, running the head of his cock along her warm wet folds.

“Your such a tease” moaned Aemond as his hips jerked involuntarily.

But it feels so good” replied Y.N as she slowly sunk down on his cock, so only the tip of him was inside her.

“P-Please” whimpered Aemond.

“Uh-uh” said Y.N shaking her head from side to side.

After a few torturous minutes Aemond couldn’t take it anymore and seized his wife’s hips, before surging up and ploughing his hard cock into her soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" screamed Y.N.

"Gods. You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Y.N, her tone bordering on desperate as she rolled her hips against his.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

“P-Please. Husband” whined Y.N as Aemond began teasing her pearl with his thumb.

“That’s it-take all of me”

“OH-MY-“ shrieked Y.N Aemond began to move.

"Faster, please" begged Y.N.

“Like this?” replied Aemond as he gave a quick deep thrust.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Y.N.

Her hands ran along his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, digging her nails into his pale skin.

“Gods, Y.N" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond" whispered Y.N "Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me”.

Aemond knew exactly what Y.N was doing, and he couldn’t help himself.

Y.N wanted faster and he was going much faster now, his feet planted on the bed to give him more leverage and his pace increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips as he pounded into her.

“Aemond-I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Y.N.

Y.N always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her amethyst eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

“I’m going to spill my seed inside you-”

“Y-Yes A-Aemond. Give it to me” whined Y.N as she clamped down around his cock so hard he could hardly move.

That, combined with how glorious Y.N looked, pushed Aemond over the edge, the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“God. Y.N” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside his wife’s wet heat.

Over the next few weeks, Aemond observed a series of peculiar changes in Y.N's behaviour that left him increasingly uneasy.

Despite the fact that she only slept intermittently for a few hours at a time, she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy.

Her insatiable hunger was another alarming sign. She complained constantly of being hungry, and her cravings were mostly for meat, often served barely cooked.

Aemond watched with a mix of fascination and concern as she devoured the meat with her bare hands, the juices and blood staining her fingers, her appetite seemingly endless.

Confined to his chambers, Y.N was shielded from the public eye, which allowed Aemond some measure of control. However, his duties often required him to be away from her, leaving her alone for extended periods.

This solitude seemed to agitate her, and more than once, he returned to find evidence of her growing frustration.

Her rage manifested in destructive outbursts—on one occasion, she hurled a chair across the room, and on another, she seized a table and smashed it into splinters. The sheer strength she displayed was unnerving, an indication of the profound changes she had undergone.

Another change was her unrelenting desire for intimacy. Her needs were voracious and unceasing, demanding more of him than he could give.

Initially, Aemond had been willing to indulge her, and he would often place himself between her thighs fucking her into the mattress with deep penetrating thrusts, his hips pounding against hers.

But he soon found himself exhausted and overwhelmed by her constant, almost insatiable demands. The frequency of her advances became a source of physical and emotional strain.

The situation became even more complicated with his mother's growing concern. She had noticed his seclusion and questioned him about his well-being.

Aemond had claimed he was still grieving Y.N’s loss, but when word of the noises of pleasure from his chambers reached her ears, he was forced to concoct another lie. He explained that he had taken a bed mate to help with his needs, an excuse that seemed to placate her but left her visibly dissatisfied.

As the days went on, Aemond's anxiety about Y.N's behaviour continued to mount. He was troubled by the physical and emotional changes she was exhibiting, which seemed to reflect more than mere grief or trauma.

Her behaviour was increasingly erratic, and despite his deep love for her, he couldn't ignore the growing fear that something was fundamentally wrong, that the witch was right, and Y.N had returned to him, but she was forever changed.

Aemond returned to his chambers from a gruelling council meeting, his mind heavy with the complexities of court politics. The relief of finally being back in his private quarters was short-lived as he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him was one of sheer horror. Y.N was kneeling on the floor, her focus intently fixed on a cat she had captured. The small creature was held in her hands, and Aemond’s stomach lurched as he saw her face pressed against its neck.

Blood ran freely down her hands, dripping onto the floor as she seemed oblivious to the mess she was making.

Y.N looked up at him, her expression eerily serene despite the gruesome scene. Her smile was unsettling, her teeth stained red with the blood she had drawn.

The sight of her grinning so contentedly, with the blood smearing her face, was almost too much for Aemond to bear.

He put a hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle a scream that threatened to escape. His heart pounded violently, a mix of revulsion and profound distress flooding his senses.

He had to stop himself from throwing up as he watched her return her attention to the lifeless animal, her actions methodical and disturbingly calm.

The room seemed to spin around him as he took a shaky step forward, his mind racing to process what he was actually witnessing.

“Aemond,” she said softly, her voice oddly gentle despite the blood. “You’re back.”

Her tone was casual, as if nothing was amiss. The cat, now lifeless, lay discarded on the floor as Y.N’s attention was fully on him, her eyes reflecting a strange, unsettling light.

Aemond struggled to maintain control, his eyes fixed on Y.N. “What-what have you done?” he managed to croak out, his voice trembling with fear and anger.

Y.N tilted her head, a hint of confusion crossing her features. “I was hungry,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be consuming blood-soaked prey.

The scene was nightmarish, the blood and death starkly contrasting with the once-beautiful woman he had loved.

Aemond returned to his chambers after a long flight with Vhagar, hoping the time in the sky would offer some solace and clarity. But as he entered his quarters, a sinking feeling overtook him—Y.N was not there.

“Y.N!” he called out, his voice echoing off the walls. When there was no answer, panic seized him. He had to find her quickly. The risk of anyone discovering her before he was ready was too great.

His mind raced through the places Y.N had frequented before her death. He checked the gardens, the library, and even the secluded spots she had loved, but there was no sign of her.

His anxiety grew, and he began to consider revealing everything to his mother, admitting the truth about what had happened. But he knew that would only lead to further complications.

As he made his way towards his mother’s chambers, his gaze fell on the nursery door, slightly ajar. His heart skipped a beat. He approached cautiously and peered inside. The sight that greeted him was one of utter horror.

Y.N stood over his niece Jaehaera, who was sleeping peacefully in her bed. Y.N leaned down, sniffing the child with a disturbing sense of satisfaction. Her eyes were closed as she hummed softly, an eerie contentment on her face. Aemond’s blood ran cold.

Without a moment's hesitation, he burst into the room, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fury. He grabbed Y.N and pulled her away from the bed, her surprised eyes meeting his with an unsettling calm.

He dragged her back to his chambers, the fear of what she might have done fuelling his desperation.

Once inside his chambers, he shoved Y.N against the wall and locked the door behind them. His rage boiled over. “What the hell do you think you were doing?” he roared, his voice trembling with anger.

Y.N’s head tilted to the side; her expression serene despite the chaos. “I was hungry,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Aemond’s heart ached with a mix of horror and helplessness. “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Jaehaera is a child! She’s innocent!”

Y.N’s gaze grew distant, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “So was I when those men took my life,” she said quietly, her voice a haunting whisper. “I pretend not to remember, but it’s a lie. I remember everything—the screaming, the feel of the knife, the pain. I remember how you cried as you held me.”

“I didn’t bring you back for this,” said Aemond, his voice broken. “I brought you back because I love you, not for you to inflict more pain”

Y.N’s eyes met his with a mix of sorrow and resignation. “I don’t know how to control it,” she said softly. “I’m lost between what I was and what I am now. I feel the hunger and I can’t stop it.”

Aemond’s heart wavered, torn between his love for Y.N and the horror of her actions. As he stood there, the weight of his decisions pressed heavily upon him, he was left to grapple with the reality of the woman he had brought back and the darkness that now accompanied her presence.

Ever since the horrific incident with Jaehaera, Aemond had thrown himself into a desperate search for answers. He scoured the library for any information on what Y.N had become, hoping to find a way to restore her to her former self.

But the search yielded nothing. With a heavy heart, he resigned himself to seeking out the witch once more, a decision he made reluctantly but with a steely resolve. This time, he brought Vhagar with him.

As Aemond approached the cabin in the woods, Vhagar's imposing form loomed behind him, her massive hole ridden wings partially unfurled. His gaze was drawn momentarily to the disturbed earth where he had buried Y.N.

The ground still bore the marks of the grave, a grotesque reminder of the events that had transpired.

He reached the cabin and, not bothering to knock, pushed open the creaky door. The stench that greeted him was overwhelming, a foul mixture of decay and herbs. He pressed a gloved hand to his mouth to stifle the urge to retch as he stepped inside.

The witch was bent over a wooden bench, engrossed in her work. Her blackened hands were busy with a collection of severed fingers on a chopping board.

The sight was nauseating, but Aemond’s focus was solely on her.

“What exactly have you done to Y.N?” he demanded, his voice taut with fury.

The witch looked up; her eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement. “I did only what you asked,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery. “I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Aemond’s anger flared. “You brought her back. Now you will fix her. She is not the woman I knew.”

The witch’s laughter was harsh and grating. “It doesn’t work like that, little prince. You got what you asked for, and now you must deal with it.”

“I wanted Y.N back, not whatever monstrosity she has become!” Aemond’s voice was a roar of frustration and anguish.

The witch’s eyes narrowed, and her laughter took on a mocking edge. “Can’t the little prince handle his wife?” she taunted, her voice dripping with scorn.

Enraged, Aemond lunged at the witch, grabbing her by the throat with a fierce grip. “Help her, or I swear I’ll make you pay for this,” he growled.

The witch’s reaction was swift and inhumanly strong. With a casual flick of her wrist, she removed Aemond’s hand from her throat, and sent him sprawling across the room. He collided with a shelf, bottles crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shattered glass.

Dazed and pain-stricken, Aemond struggled to his feet, his heart racing with both pain and rage. The witch, her back turned, resumed her grim task with an air of detached indifference.

“You wanted this,” she said, her voice cold and unforgiving. “Now you will deal with the consequences and if you ever come here and threaten me again, I will peel the flesh from your bones and make a necklace from your teeth. But not before I’ve had my fun with your pretty cock.”

The threat was clear, and Aemond’s blood ran cold at the thought of what she was capable of. He took a moment to gather himself, the pain from the fall throbbing through his body, before he turned and exited the cabin.

As he made his way back to Vhagar, his thoughts were a tumult of anger and despair. The witch had given him no solutions.

He knew he had to find another way to deal with the changes in Y.N and the horror of what she had become, but for now, he was left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure and the looming dread of what might come next.

The weeks following Aemond's harrowing encounter with the witch were a blur of tension and despair. Struggling to come to terms with the monstrous transformation of Y.N and the cruel nature of the witch’s promises, he barely left her side.

He kept her confined within his chambers, only stepping out when absolutely necessary. Even then, his absences were brief, and every minute away from her felt like an eternity.

His grandsire, however, was relentless. Otto hounded him with increasing urgency about the necessity of remarriage.

The weight of forging new alliances and securing the family’s future was emphasized with every meeting, and the grief for Y.N, though real, was dismissed as something that had gone on long enough.

One evening, after yet another confrontation with Otto, Aemond stormed back to his chambers, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and anxiety. The old man’s command that Aemond would be presented with suitable candidates to choose from was a crushing blow.

The thought of having to select a new bride while Y.N was alive—albeit in her grotesque and altered state—was a nightmare he could not fathom.

The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, the weight of his predicament almost unbearable. His mind raced, desperately trying to find a solution that would allow him to avoid the marriage his grandsire demanded without revealing the disturbing truth about Y.N.

He thought of the witch’s warnings and the terror that awaited if he were to fail in his attempt to protect her. Revealing Y.N’s current condition was unthinkable; it would lead to scandal and potentially dire consequences.

The very idea of the court discovering her state, coupled with the fear of her harming someone else, was enough to keep him awake at night.

His thoughts turned to possible alternatives. What if he could delay the marriage indefinitely? He could claim to be in mourning for an extended period, though the lie would be difficult to maintain. Perhaps he could use the upcoming council meetings to argue that the timing was not suitable, citing the ongoing war as a reason for postponement.

Another possibility was to feign illness or some personal crisis that would require him to withdraw from the marriage arrangements temporarily. It was a tactic that could buy him some time, though it would only be a temporary solution.

In a moment of grim determination, Aemond resolved to buy as much time as he could. He would need to play the part of a grieving widower convincingly while he sought a more permanent solution. His heart ached at the thought of living a lie, but the reality of his situation left him with few choices.

Aemond’s heart raced as he approached his chambers, the echo of a piercing scream jolting him into a frantic sprint. Bursting through the door, he was met with a scene that froze him in sheer horror.

One maid lay lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around her and another maid, terrified and struggling, was held captive by Y.N.

Her face was stained with crimson, her eyes wide and frenzied. She seemed to be in a state of maddened ecstasy as she pressed her face into the terrified maid's neck. Aemond’s stomach churned as he saw her sniffing the bloodied neck, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.

“Y.N!” Aemond’s voice was a desperate roar, filled with a mix of command and fear. “Let her go!”

Y.N turned her head slowly towards him, her expression twisted into a snarl. Her teeth, once gentle and familiar, were now elongated and pointed. She growled, a deep, guttural sound that chilled Aemond to the bone.

Ignoring his command, she continued to hold the maid in her grip. Aemond rushed forward, but as he reached to pull Y.N away, she flicked him aside as though he were a mere inconvenience.

He hit the floor with a painful thud, the impact jarring his senses. Pain exploded in his side, but he forced himself to look up, unable to tear his eye away from the horrifying scene.

Y.N's grip on the maid tightened, and with a sickening crunch, she sank her teeth into the maid’s neck. The maid's muffled screams were agonizing, but Y.N silenced her by pressing her bloody hand over the woman’s mouth, drinking greedily from the wound.

Aemond's mind reeled as he struggled to comprehend the abomination before him. He scrambled backwards, his heart pounding in terror.

He slumped against the wall, his hands trembling as he covered his ears to block out the horrid sounds. The blood-curdling noises were almost too much to bear.

After what felt like an eternity, Aemond felt a hand gently stroking his hair. He dared to open his eye, only to find Y.N crouching in front of him.

The sight of her was both disturbing and tragic. Blood smeared her face and neck, and her eyes, though still carrying a flicker of familiarity, were clouded with an unsettling hunger.

Aemond’s heart ached with an intense mixture of love and revulsion. This was not the Y.N he had mourned, not the woman he had once loved. The creature before him was a demon masquerading as his beloved wife, a perversion of everything he once held dear.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. “This isn’t you. You’re not Y.N anymore.”

The resolve within him solidified. He could no longer deny the harsh truth that had been gnawing at him. This was no longer about saving the woman he loved; it was about ending the monstrous existence she had become.

Aemond stood up, his face a mask of grim determination. He had to end this, to put an end to the nightmare that had consumed his life. His heart was heavy, but his mind was set. He would not allow the demon that had taken Y.N’s form to continue its reign of terror.

The love he had for Y.N was overshadowed by the need to rid the world of this abomination. The time for mercy had passed.

Aemond's hands trembled as he undid his weapons belt, each movement deliberate but shaky. He drew his dagger, its cold steel gleaming under the flickering candlelight.

Turning to face Y.N, who was standing before him with an almost feral hunger in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "There’s no other way."

Y.N's gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of recognition and menace. Aemond’s heart ached with every step he took toward the door. He shut it with a decisive click and turned the lock, the finality of the sound echoing in the confined space.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Aemond lunged forward. The dagger plunging into Y.N’s stomach. Her eyes widened in shock, and she gasped, staring down at the blade embedded in her flesh.

Aemond’s tears flowed freely as he watched the woman he had loved and lost collapse to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed hysterically. "I’m so sorry."

Y.N's body quivered slightly, and she whispered in a trembling voice, "Issa vēzos se qēlossās"—. Her tears mingled with the blood staining her cheeks (My sun and stars).

After a few agonizing minutes, her movements stilled, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare.

Aemond slumped against the bed, his head in his hands, wracked with uncontrollable sobs. The weight of what he had done crushed him.

There would be no resurrection this time. The agony of his actions and the loss of Y.N was almost too much to bear. He would take her body far away, and Vhagar would incinerate it.

With a deep breath, Aemond wiped the tears from his face and stood up. The room was drenched in blood, and there was no way to cover it up without raising suspicions.

He began packing his belongings, moving with a sense of grim determination. He had enough gold from his princely allowance and could earn more if needed. The memories of the Red Keep and the pain of his actions were too heavy to bear; he would not return.

As he packed the last of his belongings, a shiver ran down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a primal warning of danger.

Before he could react, strong arms wrapped around his neck from behind, pulling him into a vice-like grip.

“Surely you didn’t think it was going to be that easy”

Aemond gasped, his eyes widening in horror. "Y.N? How?"

Y.N’s tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along his ear. "You should’ve aimed for the heart," she murmured.

Then a loud snapping sound echoed through the room, and Aemond’s world plunged into darkness.

The witch’s cabin was dimly lit by the flickering glow of candles and the smouldering embers in the hearth. The room smelled of incense and old wood, mixed with the acrid tang of blood.

The witch was busy at her workbench, her attention focused on a needle and thread as she wove together a macabre piece of jewellery. She glanced up with a twisted smile as the door to her cabin flew open with a loud creak.

“Do you like my necklace?” she asked with a note of dark pride, holding up a string adorned with a number of bloodied ears. The grotesque adornment swayed in the dim light, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Y.N, her eyes still gleaming with a predatory light, responded with a cold, detached tone. “It’s original.”

As Y.N stepped further into the cabin, she dropped Aemond’s lifeless body onto the table with a thud. The witch’s smile widened as she observed the body with interest, setting aside her needlework. She approached Aemond and gently brushed her blackened fingers across his cheek.

“Such a beautiful boy,” the witch mused, her voice almost tender as she examined him. Her gaze lingered on the eyepatch covering Aemond’s missing eye. With a deliberate motion, she pulled it off, revealing the sapphire in place of his missing eye.

“That’s much better,” she declared, admiring her work. Her eyes then travelled down to his ears. “He has good ears,” she noted, reaching for her knife with a gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

But before she could begin her work, Y.N stepped forward, her tone firm and unyielding. “No, he will not have any body parts severed. I’m rather fond of them, especially his cock”

The witch’s laugh was a harsh, rasping sound that filled the cabin. “And what do you want me to do with him then?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Y.N’s voice softened with a hint of longing as she replied, “Bring him back. I do not wish to be parted from my ‘Gēlenka zaldrīzes.” (Silver dragon).

“I need not warn you of the consequences of such a thing”

“I’m well aware of what he will become” replied Y.N

The witch’s eyes glittered with a dark amusement as she nodded in agreement. She snipped a lock of Aemond’s silver hair and threw it into the fire, watching as it curled and blackened.

She then poured a dark, lumpy liquid into his mouth, her movements precise and deliberate.

Next, she cut open Aemond’s leather tunic and placed her hand on his bare chest, whispering incantations in an ancient tongue. Her voice was a blend of reverence and authority as she beseeched the god of death to return life to him.

The witches breath was warm against Aemond’s ear as she bent down to whisper, “Your debt is now paid.”

Y.N was handed a shovel, and she chose the spot next to where she had been buried, beginning to dig with a determined fervour. The rain began to fall, soaking through her clothes and mixing with the soil as she worked.

Once the hole was deep enough, Y.N carefully placed Aemond’s body into it. The rain poured down, creating a muddy, bleak scene as she covered him with dirt.

When the last shovelful of earth had been placed, she wiped the rain from her face and went back inside the cabin, where the witch awaited her.

The witch stood by the fire, her demeanour calm and almost serene. “Three sunrises, three sunsets,” she intoned, her voice carrying a hint of finality. “And your love will return.”

Y.N’s eyes were filled with hope as she took in the witch’s words. She clutched the shovel tightly, her thoughts consumed with the promise of what lay ahead.

Three sunrises and three sunsets had nearly passed since Y.N took up her vigil at Aemond's grave. Her days were spent sitting on the wooden steps that led to the mound of soil, her gaze locked on the spot where she had buried him.

The heavy rain and the chill of the night did little to deter her from this self-imposed watch

The witch, who had taken to occasionally sitting with her, told Y.N stories of those who shared their condition. They were stories of distant lands and other beings who walked a path similar to hers.

The witch spoke of her origins in Pentos, and how she had journeyed to Westeros in 42 AC, a time long before the present.

When Y.N asked why she chose to remain alone in this desolate place rather than join her kin across the Narrow Sea, the witch’s answer was tinged with nostalgia. “This place has become home to me,” she said, her voice soft with a hint of sorrow.

During these conversations, Y.N learned that Aemond was not the only dragon to have transformed into one of them. The witch recounted tales of another, a figure of dark legend known as Maegor the Cruel, and her own past identity as The Lady of the Tower.

Y.N, her curiosity piqued, quietly muttered the name “Tyanna,” prompting a knowing smile from the witch.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time,” Tyanna admitted.

When Y.N inquired about what had become of Maegor, Tyanna’s eyes grew distant. “He died upon the Iron Throne,” she recounted, her voice a mixture of regret and admiration. “A blade pierced his back, striking his heart. History remembers him as a villain, and he did commit monstrous acts. But I loved him nonetheless.”

As the sun began to set on the third day, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple, Tyanna took Y.N’s hand in hers. “Never let go of Aemond,” she urged, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. “He may be a short-tempered young prince, but he has the potential to rise above such things.”

With that, Tyanna retreated to her cabin, leaving Y.N alone at the grave. The atmosphere was heavy, charged with a sense of finality and anticipation.

Then, the soil began to shift. Y.N’s heart raced as she watched a hand burst through the dirt, followed by an arm and then the rest of Aemond’s body emerging from the grave. Covered in grime and filth, he slowly stood up, his movements sluggish but determined. His eye scanned the surroundings, and when they fell on Y.N, a slow, radiant smile spread across his face.

“Ābrazȳrys,” (Wife).

[milswrites]

Something blue

~ Azriel X Reader

Summary: You and Azriel get married.

Warnings: Teeny bit of angst but then all fluff :)

Azriel couldn't hear the words his brother was speaking over the incessant pounding of his heartbeat which echoed in the depths of his ears. Not even his probing shadows could break him from his anxious stupor, the dark curling mists attempting to pull their master back to reality through their gentle nudges and soothing presence.

Azriel was sure that if he was aware of his families comforting words and his shadows warming embrace he would have been grateful. Yet all he desired was your reassuring company, your gentle aura having always been enough to ebb the rising doubts from his storming mind.

It was only when Cassian laid a heavy hand on his tense shoulder did Azriel allow himself to come back to reality. Permissing his faraway mind to return to it's earthly shell, rejoining him where he was stood at the end of the aisle.

It wasn't the prospect of marrying you which terrified him. No, Azriel couldn't think of anything sweeter than consolidating the love between the two of you. However, the invasive doubts that Azriel didn't deserve you pecked away at his brain. Worried that his monstrous past and his dark line of work made him unworthy of your love.

It was foolish to think this of course, you looked at Azriel as though he had hung the stars in the night sky, the male brightening the life you had claimed was once so dull. To you, Azriel could do no wrong and you had spent many sleepless nights reminding the male of this as you cradled his trembling form.

Which is why when Cassian asked him if he needed a moment to escape and gather his thoughts, Azriel stubbornly declined the offer. Not wanting to make even the smallest of mistakes out of fear that the one good thing in his life would slip away from him.

No, Azriel would wait. Patiently standing at the end of the aisle until you came to stand by his side. Your presence alone would be enough to melt away his insecurity and unease.

Which is why with this knowledge, he allowed himself to relax. The understanding that you would soon be with him was enough to loosen his taught muscles, enabling a steady breath to be drawn from his lips.

You were his home, his fortress, and Azriel needed only to think of you to instill him with the strength he needed to battle his demons.

He brushed Cassian's worried hand away, providing his concerned brother a smile overflowing with confidence. Teeth slightly bared in excitement.

"I'm fine Cas," Azriel promised, "I couldn't be happier."

He needn't lie when he spoke the words to his brother, each syllable laced with a welcoming truth. How could he not be happy, when you were the deliverer of his joy.

A soft melody began to hum from the harp beside him, an ethereal tune which sang the story of your love. Each harmonious note signifying a beautiful tale of your partnership.

But it wasn't the sweet tune which brought a silver tear to Azriel's eye. Nor was it the fact that he was surrounded by his friends, all sharing a smile of beaming warmth at the glorious occasion.

No, the reason for his joyous weeping was the angel who faced him at the other end of the aisle. His love, a vision dressed in white, who's arm was wrapped around that of his proud mother's.

Azriel cried as his entire universe walked towards him. As the two most important people in his life slowly made their way past his teary-eyed friends and family until they came to stop before him.

His doting mother came to wipe the wetness from his cheeks, face a picture of unbridled jubilation, before Cassian came to lead the exuberant woman to their seats as the last heavenly note from the harp was strung. The soft hum of the music still wavering in the air despite it's completion. And as Azriel's hazel eyes finally came to meet your own, a bond of love and passion was shared through your affectionate gazes.

You've always been beautiful, there was no debating that. But the god-like glow which the mother had blessed you with on the day of your wedding had rendered the shadowsinger speechless. The force of your otherworldly beauty almost being enough to pull the male to his knees before you. Azriel promised himself in that moment that he would spend the rest of his days worshipping you in all your glory until the day he died.

The trivial words of the priestess failed to register in his mind, Azriel's thoughts were consumed entirely by you. It wasn't until you began to make your vows, did Azriel's attention then turn to your enchanting voice. His mind, body and soul all enraptured by your tender words.

"I have loved you since before I even knew you existed. My heart has always belonged to you, and I finally found it when we first met. We were made for each other, you and I, two souls destined for each other. And even if we didn't have the cauldron's influence, I still would have loved you as deeply and passionately as I do now. You're my entire world Azriel and I consider myself lucky for the life I'm going to spend with you and I will continue to love you until we're the last stars in the sky."

Azriel was sure he couldn't have cried more than he had already done so, though it was clear his well hadn't run dry as of yet. Glistening trails of happy tears streamed down his smiling cheeks. His gentle shadows wrapped around his body under his clothes, their presence comforting him, reminding him that his feelings were natural, That he could allow himself to weep at his good fortune.

The male had planned his vows in advance, wanting to be prepared in case his nerves took hold of him and prevented him from saying what he wanted to be said. Yet being in the moment, standing here next to your ethereal form after hearing your impassioned promise, Azriel failed to find words worthy enough to be heard by your ears. And so, surprising even himself Azriel neglected the speech he had spent the past few days reciting and spoke from his heart.

"You are my strength and stability. My saviour and my undoing. You see me for who I am and yet you've never once shied away, you accept me in a way so few people have done so and I couldn't be more blessed than to have you as my partner for the rest of my life. I have never felt more loved, more accepted by anyone and I know that whenever the darkness overcomes me I need only to look to you for my salvation. And so I promise you this now, that I will never fail to be anyone other than the male who you know me to be. I gift myself you you with the oath that I shall love you forever as you deserve."

The exchange of your vows was done so in a moment of frozen existence. Despite the room full of your loved ones, it felt as though the promises were made in secret, a silent joining of your two souls morphing into one. You may as well have been the only people in the entire universe.

When the time came to present each other with the rings you had selected, you slipped the band onto his steady finger. A golden line etched into the silver metal, a constant reminder of the shimmering thread which tied the two of you together for eternity.

When the time came for him to slip the ring he had gifted for you onto your own finger, you marveled at the cobalt blue gem which stared back at you. A glowing piece of Azriel's siphon. A piece of your mate gifted to you.

"Your something blue" he whispered with a smile, voice low enough for only you to hear. Recalling the superstitious poem you had recited to him when you first began making plans for your wedding.

"It's beautiful Az,"you beamed at the male before you, at your husband, looking into his hazel eyes as you spoke, "But I already have my something blue and it'll take a lot more than a fancy ring for me to want to replace him."

[intimidatingpuffinstudios]

How would the RO's change if they were to lose their MC?

Warning: this answer is a heavy one, with mentions of tw: suicide. Proceed with caution.

Morkai: He'd turn somber and silent. Eerily so. The man of loud voice and even louder heart would be gone, buried under a shroud of his own grief. When the MC left, they took all the animation out of him with them. Mute and empty-eyed, he waits for the final bow.

Straasa: He'd become withdrawn and reclusive. Social contact sustains him, but the one he wants is gone. Anything else feels hollow, fake, a betrayal. So he hides himself behind a brittle smile and a veil of snow around his heart. He aches for the day he will finally be reunited with the only one who can make the snow melt.

Daelynn: She does not allow herself to feel it or comprehend it. She does not allow time to force her to face it..... What is knowledge, truth, if you don't have the time or capacity to parse their meaning? She ends the conversation before reality settles in. This is pretty dark, but...Daelynn would follow right after her MC.

Eledwen: She is tired. Tired of being strong, tired of always moving forward. Tired of being alone. So, she loses herself in the memories. Time to move back. She will wander among the places of the past, places from her and the MC's life together. An unending tribute to the love she lost, her feet forever staying in motion.

Manerkol: Nothing matters anymore. Not his purpose, not kingdoms, neither dragons nor mortals. At the end of a very dark tunnel, his MC brought in the light. They were the only thing that mattered. And they're gone. So Manerkol will now keep the promise he once made to them. Wherever you go, I will follow.

Sielthan: Sielthan knows how to bring the MC back. They know the cost for it. And they're willing to pay it. Whatever they have to become, whatever they have to turn the MC into--it doesn't matter. They'll take the smallest crumb over losing the MC altogether. You can be broken and twisted together.

Rai: They become arrested in time. Frozen forever in the place when realization settled in. When they realized their MC is gone. They would withdraw. Foreswear any meaningful contact with others. Lose themself in work until they are ground to dust. Not because they care, but because it's the only way to forget.

Mornie: Any pretense at humanity would be gone. Sheer, unadulterated fury would cover everything, red and sticky and murderous. She goes on a killing spree and does not stop shredding, does not allow for anything but death--for them, for her. It is the only future left for any of them. If she lives long enough to weep, she eventually crumbles and sobs until she meets her end.

Cy: They would lose all reason. All their grand plans--everything crumbles. Feral and near delirious, they'd try anything to bring the MC back. They'd sacrifice the world to do it. There is no price they are not willing to pay. And if all fails, they follow after their MC.

Zach: They would feel like they've lost the ground beneath their feet, survived a train collision, and become a ship left ruderless. All their unshakeable confidence and passion--extinguished. All their grand works, a heap at their feet. They turn grey and old and cold. And they learn to hate.

[gunsandspaceships]

Tony Stark - Prometheus

This is the final part of the series, which unites all the separate, thematic parts (links are highlighted in blue) with evidence of the conclusion that you will find at the end of this post.

Introduction

Prophet

God of Forethought: the name Prometheus means "forethinker", "foreseer", "prophet".

Creator of intelligent life

In Greek myths, Prometheus is the creator of an artificial form of life - the humankind. "He created them looking up to the sky like gods."

"Here I will sit, forming men after my own image. It will be a race like me, to suffer, to weep, to enjoy and to rejoice" (Goethe)

Earth's Best Defender

Prometheus takes on the protection of mortals from tyrant gods who want to enslave or destroy them.

"Cover your heavens, Zeus, with gauzy clouds, and practice, like a boy who beheads thistles, on the oaks and peaks of mountains; but you must allow my world to stand, and my hut, which you did not build, and my hearth, whose glow you envy me." (Goethe)

"Beautiful is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals" (Longfellow)

God of Fire

He stole the fire from gods to give it to humans to protect them, keep them warm and give them light in the form of science and technology.

"All the soul in rapt suspension, All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, With the fervor of invention, With the rapture of creating" (Longfellow)

The Mountains

For that, Zeus ordered Prometheus to be chained to a rock in a cave and sentenced him to eternal suffering.

"First the deed of noble daring, Born of heavenward aspiration, Then the fire with mortals sharing, Then the vulture,--the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian." (Longfellow)

Heart

Every day an eagle flew to Prometheus and pecked at the center of his life.

"Who helped me against the pride of the titans? Who rescued me from death - from slavery? Did you not accomplish it all yourself, my sacred, glowing heart?" (Goethe)

The Torture

For the sake of humans, Prometheus voluntarily accepted eternal pain and chose to suffer in silence.

"A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless." (Lord Byron)

Chiron

Ancient Greeks had another myth - about the father of surgery, centaur Chiron, who once saved a hero betrayed and ambushed in the mountains.

Chiron was also the one who took on Prometheus' suffering and died in his place. He was shot by an arrow and to end his own pain exchanged his life for life and freedom of Prometheus.

The Sun

For humankind, Prometheus became the image of a noble fighter against oppression, and a symbol of human progress and creative freedom.

"When I was a child I did not know in from out; I turned my confused eyes to the sun, as if above it there were an ear to hear my laments - a heart like mine that would pity the oppressed." (Goethe)

Conclusion:

Taking all of this into account, I believe that Tony was not only inspired by the myth, but he himself is Marvel's Prometheus, at least in the MCU.

Excerpts from poems used: - "Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; - "Prometheus" by Lord Byron; - "Prometheus" by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Bonus:

From axiomatiq-blog

Kaos

"Prometheus brings Fire to the Cavemen"

Familiar names

Marvel and their love for Greek mythology

Prometheus, Goethe, Schubert, and RDJ

Thanatos

Life and Death

Comics

Danko's Burning Heart