#and is so much deadlier for it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bi-writes · 1 year ago

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the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!simon #dark!soap

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iidilio · 19 days ago

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Day 15: Jealousy

— How does Sylus handle jealousy?

[ 🌸 ] idk why the idea of Sylus being jealous it’s funny

characters: Sylus

warnings: none, hdc—oneshot(?)

More? Here

…

Night had wrapped itself around the city streets, and yet, that darkness never reached the exclusive nightclub in Zone N109. Inside, among the scent of expensive liquor and the low murmur of conversations, Sylus watched.

His sharp gaze was fixed on you—the only woman who had stolen more than his breath a long time ago. You weren’t doing anything unusual: smiling, talking, laughing. And yet, the shadow on his face deepened with every little gesture, with every stranger’s gaze that lingered on you. Especially when the guy in front of you—a man with too much enthusiasm and far too little awareness of his own insignificance—leaned in just a bit closer than acceptable.

Luke and Kieran, by his side, exchanged a knowing look, feeling the tension in their leader like static in the air.

“Poor bastard,” Luke muttered, sipping his drink.

“Dead in three, two…” Kieran whispered, not even bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.

But Sylus didn’t move right away. Oh no. He wasn’t that impulsive. Instead, he raised his glass with the kind of calm only someone who has absolute control over every situation could muster… Until he saw that idiot touch your delicate, pristine arm in what passed as a polite gesture.

The soft clink of glass on the table was all it took for his men to sit up straight.

“Luke, Kieran.” Sylus spoke in a tone as cold and sharp as a well-kept blade.

“Yes, boss.” Luke and Kieran were already moving, no further instructions needed.

The poor fool barely had time to blink before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, interrupting his attempt at flirting.

“Hey, buddy,” Luke said with a smile that held zero actual friendliness beneath the mask. “You don’t wanna be here right now.”

You raised an eyebrow, then turned your head just in time to see Sylus approaching with that usual predatory stride. He didn’t have to say a word. His presence alone was enough to stake a claim, to remind everyone who he was.

“Enjoying the conversation, kitten?” his voice was velvety, a sharp contrast to the way he stared down the man.

You tilted your head, amused. You knew exactly what was going on. With a barely-there smile, you reached up and subtly played with the edge of Sylus’s jacket—an almost casual gesture, but one intimate enough to make it crystal clear there was a difference between him and every other man in the room.

“Oh, we were just chatting… But I think the conversation’s over now, isn’t it?” you said, glancing at the guy who was now sweating bullets under Sylus’s gaze.

Without losing that calm expression, Sylus let his fingers brush your cheek with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place for someone like him.

“Good. I don’t want anyone wasting your time with nonsense.”

His tone was sweet. His words, however, were a death sentence to anyone who dared cross the line again.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Are you jealous, Sylus?”

The leader of Onychinus looked at you for a moment, then let a small, barely visible smirk curve his lips.

“You tell me, kitten. Am I?”

(He was. That lying bastard.)

—As you’ve probably noticed:

—He’s not the kind to make a scene. He doesn’t need to shout or get immediately aggressive. Instead, his presence becomes more dominant, his gaze colder, and his voice deadlier. People in Zone N109 have learned real fast not to test his patience.

—When you’re alone with him after something like that, he won’t outright say he was jealous. But his tone softens more than usual, he holds you a little tighter, brushes your cheek with his thumb and murmurs in that low, velvety voice:

“You know I don’t like sharing what’s mine, kitten.”

(look at him, so possessive—omg girl, ay—)

—He’s not the type to passionately kiss you in public just to prove a point. His way is more discreet: a hand on your waist, a deliberate brush against your neck, calling you kitten or sweetie in a slightly sweeter tone—right when the other guy is still within earshot. Little details that make his message crystal clear: you’re his, and no one else better dare think otherwise.

—If someone really crosses the line? Oh, poor fool. Sylus doesn’t even need to lift a finger. A simple order to Luke or Kieran is more than enough to ensure the guy “learns his lesson.” Sometimes, he doesn’t even have to say it—his men already know what to do the moment their boss gets that predator look.

—If you confront him and ask if he was jealous, his reaction is usually the same:

“Jealous? Me? Kitten…” Sylus smirks, steps in dangerously close, and gently corners you against the wall. “You really think anyone else could even come close to what we have?”

Spoiler: Yes. He was jealous. But Sylus will never fully admit it… at least not with words. Lmfao.

#iidiliowrites #sylus fluff #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus qin #sylus x mc #l&ds sylus #sylus smut #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus

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girl-lostconnection · 3 months ago

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Little angst to sprinkle, but Helldiver!Reader who are tired.

God, you are so fucking tired. None of this matters, none of this makes any fucking sense at this point.

You climbed the ranks and you did your due and you paid in blood and flesh and chips of your own sanity. You gave and you gave and you gave.

You trained new cadets, explaining the terminals and heavy nests and fortresses. You have been everywhere command allows space jumps to.

Your ship a big menacing thing, a blade forever suspended in the vast cosmic nothing. Weightless and creaking whenever you have to engage orbital thrusters, chief engineer muttering something under their breath. You never ask what. Engineers can have their superstitions.

You can’t afford to have any.

You can’t afford much at all nowadays, prices biting harder than they ever did, missions deadlier.

You have less and less divers with each year — numbers of your branch diminishing quickly. Frankly, you don’t blame them.

Average age of Helldivers is 18 to 22 years old.

Average survival time out in the field — less than half a minute.

Even with all the propaganda and enlistment perks command simply cannot supply new meat to the frontlines. There is simply no more new meat.

Conditions get worse for rookies, their chances of survival dropping through the crust of the earth. At least when you were starting out you still had a med bay.

At least you managed to scramble some manuals for proper ammunition assembling.

You drag yourself onto the ship, steps heavy and tired — there are black spots in your vision, your head is swimming and you are pretty sure you no longer have anything in your stomach.

Bloody stims devour any available energy source to power your body through the life-threatening injuries.

No wonder you are still limping. Your mind doesn’t understand why the leg that got torn off is in place again.

You don’t really notice Price chatting up your chief administrator when you drag yourself in — bloody and tired, limbs so heavy it’s a miracle you are still standing.

But you can’t call it a day, there are three more missions. Then you can rest.

There are black spots swimming in your vision, you are lightheaded and nauseous, stomach aching — it clenches around nothing, trying to dissolve the food that isn’t there anymore.

You whip out the stim you didn’t dispose after the last mission, needle sliding in your thigh with practiced ease. Your body filling with energy, your vision brighter.

You can finally fucking think again.

There is a heavy silence you don’t notice immediately, too high on the endorphins stims bring. Pain free for the next two minutes or so.

“Captain?”, Price is hovering just behind your shoulder, your fingers twitching around the base of your secondary weapon — you are jumpy straight out of the mission. Automatons start looking like people after too long.

Down on Chort-Bay is hell likes of which you haven’t seen before.

You are not looking forward to jumping down there again. But duty calls, right? No one else would do that. No one is on the orbit right now but you.

“Captain”, you hum, eyes flickering to him for a moment. You have to wipe the visor of your helmet to properly see him — one of the diver’s got blown up on a landmine, his blood is still on your armour.

You don’t have time to wash it off. Not if you want to finish mission before you will need to be up for the next order.

“I noticed…the syringe.”, Price starts after prolonged silence, brows furrowing as he watches you. Eyes the softest blue you ever saw. The summer sky.

You remember the one you saw back at home. The time before helldiving now feels like a feeble attempt of your imagination to cushion the fall from the height of your exhaustion. The time before helldiving feels nowadays like a fairytale.

“Didn’t know you were sick”, he continues and you chuckle, typing in your coordinates. It’s cute that he worries about your health, though understandable. You are still alive and therefore a valuable asset to the command.

“Not sick. Just fucking tired out of my mind. We get a shit ton of stims with every resupply. Probably the only thing we get for free”, your laugh is a dry static-y thing, distorted from helmet, coming out of dynamics in your helmet feeling wrong and twisted.

But Price looks at you now like you have three heads and you try to explain. Perhaps SAS don’t get any of these. Though not like they need the thing, they got actual medics ready to stitch them up as needed.

They got off days and luxuries you cannot afford.

God, you might consider marrying on one of these days. Purely for tax benefits.

“Stims are used to patch us up on the go. Don’t have a whole lotta time to waste. We use them sometimes as energisers as well. A tired soldier is a sloppy soldier and a sloppy soldier is a dead one”, you say, brain fog finally lifting, god, this is good.

“Wouldn’t that constitute addiction with how often soldiers use it?”, John is a heavy stare and deep frown in the line of his mouth, his eyes the prettiest summer sky. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

You shrug, checking your gear before getting yourself in the pod and locking your ankles in place.

“Command told us they had scientists test drive the things and they aren’t addictive. Honestly I don’t know much, Captain. You might wanna ask someone with actual degree about the stuff”

You salute him for the road and then the pod slides you down, all ready to go.

Down there hell awaits. Down there torn off limb is the least that could happen.

Down there you could use any help you can get.

Price watches you getting launched down the orbit and turns away, tension coiling in his shoulders.

Price whisks away one of the stim vials, hiding the thing in the pocket and walking away. He will need to have someone check the bloody thing.

There is no way godsend ambrosia that cures torn off limbs and massive bleeding is not addictive.

John remembers the way your whole body buzzed with energy from the moment you pushed it in. Like there was no more pain, no more exhaustion, no more fear.

Like you were high.

And that’s for sure that sloppy soldier is a dead one. But so is the drugged out one. So is you, if his suspension is right.

#call of duty #cod mw2 #girl.snippets #helldivers au #helldivers 2 #helldivers ii #john price x y/n #captain john price x you #john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price #price x reader #price cod #john price #captain price #task force 141

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novaursa · 8 months ago

Text

The Last Dragonslayer (1/2)

- Summary: When young Luke came to Storm’s End as his mother’s emissary, Aemond wasn't the only one there to greet the young Prince.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: Reader is a Dragonslayer (a warrior) that saves Rhaeyra's child and fights for her. This is based on the request below, with my own twist in it, and it's the result of the votes that ended yesterday:

- Rating: Mature 16+ (last part will be rated higher)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen is currently under construction. It will be posted once the second part of this work is out. Also, for more of my works visit my blog.

The storm rages fiercely over Storm's End, the winds howling through the stone walls of the castle like a restless beast. You stand in the shadowed alcove, your eyes tracking the young prince as he dismounts from his dragon, Arrax. The creature’s scales gleam wet in the flickering torchlight, its eyes wide with agitation. The beast feels it, the looming presence of something much older and much deadlier. You know without looking that it is Vhagar, the monstrous she-dragon that casts her shadow over the stormy skies.

Lucerys Velaryon, the boy prince, has the look of a cornered deer as he glances around the courtyard, his gaze inevitably drawn to the dark silhouette of Vhagar looming ominously in the distance. His heart beats wildly in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The dragon he rides is no match for the ancient beast that waits, almost as if it hungers for the boy’s fear.

But it is not Vhagar that makes Arrax twitch nervously, shifting its massive claws on the slick stone ground. No, there is something else—another presence that unnerves both dragons. A primal fear ripples through the air, a fear that runs deeper than any rivalry between dragonriders.

You know what they feel. It is the Banshee, your mount, your companion. She lies in the caves beneath the castle, her leathery wings folded, her shriek an unspoken warning to all dragons that a Dragonslayer is near. You’ve ridden her across the skies of Essos, and now you have brought her to this cold, storm-battered land, a place so different from the sunlit shores of your origin.

As Lucerys is escorted into the great hall, you follow silently, a shadow among the guards, your steps barely a whisper against the stone. The hall is dimly lit, the flames flickering in their sconces as the storm rumbles outside. Lord Borros Baratheon sits upon his chair, his face a thundercloud of displeasure, while Aemond Targaryen stands off to the side, his single eye gleaming with malicious intent.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” Borros announces with a voice as heavy as the storm, “sent by your mother, the Queen.”

Lucerys takes a breath, standing tall as he faces the Lord of Storm's End. His voice is steady as he presents his mother’s terms, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the boy struggling to maintain his composure under the weight of the situation.

Aemond steps forward, his presence dark and threatening, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You’re a brave boy to come here alone, nephew,” he sneers, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. “But bravery only goes so far. You owe me an eye.”

The demand hangs in the air like the threat of lightning. Lucerys’ eyes widen, his breath catching as the terror grips him. He steps back, his hand instinctively moving to his sword, though you can see he knows it is futile.

Aemond’s voice drips with venom as he draws closer, reaching for the sapphire in his empty eye socket. “Don’t be afraid, boy. It’s a simple thing, really. Just a payment for what was stolen from me.”

Your movement is like a shadow across the floor as you step out from your place against the wall, your boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the stone. Aemond’s attention snaps to you, curiosity flashing in his eye as he sees a figure unlike any other in this hall.

“Who are you?” Aemond demands, his voice tinged with both suspicion and interest. The hall seems to quiet, even the storm outside pausing as if to hear your reply.

Lord Borros rises from his chair, turning his gaze to you, and his expression is a mixture of awe and unease. “This is the emissary from the Free Cities,” he says, his voice uncertain. “She arrived a few days ago, from across the Narrow Sea. An emissary, she claimed, from an ancient order.”

You tilt your head slightly, regarding Aemond with those eyes of yours, eyes that many have said carry the weight of ancient knowledge, of secrets lost to time. When you speak, your accent is thick, your voice smooth, yet carrying a hardness beneath it, like a blade wrapped in silk. “The boy will return to his mother,” you state, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Aemond’s eye narrows, his curiosity turning to annoyance. “You think to order me around in my own land? I am a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon. And you—what are you?”

“I am Y/N,” you say simply, letting the name hang in the air, as though it should explain everything. And to those who know, it does. “And I have no interest in your games, dragonrider. The boy leaves. Now.”

Lucerys looks at you with wide eyes, relief and confusion mixing on his young face. He knows not who you are, nor why you would intercede on his behalf, but he knows better than to question the chance at survival you offer.

Aemond, however, is less easily swayed. “You do not command me, woman,” he snarls, his hand finally gripping his sword hilt.

Your eyes lock onto his, and there is a cold, ancient fury in your gaze that makes Aemond pause, just for a moment. “Do you hear that?” you ask softly, almost a whisper.

He frowns, confusion crossing his features. But then he does hear it—a low, keening wail, barely audible over the storm, but there nonetheless. It is a sound that twists something deep in his chest, a primal fear that is older than his bloodline, older than even the dragons themselves.

“That,” you continue, your voice never rising, yet commanding all attention, “is a Banshee’s call. Do you know what it means, dragonrider?”

Aemond doesn’t answer, his grip tightening on his sword. But you see it, the flicker of doubt in his eye, the instinctive fear that his ancestors would have known all too well.

“It means,” you say, taking a step closer to the prince, “that the Dragonslayers are near.”

Silence falls heavy in the hall, the only sound the storm raging outside and that distant, eerie wail of your mount. Aemond’s confidence wavers, just for a heartbeat, and you seize the moment.

“Return to your mother, boy,” you say to Lucerys, your tone softening slightly as you address the prince. “And tell her the Dragonslayers have not forgotten.”

Lucerys doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides from the hall, the guards parting before him. Aemond watches him go, his eye flicking between you and the retreating prince, torn between pride and the icy fear that grips his heart.

As the doors close behind Lucerys, Aemond turns back to you, but you are already gone, melted back into the shadows of the storm. The Banshee’s wail echoes in his ears, a sound that will haunt him long after this night has passed.

And in the distance, through the storm and the dark, Lucerys Velaryon rides his dragon into the night, the words of a stranger echoing in his mind as he returns to his mother—a warning, a promise, and a name that will not be easily forgotten.

The storm's fury is unrelenting as Vhagar takes to the skies, her wings cutting through the tempest with the power of a creature that has lived through centuries. Beneath her, the world is a blur of rain and lightning, the roar of the wind nearly drowning out the beat of her wings. Aemond’s eye is fixed on the smaller silhouette ahead, the young prince Lucerys and his dragon, Arrax. His pride, his rage, they drive him forward with a singular, furious intent.

"Do you think you can escape me, boy?" Aemond mutters to himself, the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins. His grip on the reins tightens as he urges Vhagar onward, the ancient beast responding to his will, her massive form gaining on the fleeing dragon.

But then, something shifts.

It begins with Vhagar. The she-dragon, who has known no fear in over a century, falters mid-flight. Her great head swivels, nostrils flaring as if sensing something that doesn’t belong in this world. A deep, rumbling growl escapes her throat, a sound of unease that Aemond has never heard from her before.

"What is it, girl?" Aemond calls out, his voice straining against the storm, frustration creeping in as Vhagar slows her pursuit. He yanks at the reins, but the dragon resists, her great body twisting in the air as if trying to turn away from something unseen.

Then it comes—a sound like no other. Piercing, shrill, it cuts through the storm with an unnatural clarity. A cry that chills the blood, a scream not of any living thing, but of something that should never have existed. Aemond feels it like a knife in his gut, a primal fear that shakes the core of even a Targaryen prince. Vhagar responds with a bellow of her own, but this is not a sound of defiance—it is one of terror.

Through the torrential rain and flashes of lightning, Aemond sees it. Emerging from the swirling clouds above, the Banshee appears, its form massive and menacing, a creature out of nightmares and ancient legends. It is larger than any dragon, its wings long and leathery, resembling those of some dark, twisted bat. Its body is sinewy and powerful, covered in scales as dark as midnight, its maw filled with razor-sharp teeth that seem made to tear through dragon flesh. Eyes that glow with a sickly green light fixate on Vhagar, and in that gaze, there is nothing but hunger.

A hunger that could swallow the world.

The Banshee shrieks again, and this time, the sound is closer, more intense, reverberating through the storm as if the very heavens themselves are crying out in fear. Vhagar roars back, but her voice wavers, no longer the dominant force of the skies. She tries to pull away, her vast wings beating furiously as she begins to ascend, desperate to escape the horror that has locked its gaze upon her.

And there, atop the Banshee, you sit. The storm whips around you, yet you are steady, your body moving fluidly with the creature’s every motion. Your eyes are fixed on Aemond, a cold determination set in your features as you close in. The distance between the two monstrous creatures shrinks with every heartbeat, the Banshee’s speed unnatural, as if it is not bound by the same laws of the world as other beings.

"Vhagar, no!" Aemond shouts, desperation creeping into his voice as he feels his mount’s fear, her once obedient nature slipping through his control. He pulls harder on the reins, but the ancient dragon does not heed him. She banks sharply to the side, attempting to flee, the instinct to survive overpowering all else.

"Stay and fight, damn you!" Aemond roars, but his voice is lost to the storm and to Vhagar’s terror. For the first time, Aemond realizes that he has lost control. Vhagar, the greatest of all dragons, is fleeing like a hunted beast.

From behind, Lucerys and Arrax, seeing their chance, dart downwards toward the safety of the clouds below. The boy doesn’t look back, but his heart pounds with both fear and gratitude, his only thought now of returning to Dragonstone and the safety of his mother’s arms. The storm swallows them, the smaller dragon vanishing into the darkness, seizing the slim opportunity for escape that has been granted by the terror you’ve unleashed.

You see this, the boy’s escape, and though you could chase, though you could end him as well, your focus remains on Aemond. This is a message, a warning, and it is Vhagar who must carry it back.

Aemond’s face twists with a mix of rage and helplessness as he feels Vhagar’s massive body turning, wings beating harder now, not in pursuit, but in retreat. You let out a command, your voice carried by the storm, not in words that Aemond understands, but the Banshee does. She dives, a predatory speed that belies her size, closing the distance between them in seconds.

Another scream from the Banshee, and this time, Vhagar shudders violently, nearly throwing Aemond from her back. The ancient dragon, who has seen countless battles and burned entire cities to ash, is utterly broken by the presence of this creature from a bygone era. She dives desperately, fleeing into the clouds, seeking any refuge from the horror that chases her.

For a brief moment, as you pull back, allowing Vhagar to escape into the storm’s embrace, your eyes meet Aemond’s. In that gaze, he sees something that shakes him more than the sight of the Banshee or the fear in Vhagar’s eyes. He sees the cold, unyielding power of an order thought extinct, a legacy that has returned from the shadows of history.

And then you and the Banshee vanish into the storm, your form melding with the darkness as if you were never there. Only the lingering echoes of that terrifying scream remain, fading into the storm, a sound that will haunt Aemond for the rest of his days.

Vhagar continues her frantic flight, the once-proud dragon now reduced to a fleeing beast, her rider clinging to her, his pride shattered, his mind reeling. Aemond’s thoughts are a whirlwind of anger, fear, and humiliation. He came to these skies with the intent to prove his dominance, to assert his strength, but now he returns with the bitter taste of defeat and the knowledge that there are forces in this world even dragons fear.

And far below, Lucerys and Arrax race through the storm towards the safety of Dragonstone, the boy’s heart pounding with relief and terror. He will make it home, but the memory of this night will stay with him—the night he was spared not by his own hand, but by a mysterious stranger on a creature of nightmares.

The Dragonslayers have returned. And the dragons of Westeros will never be the same.

The skies over Dragonstone are dark, heavy with the remnants of the storm that raged over Storm's End. The air is filled with unease as the guards and retainers of the castle stand vigilantly on the battlements, their eyes scanning the horizon. They know who they are waiting for, though they dare not speak of the dread that gnaws at them.

Suddenly, through the mists and rain, a shape emerges. A dragon, smaller than most, with wet and weary wings straining to keep it aloft. Arrax lands heavily in the courtyard, his scales slick with rain and his breath labored from the flight. The beast's eyes are wide, pupils darting in a way that betrays its fear.

Atop him, Lucerys Velaryon sits slumped in the saddle, his small form trembling, soaked to the bone. He barely has the strength to dismount, nearly collapsing as his boots touch the ground. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes—those eyes that should be bright with the fire of youth—are wide and haunted, filled with the terror of what he has just endured.

From across the courtyard, Queen Rhaenyra breaks from her retinue of Queensguard, her heart seizing as she sees the state of her son. “Luke!” she cries, her voice cracking with fear and relief as she rushes to him, her skirts billowing as she nearly stumbles in her haste.

“Mother,” Lucerys gasps, his voice a whisper against the wind. He’s shivering violently, his teeth chattering as the cold and fear clutch at him.

Rhaenyra reaches him, wrapping him in her arms, her grip firm and protective as she pulls him close, heedless of the rain that soaks through her own clothing. Her heart pounds in her chest as she feels the tremors racking his small frame. “Gods, what happened?” she whispers, her hand cupping his face as she tries to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of injury, any indication of what has terrified her son so deeply.

Lucerys buries his face against her shoulder, his breath hitching as he tries to find the words. “I—I saw him, Mother,” he begins, his voice shaking as badly as his body. “Aemond was there… at Storm’s End. Vhagar was with him.”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her blood turning to ice at the mention of Aemond and his dragon. “Did he harm you?” Her voice is fierce, though a mother’s terror lies just beneath it. “What did he do to you?”

Lucerys shakes his head frantically, clutching at her arms as if grounding himself in her presence. “He… he wanted to take my eye, Mother. He said… he said it was a debt. But…” His words trail off, his breath catching as he struggles to explain the horror he witnessed.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and fear. “But what, Luke? What happened?”

Luke pulls back slightly, his wide eyes meeting hers, filled with a confusion that mirrors his terror. “She… she saved me, Mother. A woman… a stranger. She stopped Aemond.”

Rhaenyra blinks, her mind racing. “A woman? Who was she? What did she look like?”

Luke swallows hard, his voice trembling as he continues, “She… she wasn’t from here. She looked… different. Like no one I’ve ever seen before. She had an accent I didn’t recognize. Lord Borros called her an emissary from the Free Cities.” His voice drops to a whisper, as if saying the next words might summon the creature back. “And she had a… a beast with her. Not a dragon, but something else. It was… it was terrifying, Mother. The dragons, even Vhagar… they were afraid of it.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounds faster as she listens, trying to make sense of her son’s words. “A beast? What did it look like?”

Luke’s eyes glaze over slightly as he recalls the image burned into his mind. “It was… huge, bigger than any dragon I’ve seen, with wings like… like a bat’s. And its scream, Mother… it was like nothing I’ve ever heard. It made the storm itself seem quiet. And she was riding it… commanding it.”

Rhaenyra’s blood runs cold, her mind racing through the possibilities, but nothing matches the description her son gives. A creature that could frighten Vhagar, the largest and oldest of the Targaryen dragons? It sounds like a nightmare given form, a horror from ancient times.

“Are you sure of what you saw, Luke?” she asks gently, her tone softening as she brushes his wet hair from his face. “Could it have been… something else? A trick of the storm?”

Luke shakes his head vehemently. “No, Mother. I saw it. I heard it. She told me to go, to return to you. And when I left… Aemond was chasing me, but then the creature came after him instead. Vhagar fled, Mother. She was terrified.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. If Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons, could be driven to flee… what manner of beast had her son encountered? And who was this woman, this stranger who had saved her child from a fate worse than death?

A feeling of unease settles over her, a realization that something far greater and more dangerous than she had anticipated is at play. The knowledge that ancient powers, long thought to be myths, might have returned to the world shakes her to her core.

But for now, all that matters is her son. She pulls him close again, holding him tightly as if to shield him from whatever darkness lies out there, whatever force has set its sights on the Targaryen bloodline. “You’re safe now,” she whispers, trying to convince herself as much as him. “You’re home, and you’re safe.”

But even as she says the words, her mind is already racing ahead, planning, fearing, wondering what this new player on the board means for the future of her house, for her claim, and for the survival of her children.

The night is still and heavy with the remnants of the storm, the winds howling softly through the dark corridors of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra is deep in a restless sleep, her mind troubled by the events of the day, her dreams haunted by the image of her son, drenched and trembling, speaking of a beast that defied all she knew of the world.

But suddenly, her sleep is shattered by a sound so primal, so raw, that it feels like the earth itself is tearing apart. The roar of dragons, rising in a cacophony of fear and fury, echoes through the stone walls of the castle. It’s not just any dragon’s roar—it’s the sound of dragons in terror. Rhaenyra bolts upright in her bed, her heart pounding in her chest as the walls seem to tremble around her.

She hears another roar, louder this time, unmistakable in its ferocity—the Cannibal. The ancient, wild dragon’s scream is so powerful that it seems to shake the very foundations of Dragonstone. The deep, guttural sound reverberates through the castle, making the torches flicker as if the flame itself is afraid.

And then, cutting through the night like a blade, comes another sound—a wail, high-pitched and unnatural, unlike anything she’s ever heard. It’s the cry of the Banshee, echoing through the skies above the island, a sound so filled with dread that it makes her blood run cold.

Rhaenyra leaps from her bed, pulling on a robe as she rushes toward the door. Her heart races, a mix of fear and adrenaline driving her forward. She flings open the door, her voice breaking the silence of the corridor. “Daemon!”

As if summoned by her cry, Daemon Targaryen appears, already dressed and armed, his face set in a grim expression. He doesn’t need to ask what’s happening—the screams of the dragons and the wail from the skies tell him all he needs to know.

“They’re afraid,” Daemon says, his voice rough with tension as he strides toward her, his eyes blazing. “The dragons are terrified, Rhaenyra. Whatever it is, it’s here.”

Rhaenyra nods, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she hurries to follow him. The two of them rush through the castle, Daemon’s men falling in around them, their faces pale as they hear the screams that fill the night. The ground beneath their feet seems to tremble as if the very earth is trying to recoil from the presence that has arrived on its shores.

They reach the courtyard just as another roar shakes the air, but this time it’s different. This time, it’s a sound of submission, of retreat. In the distance, high atop Dragonmont, the dragons that make their home in the ancient volcano are pulling back, their massive forms retreating into the dark, smoke-filled caves, away from the open sky. Even the Cannibal, the most feared and untamed of all the dragons, has gone silent, its defiance turned to fear.

Rhaenyra’s eyes follow the direction of the retreating dragons, and there, near the rocky coastline, she sees it—the Banshee. It stands on the blackened sand, its vast wings partially spread, casting an ominous shadow that stretches out over the churning waves. The creature is even more terrifying than she had imagined from Lucerys’ description, a monstrous form that seems to absorb the darkness around it, its eyes glowing with that sickly green light that cuts through the night.

And before the Banshee, standing with an air of calm command, is the woman—Y/N. She stands tall, her presence as formidable as the beast behind her, her eyes fixed on the castle. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra can see the confidence in her stance, the ease with which she controls the horror at her side.

Daemon’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword as he stares at the woman and her beast, his eyes narrowing in a mix of fury and awe. “Is this the creature the boy spoke of?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra nods, unable to tear her gaze from the sight. “It is,” she whispers, her voice tinged with fear and a growing sense of foreboding. “And that… that is the woman who saved him.”

Daemon takes a step forward, his gaze shifting to Caraxes, who is visible in the distance, his great head peeking out from the entrance of his cave. The Blood Wyrm, who has faced down dragons and men alike, recoils, his body pressed low to the ground as if trying to melt into the rock itself. He refuses to come forward, his instincts telling him that this is not a foe he wishes to face.

Rhaenyra watches as Daemon's knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword. “Even Caraxes is afraid,” he mutters, almost to himself. “What manner of beast is this? And who is this woman?”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, Y/N takes a step forward, moving with a grace that belies the danger she embodies. Her voice carries across the distance, strong and clear despite the howling wind. “I come not as an enemy, but as an emissary.”

Rhaenyra feels a shiver run down her spine at the sound of the woman’s voice. There is something in it, an authority, a power that feels ancient, something that commands respect and fear in equal measure. She steps forward, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm to still him, her eyes never leaving Y/N.

“You saved my son,” Rhaenyra calls out, her voice steady, though her heart is pounding in her chest. “Why?”

Y/N’s gaze meets hers, and for a moment, Rhaenyra feels as though she’s being weighed, measured by a force that sees far beyond the physical. “Because the time has come for old debts to be paid, and old alliances to be rekindled,” Y/N replies, her accent unfamiliar, each word carrying an air of inevitability.

Daemon steps forward, his posture rigid, every muscle coiled with tension. “What are you?” he demands, his tone edged with suspicion. “And what do you want from us?”

Y/N regards him calmly, her eyes as unreadable as the stormy sea behind her. “I am the last of the Dragonslayers,” she says, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “And I seek what was lost to time—an alliance, forged in blood and fire, that will reshape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenyra’s breath catches at the mention of the Dragonslayers. The name is one of legend, spoken of only in whispers, a myth more than a reality. Yet here stands proof, undeniable and terrifying. “An alliance?” she echoes, her voice a mix of intrigue and caution. “With whom?”

Y/N’s gaze sharpens, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips. “With House Targaryen,” she says, the name carrying weight as if it alone could alter the course of history. “If you will accept it.”

The words hang in the air, filled with promise and threat alike. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange a look, the gravity of what is being offered sinking in. The roar of the dragons has died away, leaving only the sound of the wind and the waves crashing against the rocks.

The Banshee shifts behind Y/N, its wings rustling like the ominous whisper of death itself. Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, stepping forward, her voice firm as she speaks. “Come inside,” she says, a queen’s command, but also an invitation. “We will speak more.”

Y/N inclines her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment, before turning to her beast. With a simple, fluid motion, she mounts the Banshee, the creature responding to her touch with a soft, almost affectionate growl. “I will come,” she says, her voice carrying across the distance. “But know this, Queen Rhaenyra—what I bring is not just an alliance, but the power to change the very destiny of your house.”

With that, the Banshee lets out one last, bone-chilling wail that echoes across the island. The creature takes to the skies, its massive wings beating against the wind as it rises into the air, carrying its rider away from the shore and into the stormy night.

Rhaenyra watches as the dark silhouette disappears into the clouds, her mind racing with a thousand questions, her heart heavy with the knowledge that whatever comes next, it will be like nothing Westeros has ever seen.

Daemon stands beside her, his eyes still fixed on the sky where the Banshee vanished. “We must be ready,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both determination and unease. “Whatever she brings, it will not be easily controlled.”

Rhaenyra nods, her gaze steely as she turns back toward the castle, already thinking of the steps she must take, the alliances she must forge, and the preparations she must make. “Then we shall be ready,” she replies, her voice firm with resolve. “For House Targaryen will not be brought low, not by dragons, and not by beasts.”

Together, they walk back into the heart of Dragonstone, the weight of their decisions pressing heavily upon them, the storm outside now a mere whisper compared to the storm that is yet to come.

The great hall of Dragonstone is eerily quiet, the only sound the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth, its flames dancing in the dim light. The storm outside has settled into a steady, rhythmic beat against the stone walls, as if the very island holds its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Daemon Targaryen stands by the fire, his eyes fixed on the flames, deep in thought. The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold unease that has settled in his bones since the arrival of the stranger and her beast. Rhaenyra sits at the head of the table, her posture regal and composed, though her gaze is sharp and searching as it rests on the woman before them—Y/N, the self-proclaimed last of the Dragonslayers.

You stand before them, calm and composed, the flickering firelight casting shadows across your face. Your expression is inscrutable, your eyes reflecting a depth of experience and knowledge that stretches far beyond the walls of this ancient castle.

Daemon finally speaks, his voice low, but filled with the weight of old memories. “When I was a boy, I used to sit at my wet nurse’s feet as she told me the tales of old Valyria. Stories of dragons soaring above the world, of their might and majesty… and of the terror that once threatened them.” He turns his gaze from the fire to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She spoke of the Dragonslayers, warriors from an ancient order, born from the fear and hatred of those who had no other means to fight back against the dragons. It was said their beasts were as fearsome as the dragons themselves—monstrous creatures that could strike terror into the heart of even the most battle-hardened Targaryen.”

He pauses, his lips curving into a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But those were just stories. Tales meant to frighten children and remind us of our place in the world. When the Doom of Valyria came, the Dragonslayers were said to have perished along with the dragons. Swallowed by the same flames that consumed the Freehold.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, calculating look. “So you must excuse me, Lady Y/N, if I find it difficult to believe that I now stand face to face with a ghost from those old tales. A Dragonslayer, here to negotiate with the very people her kind once hunted. It seems… unlikely, doesn’t it? Like a dragon holding court with a woman who eats dragons.”

Rhaenyra watches you intently, her fingers lightly drumming against the arm of her chair as she waits for your response. The tension in the room is felt, the air thick with unspoken questions and unvoiced fears.

You meet Daemon’s gaze without flinching, your expression unreadable as you consider his words. When you finally speak, your voice is steady, carrying an authority that demands attention. “You are right to be cautious, Prince Daemon. The tales of the Dragonslayers are shrouded in myth, and much has been lost to time. But make no mistake—those tales were born from truth. My order existed long before Valyria rose to power, and our purpose was never simply to destroy dragons.”

You pause, your eyes flicking between Daemon and Rhaenyra, measuring their reactions. “Our purpose was—and still is—balance. The world must be in balance, or it risks falling into chaos. The dragons of Valyria were a force of nature, powerful and wild. But when they were allowed to spread unchecked, to conquer and dominate, the balance was threatened.”

Rhaenyra leans forward slightly, her brow furrowed in thought. “And now? What is your purpose here, in Westeros? You say you seek balance, but what does that mean for my house? For my children?”

You turn your gaze to her, your expression softening slightly as you consider your words carefully. “The balance is delicate, Queen Rhaenyra. It is not my intention to see the dragons of Westeros wiped out. That would tip the scales too far in the other direction. The dragons are a part of this world, just as you are, just as I am. But if they are allowed to overwhelm this continent, to destroy all in their path, or if they are allowed to die out entirely, the balance will be lost. And when the balance is lost, it is not just the dragons that suffer—it is the entire world.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow as he considers your words, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though he makes no move to draw it. “So you would see yourself as some kind of guardian, then? A protector of the balance? And what if that means turning against the very dragons you claim to protect?”

You meet his challenge with a steady gaze. “If it comes to that, Prince Daemon, then so be it. But understand this—my purpose is not to hunt dragons for sport or to seek vengeance for old wrongs. My purpose is to ensure that the world does not fall into chaos. If that means working with the dragons and their riders to maintain the balance, then that is what I will do.”

Rhaenyra exchanges a glance with Daemon, her expression one of deep contemplation. “And what would you ask of us, then?” she inquires, her tone thoughtful, though there is a note of steel beneath it. “What role do you see House Targaryen playing in this balance you speak of?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze steady as you address both of them. “House Targaryen is at the center of the storm that is coming. The dragons you command are both a weapon and a symbol, and their power must be wielded wisely. I offer you an alliance, a way to ensure that power is used to preserve the balance, rather than disrupt it.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, his skepticism still evident. “And if we refuse?”

You smile faintly, a hint of something ancient and knowing in your expression. “Then the balance will be lost. And I will do what must be done to restore it, with or without your cooperation.”

Silence falls over the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—fear, determination, and something akin to respect. She finally rises from her chair, stepping toward you, her gaze unwavering.

“You speak of balance, but know this—we are not easily swayed, and we do not take threats lightly,” she says, her voice strong and clear. “But if you are truly here to preserve this balance, then we will consider your offer. For the sake of our children, and for the future of this realm.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “That is all I ask, Queen Rhaenyra. Consider my offer, and know that I am not your enemy. Not unless you make me one.”

Daemon watches you closely, his hand still resting on his sword, but for now, he remains silent, his thoughts unreadable.

Rhaenyra turns to him, her expression one of quiet resolve. “We will speak more of this, Daemon. But for now, we must be cautious. This alliance may be what we need to ensure the survival of our house.”

Daemon nods slowly, his gaze still locked on you. “Very well,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “But know this, Lady Y/N—if you betray us, if you threaten what is ours, you will find that dragons are not so easily tamed.”

You smile slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes. “Nor are Dragonslayers, Prince Daemon. But I hope it does not come to that.”

With that, the tension in the room begins to ease, though the underlying unease remains. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, and the storm outside continues to rage, a reminder that the true storm has only just begun.

The night has settled over Dragonstone with a profound stillness, the earlier storm having finally exhausted itself. The air is cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and above, the sky is a vast canvas of stars, twinkling like distant, forgotten fires. The castle itself is quiet, the flames of the torches flickering softly in their sconces, casting long shadows across the ancient stone.

Rhaenyra finds herself drawn to the open balcony, her steps light as she moves through the corridors, her thoughts still heavy with the weight of the day’s revelations. As she approaches, she sees you standing there, your back to her, gazing up at the night sky with a stillness that almost seems inhuman. The soft light of the stars bathes you in an ethereal glow, and for a moment, Rhaenyra is struck by your presence. There is something otherworldly about you, a beauty that is both mesmerizing and unsettling, even to one of Targaryen blood, who is no stranger to the idea of beings who are not entirely of this world.

Your figure is tall and graceful, your hair catching the faint light as it moves gently in the breeze. Your clothes, simple yet elegant, seem almost to blend with the shadows, as if you are a part of the night itself. There is an air of timelessness about you, something ancient and enduring, and it stirs a deep curiosity within Rhaenyra, a need to understand the enigma that is Y/N.

You speak before she can announce her presence, your voice soft but clear, carrying the weight of knowledge and memory. “It is said that my people came from those stars,” you begin, still gazing upward, your eyes tracing the patterns in the sky. “Long ago, when the world was young, their ship crumbled down in fire, crashing into what would become the Valyrian Freehold. Can you imagine it, Rhaenyra? A ship that sails among the stars, crossing the vast emptiness between worlds?”

Rhaenyra pauses at your words, her breath catching as she considers the image you’ve painted. The idea is both wondrous and terrifying, something beyond the scope of anything she has ever known. She steps closer, her eyes moving from your figure to the sky above, trying to see what you see.

“It’s a beautiful thought,” she says softly, “but also a frightening one. The idea that something so vast, so unknowable, could exist out there. Or worse, that there might be nothing at all. We would be so small… so insignificant.”

You finally turn to face her, your eyes meeting hers with a look that is both kind and ancient, as if you hold secrets that span the ages. “That is the truth of it, isn’t it? The vastness of the universe, the endless expanse of stars… it can make one feel so very small. All the battles we fight, all the kingdoms we build… in the end, they are but whispers in the wind compared to the forces that drive this world and all the others.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at you, the intensity of your words resonating deep within her. She takes another step closer, her voice tinged with gratitude as she speaks. “I wanted to thank you… for what you did for Lucerys. You saved my son’s life. For that, I am in your debt.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her thanks with a faint smile. “What I did was just,” you reply simply, as if there could be no other course of action. “The boy’s life was not meant to end that day.”

Rhaenyra studies you, her curiosity growing, fueled by the mysteriousness that surrounds you. She has faced dragons and men alike, but there is something about you that captivates her in a way she does not fully understand. “You said you were the last of your kind,” she begins, her voice gentle but probing. “Does that mean you have no family left?”

You turn back to the sky, your expression unreadable as you consider her question. “There are a few others of my order,” you say after a moment, your voice touched with a hint of melancholy. “They are scattered across the world, trying to survive as best they can. But they are not of my blood. My true family… they are gone.”

Rhaenyra feels a pang of sympathy at your words, a sudden connection to the pain you carry. She knows the weight of loss, the emptiness it leaves behind. “I am sorry,” she says quietly, her voice filled with genuine compassion. “To be the last of your kind… it must be a heavy burden.”

You nod slightly, your gaze distant as you continue to stare at the stars. “It is,” you admit, your voice softening with the weight of memory. “But it is the burden I was born to bear. The last of my bloodline, the last of those who once stood against the might of dragons. My family was everything to me… and now, they are nothing but memories and dust.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, standing beside you now, her gaze also turning upward to the stars. She feels a strange sense of kinship with you, this woman who has seen so much, who carries so much pain within her. “I understand what it is to lose those you love,” she says quietly, her voice filled with a sadness that mirrors your own. “I have lost many, and I fear I may lose more before this is over.”

You turn to her, your eyes searching hers, seeing the strength and sorrow within her. “That is the way of the world, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, your tone both comforting and resigned. “We are all bound by the same fate—loss, pain, and eventually, death. But it is what we do with the time we have, the choices we make, that define us. We must find the strength to carry on, even when all seems lost.”

Rhaenyra nods, her heart heavy with the truth of your words. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to find the resolve she needs to face the challenges ahead. “I will do what I must,” she says, her voice filled with quiet determination. “For my family, for my children… for the future of this realm.”

You give her a small, understanding smile, a flicker of something almost like pride in your eyes. “You have the strength within you, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” you say, your voice firm with conviction. “I see it, just as I see the stars above. You are meant to be more than a queen—you are meant to be a force that shapes the world.”

Rhaenyra feels a surge of emotion at your words, a mix of fear, hope, and a deep, unspoken bond with this woman who seems to understand her better than anyone. She looks back at you, her gaze filled with both gratitude and a growing respect. “And what of you, Y/N?” she asks softly. “What is your place in this world, now that you are the last of your kind?”

You turn away from the stars to meet her gaze once more, your expression resolute. “My place is wherever I am needed,” you say simply. “I will do what must be done to preserve the balance, to ensure that this world does not fall into chaos. Whether that means standing beside you, or against you, remains to be seen.”

Rhaenyra nods slowly, understanding the gravity of your words. She feels a deep respect for you, for the strength and resolve you carry, and she knows that your path and hers are now intertwined, whether by fate or by choice.

For a moment, the two of you stand together in silence, gazing up at the stars, each lost in your own thoughts, yet connected by the shared understanding of the burdens you bear. The night is a vast and heavy dread of what lies ahead, but in this moment, there is a sense of calm, of quiet resolution, as if the stars themselves have blessed this fragile alliance.

The morning sun has risen over Dragonstone, casting a warm, golden glow across the ancient stone walls and the restless sea beyond. The storm of the previous night has left the air fresh and crisp, with only a few lingering clouds on the horizon. The castle is stirring with life, as servants go about their duties and the guards stand watchful at their posts.

You are standing in the courtyard, the early light catching in your hair, giving it a strange, almost ethereal sheen. You are calm, composed, your posture relaxed as you watch the sea, seemingly lost in thought. The events of the previous night, the tension, and the conversations have left their mark, but you show no outward sign of it. You stand there, a figure of quiet strength, almost as if you belong to another time, another world.

Luke approaches you cautiously, his small feet making soft sounds against the stone. He is dressed in simple, practical clothing, appropriate for the heir of a noble house, but his expression is one of nervousness and gratitude. His young face is still pale from the fear of his encounter at Storm's End, but there is also determination in his eyes, a resolve to confront what haunts him.

He stops a few paces away from you, hesitant at first. “Lady Y/N,” he begins, his voice small but earnest. “I… I wanted to thank you. For what you did at Storm’s End. You saved my life.”

You turn to him, a gentle smile curving your lips as you look down at the boy. There is a kindness in your eyes that seems to ease his nerves, though the depth of your gaze still holds a mystery that he cannot quite grasp. “You owe me no thanks, young prince,” you say softly, your voice steady and warm. “I did what was just.”

Luke swallows, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you. “But… Aemond,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly at the name. “He won’t forget what you did. He’ll come after you. He won’t stop until… until he gets what he wants.”

You regard him with calm assurance, unbothered by the warning. There is a quiet power in the way you stand, as if the threats of men and dragons alike hold no sway over you. “Let him come,” you reply, your tone even, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Aemond Targaryen is not the first to seek revenge against me, nor will he be the last. I have faced dragons before, and I have survived them. If he wishes to challenge me, then he will learn that some battles are not so easily won.”

Luke looks at you with a mixture of awe and confusion, struggling to understand the depth of your confidence. He is young, and the world is still a place of fear and uncertainty to him, but your words carry a weight that he cannot ignore. “But… aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head slightly, considering the question with a faint smile. “Fear is a natural thing, young prince,” you say gently. “But I have learned that there are things far greater and more terrifying than a man or his dragon. We are all small in the grand scheme of things, and what we fear today may be forgotten tomorrow. What matters is how we face that fear—whether we let it control us, or whether we rise above it.”

Luke nods slowly, taking in your words. There is a wisdom in them that speaks to him, even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet. He looks up at you with a newfound respect, feeling a little braver, a little stronger in your presence. “I’ll remember that,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination.

As you and Luke speak, Rhaenyra watches from a distance, her eyes flicking toward you every so often. She stands near one of the arches that lead out to the courtyard, her gaze following the interaction between you and her son. There is something in the way she observes you—a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and perhaps a touch of something more that she doesn’t fully acknowledge, even to herself.

Rhaenyra notices the ease with which you speak to Luke, the way your presence seems to calm him, to give him strength. There is a grace in your movements, a calm assurance that draws her attention, almost as if you are a beacon of light in the chaos that surrounds them all. She sees the way Luke looks up at you, his young face filled with awe, and she cannot help but feel the same pull, the same captivation.

She remembers the conversation from the night before, the way you spoke of balance, of the vastness of the universe and the insignificance of their struggles in the grand scheme of things. It had left her feeling both humbled and intrigued, as if she were standing on the edge of some great revelation, something that could change everything she thought she knew.

But now, as she watches you with her son, she sees another side of you—a protector, a guide, someone who understands the fears of a boy and can ease them with nothing more than a few well-chosen words. It is a quality that Rhaenyra cannot help but admire, and it deepens the connection she feels toward you, a bond that is growing stronger with each passing moment.

Luke takes a deep breath, standing a little taller now as he looks up at you. “Thank you, Lady Y/N,” he says, his voice more confident this time. “For everything.”

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “You are a brave young man, Luke. Never forget that. The world is a dangerous place, but you have the strength within you to face whatever comes. Trust in that.”

Luke smiles, a small, genuine smile that lights up his face, and then he turns to go, feeling a little more at peace with the world. As he walks away, he glances back at you one last time, as if to hold onto the strength you have given him.

Rhaenyra steps forward as Luke leaves, approaching you with a mixture of caution and curiosity. “He admires you,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of gratitude and something more, something she does not name.

You turn to her, your expression thoughtful as you meet her gaze. “He is a good boy,” you reply. “He will grow into a strong man, one who will carry the weight of his name with honor. But he is still young, and the world is full of challenges he has yet to face.”

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes lingering on your face, taking in the details of your features, the way the light plays across your skin. There is something almost hypnotic about you, something that draws her in, and she finds herself feeling a connection that she cannot fully explain. “I can see why he admires you,” she says softly, her voice tinged with both respect and something deeper, something that stirs within her like the rising tide.

You hold her gaze, your expression unreadable, but there is a softness in your eyes, a recognition of the connection that is forming between the two of you. “And I can see why you care for him so deeply,” you reply, your voice gentle, almost tender. “He is your son, your legacy. You have given him strength, Rhaenyra, just as you will need to give him guidance in the days to come.”

Rhaenyra nods again, feeling a surge of emotion at your words. There is a bond forming between you, something that goes beyond mere friendship or alliance. It is a connection born of shared understanding, of mutual respect, and perhaps even of something more, something that neither of you is ready to name just yet.

For a moment, the two of you stand there in the courtyard, the world around you falling away as you share a quiet, unspoken understanding. The sun continues to rise, casting its golden light across the castle, and in that light, the bond between you and Rhaenyra grows stronger, deepening with every passing moment.

And in the distance, the sea continues to churn, its waves crashing against the shore, a reminder that the world is vast and full of challenges. But in this moment, on this morning, there is peace, and there is a connection.

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bucketbueckers · 13 days ago

Note

to make up for my very angsty first impression, i have a fluffy azzi x reader request !! so its highkey based off of “in a good way” by faye webster and basically azzi and reader have been dating since high school and it’s super cute and cliché in a way like reader was cheer captainn and azzi was (and still is) a star basketball playerr and one night while folding doing laundry and ranting or something equally domestic azzi just takes a moment to appreciate reader and all she’s been through with her and starts tearing up and stuff. take all the time you need and want with this because ik ur gonna eat anyways😉😉

-⬇️ anon

IN A GOOD WAY

pairing: azzi fudd x fem!reader

content: pure fluff, slight injury mention (it's Not!!! angsty)

wc: 2.1k

synopsis: Azzi Fudd loves every part of you – the bright and bubbly cheer captain who cheers the loudest for her at games, the halfway put-together, organized mess when you’re a few hours into studying, the soft, relaxed, domestic girlfriend when it’s just the two of you in her dorm. Sometimes, she just can’t believe how lucky she is.

notes: ⬇️ anon is my goat pls put some respect on her name!! i loved this prompt as soon as it hit my inbox and i was so excited to write it although i had to calm down and finish my other projects 😭 hopefully i do this justice for you ⬇️ and as always i hope y'all enjoy 🫶

Azzi Fudd loves every part of you.

The old and the new, the complicated and the simple, the good and the bad. Azzi loves the fact that you can’t fall asleep without reading before bed. Azzi loves the way you make everyone feel included. Azzi loves that you’re unapologetically real, always prepared to be honest, yet kind.

She first fell for the bright, bubbly cheer captain who smiled at her from the sidelines in high school (the first game she noticed you, she shot for a dominant 9-10 from three) but she fell even harder for the girl outside of the uniform, who had unparalleled basketball knowledge. The two of you liked the same players and rooted for the same teams.

And, sure – you were cliche. You were the cheer captain, the first freshman in your high school history to do so since you’d impressed your coaches while on junior varsity in middle school. You were Azzi’s biggest fan on the court. It came with the job title but you’re sure you would cheer for her any day, any time, any where. She was kind, incredibly passionate, and the best shooter you’ve seen in a long time. Azzi was a basketball star, known for a precision and athleticism not mastered by many girls her age. Somewhere in between the squeak of sneakers and the sizzle of pom poms, you’d fallen for each other – hard, and honestly? Neither of you ever looked back.

You followed her to UConn. You put in applications to every college she was considering committing to (although she was obviously going to be a Husky), not really wanting to do it unless it was with her.

And, well, some things never change. You’re still the cheer captain, although getting the position was a lot harder than it was in high school. Azzi is still that star basketball player, whose three-point shot is deadlier than it was when she was fifteen. She’s been through a lot – injuries, surgeries, and countless hours of rehab, but you were the unwavering constant. You were there with ice packs, compression sleeves, and uplifting words when she was down on faith. Together, the two of you have been through a lot, and no matter what, you wouldn’t change anything about your story.

You love every part of Azzi Fudd.

The scars, the smiles. The trials, the tribulations. The highs, the lows, the in-betweens where you reminded her that she was resilient. Unbreakable. And now, a champion. You love the fact that she’s a menace in disguise, hiding mischief behind a soft-spoken voice. You love that she pushes you just as much as you push her. You love that despite you wearing the skirt and waving the pom poms, she’s your biggest fan.

It’s not hard to forget her first surgery. It was in 2019 – she’d torn her ACL and MCL during Team USA nationals. You were right there with Katie and Tim, a spark of unwavering optimism and determination in spite of the injury that would shape her career. There wasn’t any time or any room to be afraid, but part of you knew. You knew this wouldn’t be the end of Azzi’s basketball career, that she would come back from this injury because she belongs on the court.

On nights when recovery was harder than most, you were there. Any and everything she needed, you had the remedy. Heartfelt confessions, distractions, anything to remind her that she wasn’t fragile. You couldn’t sleep without a book before bed, so you’d read her your favorite parts.

From Charlotte’s Web, you read, “‘Why did you do all this for me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.’” You’d paused only to brush your fingers across the callouses in her hand, feeling her stiffen, alarmed by the similarity of the words. “‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.’” And, although you were only reading, you’d squeezed her hand to let her know that you meant every word.

She asked you to read Little Women. In it, Alcott wrote, “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” Azzi liked that line the most – so you reminded her of it every night.

You knew that Azzi would come back from injury because she belonged on the court. You believed in that as much as you believed in the two of you. Unwavering. Without question. And when you watch her finally cut down that net, trying not to cry into your pom poms, she smiles at you in a way that feels like, I couldn’t have done this without you and you smiled back in a way that said, You won’t ever have to.

That’s just the belief your relationship is founded off of – never having to do it alone. She shows up for you all the time. Research presentations when you need a loving face in the crowd. Study help when everything feels a little overwhelming. When you’re sick and she tucks your blanket in under your chin, makes sure your soup is hot, and she doesn’t leave until you’re healthy and you have to repeat the process all over again because she’s caught your cold and she just grins at you through a coughing fit like it’s all worth it (because it is).

Sometimes, Azzi can’t believe how lucky she is to have you. How lucky she is to have gotten it right on the first try. She tells you all the time but you’re so annoyingly humble about it that she just shows you instead. Flowers, reminders throughout the day to hydrate and eat something more than the granola bar she always packs in your bag because you have such a hectic schedule and forget to make time to eat, intentional date nights so you don’t lose track of each other when life gets busy.

She’s going to marry you one day. That much she’s sure of.

“And so I’m telling KK, no, you can’t hide your water balloons in our dorm,” you’re saying one night, folding laundry. Your voice is enough to snap Azzi back into the present, where she blinks once at you, having zoned out. You hold a shirt in the air, studying it with a confused look on your face, before turning to Azzi. “Babe, whose shirt is this?”

Azzi takes one look at it before clearing her throat. “It’s Jana’s. KK hit her with a water balloon the other night, remember? We washed it for her because their washer is old and decrepit.”

You nod, humming as you remember, and without a second thought, you fold it up and set it in a separate pile for Jana, who has affectionately wormed her way into yours and Azzi’s life under the guise of being your child. Really, it was most of the underclassmen – KK, Ice, Morgan, Allie. Sarah claimed to want no part in it but Azzi could tell she silently enjoyed you fretting over her. It warms Azzi’s heart – how willing you are to accept her teammates, her friends, her family into your life like they’re your family, too.

“Where was I?” you ask, reaching for a pair of Azzi’s compression shorts to fold.

“KK. Water balloon,” she responds, taking a seat on the couch, folding one of your shirts, and grinning when she realizes it’s an old one of hers.

“Yes, thank you!” You hardly look up from the laundry in front of you as you ramble. Azzi takes the moment to truly breathe you in – the oversized shirt you’re wearing, old, worn, and reading St. John’s College High School Girl’s Basketball, a pair of her Nike boxers sticking out below the hem. Your hair is barely up, loose and messy and still slightly damp from your shower. You’re the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. The sound of your voice reminds her that she’s supposed to listen.

“So I’m like, girl. Girl boo. Kamorea Arnold, my first born son. You are not hiding your water balloons in Azzi’s dorm,” you rant, still folding clothes. “First of all, we want no part in this prank war between you and Ice. We’re your parents. We’re not picking sides. And, like, hypothetically, if we were, we’d be on Sarah’s side.”

“Right,” Azzi agrees, shirt forgotten in her hand as she stares at you, a stupid little smile on her face.

“Second of all, she would not be cleaning that mess up,” you continue. “She’s never used a mop a day in her life. We’ve spoiled her, baby. Our son doesn’t know how to clean.”

“Uh huh,” she hums.

“And then KK pouts at me, Azzi,” you bemoan. “She pouts at me! And, you know, I try really hard to be the nice guy. She’s our friend and I guess Ice technically started it when she ate KK’s last bag of Tru Fru, but that’s not the point, right? We can’t let her keep the water balloons here ‘cause you know as soon as Ice walks in, boom. Water everywhere. Balloon pieces stuck in furniture. And oh, wouldn’t you believe it, here’s a scrap of balloon I found sucked into the fan of the Playstation. I mean, that hasn’t happened yet, but you can see the vision, right? It’s literally a nightmare waiting to happen.”

“A nightmare,” Azzi repeats, but she’s hardly thinking about what mess KK has gotten herself into this time. She’s just watching you, the love of her life, the mother to her teammates, do something as simple and as domestic as fold clothes, and all she can truly think of is how devastatingly in love with you she is. All she can think about are the years leading up to this moment – the first time she asked you out (it was after a game and you somehow made sweat look radiant), the first time she kissed you (she hadn’t even meant for it to happen, you were just laughing at something she said and she just had to feel your lips on hers), the first time you told her that you loved her (her brain stopped functioning for a solid five minutes and all she could do was smile at you).

It’s hard to fathom just how much the two of you have been through together. It would be enough for any other person to run away, to call it quits, but there’s something about you that embraces the challenge, that welcomes it in because you couldn’t imagine living if you couldn’t love Azzi Fudd. There’s something about the both of you that will just be hopelessly stuck within each other’s orbits until the end – something about the fact that neither of you mind it all too much. You like being each other’s person.

Azzi’s eyes are wet. She doesn’t even realize until your voice cuts in through her thoughts again. “Then I’m saying to Ice – Az, are you listening?”

She glances back up at you, her expression softening at the concerned look on your face. Your features turn a little tender, too, worry pulling your brows into a terse line. “Az, you’re crying,” you say, already moving to cup her cheeks, your thumbs brushing away the tears. “Are you okay? Is it your knee?”

And Azzi can’t help the laugh that spills unbidden from her lips, the smile that stretches the corners of her mouth, the soft intensity with which she holds you as her hands find your thighs. You’ve stepped into the space created by her legs, leaning into her, and she thinks that she’d like to keep you here forever. Your hands are warm on her cheeks, on her heart, on every inch of her life that you’ve ever touched.

“I love you so much,” Azzi whispers, catching you by surprise. You relax when you realize it’s not an emergency, pressing your lips to her forehead and exhaling with relief. She wraps her arms fully around your thighs, pulling you in closer until her head presses against your stomach. “I didn’t know I could be capable of being this happy,” she confesses. “That I could love someone as much as I love you. I’m so thankful you’re here with me right now.”

You brush your hand through her loose curls, searching for the right thing to say, but Azzi’s content to just sit here – intertwined, soaking in the kind of comfort that is only attained when two people know each other well enough that they don’t need words. Still, you murmur, “I love you, too. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You love every part of Azzi Fudd. She loves every part of you. Sometimes, you can’t believe how lucky the both of you are.

#azzi fudd #azzi fudd x reader #uconn wbb #ncaa wbb

308 notes · View notes

meadowfics · 27 days ago

Text

take me off your pedestal

namgyu x se mi x f!reader

when two strangers fight to the death for another stranger

warnings: not proofread. canon violence. yandere?? slut shaming and derogatory namecalling. both namgyu and semi are unhinged in this one. blood. major character death. manipulation. reader is implied to have an unlabeled sexuality in this fiction. you replace minsu, sorry </3. this was written before the release of the third season of squid game, so the game written at the end is made up!

you’re curled up on the top bunk, knees pulled tight to your chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

the air in the dormitory is thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sour stench of sweat. screams rip through the darkness, jagged and raw as these pathetic, flimsy kitchen forks become weapons in desperate hands.

it’s lights out, and the games have turned this place into a slaughterhouse. you can hear the wet crunch of metal piercing flesh, the gurgled gasps of someone choking on their own blood, the frantic scuffle of boots slipping on the slick floor.

your heart hammers so hard it feels like it’ll crack your ribs.

you’re not a killer. you don’t want to fight, but you’re trapped in this hell and the fear is a living thing clawing at your insides.

below you, the chaos unfolds like a nightmare you can’t wake from. a man’s voice howls in pain as someone drives a fork into his eye, the sound wet and sickening.

a woman’s scream cuts off abruptly, replaced by a gurgling wheeze. you press your hands over your ears, but it doesn’t help.

the violence is everywhere, seeping into your bones.

you’re player 202, just another number in this twisted game, but somehow, you’ve become something more to two people who’ve made this nightmare even worse:

namgyu and semi.

they’re obsessed with you. it’s not love but a sick, twisted fixation that’s grown sharper and deadlier with every passing day.

namgyu’s eyes follow you like a predator tracking prey, his jaw tight whenever you so much as glance at someone else.

semi’s different, softer in her approach, but no less dangerous.

she watches you with this reverent intensity, like you’re some untouchable goddess she’s sworn to protect.

they both want you, all of you, and they hate each other for it. their rivalry was bad enough before, but now, in this blood-soaked dormitory, it’s a ticking bomb ready to explode.

you’ve seen the way namgyu glares at semi when she brushes her hand against yours, offering you a sip of her water or a scrap of bread she’s saved.

“you don’t need that bitch,” he muttered once, low enough that only you could hear, his voice dripping with venom.

“she’s nothing compared to me.” you didn’t respond, too stunned by the raw possessiveness in his tone, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

semi’s no better.

she’ll lean in close, her breath warm against your ear, whispering, “he doesn’t deserve you, y/n. he’s a monster. i’d never hurt you like he would.”

it’s not comfort since it’s a claim. it is a leash she’s trying to wrap around your heart.

they’ve both done things for you that should’ve been selfless but felt like chains instead.

when the vote came for the second day to stay in the games or leave... they both cornered you, their voices urgent, almost pleading.

“press ‘O,’ y/n,” namgyu said, his hand gripping your wrist just a little too tight.

“you’re stronger than you think. we’ll get through this together.” semi was gentler, her fingers brushing your cheek as she murmured,

“i can’t lose you. stay. please.”

thanos and gyeongsu observed namgyu's and semi's obsession for you, but they thought it was just some stupid game inside of a bigger one. the rapper joked that you had your own two body guards in this game.

this is sick. you haven't known any of these people before the games.

you pressed ‘O’ because you were scared, because their eyes burned with something that made you feel like you didn’t have a choice.

they’ve given you their food, even when their own faces were gaunt with hunger, shoving their rations into your hands with forced smiles.

“you need it more,” semi would say, while namgyu just grunted, “eat. i’m fine.”

you knew they weren’t fine. none of you were.

now, as the dormitory erupts in violence, their obsession has reached a breaking point.

you peek over the edge of your bunk, your stomach twisting at the carnage below. bodies litter the floor, some still twitching, others eerily still.

blood pools under your bunk inside of the beds below, creeping toward the legs of the bedframe. suddenly as your eyes move around the room. you see them, namgyu and semi, across the room, locked in a standoff that makes your blood run cold.

namgyu’s got a fork in his hand, the tines glinting faintly in the dim emergency lights. the flashing lights make his figure look taller than it really was. the man's back was faced towards you, but you could see the rage and fear in semi's eyes.

“you think you’re better than me, noona?” namgyu’s voice cuts through the chaos, low and venomous.

he takes a step closer, the fork twitching in his grip, “you think you can just bat your eyes and she’ll fall for you? you’re pathetic.”

semi laughs, sharp and bitter, but there’s a tremor in it, “and you think scaring her makes you a man? you’re nothing but a rabid dog, namgyu. a stupid piece of shit.”

“I'm the piece of shit? you’re a fucking slut, throwing yourself at her every chance you get. you don’t know her like i do. you don’t need her like i do.” he spits, his voice rising.

namgyu's eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide. he’s unhinged like he’s been unraveling, piece by piece.

he is thinking about every time you’ve smiled at semi or let her sit too close. every time you’ve hesitated to push him away.

namgyu's knuckles are white, his face twisted with rage as he stares down semi, who’s standing her ground. the woman's lips are curled into a sneer, her eyes blazing with defiance.

you can’t hear what they’re saying at first, not over the screams and the sickening squelch of forks finding flesh, but the tension between them is a physical thing, heavy and suffocating.

semi’s hand twitches, and you notice too late that she’s holding something. she is holding a jagged piece of glass from a broken water bottle, its edge catching the light like a blade.

“i’d die for her,” she says, her voice steady despite the chaos around her.

“would you? or would you just kill her if you couldn’t have her?”

namgyu’s face twists, and you know what’s coming before it happens.

he charges at her, fork raised, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat. the room seems to slow, the screams fading into a dull roar as you watch, frozen, your heart lodged in your throat as you kept running and dodging the players who are willing to stab anybody who is still breathing.

semi braces herself, glass held like a shield, but you know she’s no match for him.

namgyu is a man. unfortunately, stronger. he’s a beast fueled by obsession and rage.

you don’t think. you just move. your feet hit the floor as you leap from the bunk, pain shooting through your legs from the impact. the dormitory is a warzone.

someone’s arm brushes against you, slick with blood, and you stumble, nearly slipping in a puddle of something warm and wet.

you don’t look down. you can’t.

your eyes are locked on namgyu and semi, on the fork gleaming in his hand as he closes the distance.

“stop!” you scream, but your voice is swallowed by the chaos.

he doesn’t hear you, or maybe he doesn’t care. semi swings the glass, catching him across the face, and blood sprays, bright and shocking.

namgyu roars, staggering but not stopping, his free hand clutching the gash that’s opened from his cheek to his jaw. the fork is still in his grip, and he lunges again, aiming for her throat.

you’re not fast enough to think it through.

you grab the nearest thing a heavy glass water bottle from dinner earlier, miraculously unbroken. you swing it with everything you have.

it connects with the back of namgyu’s head, the impact reverberating up your arm. the bottle shatters, glass exploding outward, cutting into your hands and scattering across the floor.

namgyu drops like a stone, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

blood pools under his head, mixing with the shards, and for a moment, you think he’s dead.

semi’s panting, her chest heaving, the glass still clutched in her trembling hand. the woman's eyes meet yours, wide and wild, and for a second, you see something raw and desperate in them...relief, gratitude, and something darker, something that makes your skin crawl.

“y/n,” she breathes, stepping over namgyu’s motionless form.

“you saved me.”

you’re shaking, your hands stinging with cuts, your heart racing so fast you think it might give out.

you don’t know what to say. you don’t know what to feel.

namgyu’s still breathing, you realize, his chest rising and falling unevenly, but he’s out cold.

semi’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in this blood-soaked hell, her obsession laid bare in the way she reaches for you, her fingers brushing your arm.

“i’d do anything for you,” she whispers, and it’s not a promise since it’s a warning.

you’ve caught feelings for both of them, you know that now, but it’s a dangerous thing.

their care isn’t love because it’s a cage, and you’re trapped in the middle of it, with blood on your hands and glass at your feet.

at the same time as semi finishes talking, the lights snap on all at once, blinding you with their harsh white glare. a deafening siren cuts through the chaos, and suddenly, the dormitory is flooded with guards.

those pink-clad figures, their faces hidden behind visors with shapes on them. you’re surrounded by death with bodies sprawled at unnatural angles, blood pooling in sticky, congealing patches across the floor.

the air reeks of iron and sweat, and your stomach churns as you take it all in.

semi’s pressed close to you, her body a tense shield against the madness. the woman's hand grips your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you barely feel it.

your eyes are locked on namgyu, still crumpled where he fell, blood matting his dark hair. panic claws at your throat.

you drop to your knees beside him, ignoring the glass that bites into your skin through your pants.

“namgyu,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach for him. your hands hover over his head, hesitant, then gently lift it.

the bleeding’s not as bad as you feared since it is just shallow cuts along his scalp, hidden in his hair.

it’s the force of the blow that knocked him out, not the damage. he’s alive. relief floods you, sharp and dizzying.

“y/n, leave him to die,” semi hisses, her voice low and urgent. she’s right behind you, her shadow falling over you both.

“he’s not worth it. he tried to kill me.” her tone is bitter, edged with something possessive, but you shake your head.

“he’s still breathing,” you mutter, more to yourself than to her. you slide your arms under namgyu’s shoulders, grunting as you drag his limp weight toward the nearest bed.

he’s heavier than he looks for a skinny guy, dead weight in your grasp, and semi’s protests grow louder, sharper.

“what the fuck are you doing? you’re wasting your time on him!” she snaps, stepping closer, but you ignore her.

you manage to hoist him onto the mattress, his head lolling to the side. namgyu's chest rises and falls unevenly, but he’s stable for now.

you step back, wiping your blood-smeared hands on your pants, and turn just as the guards start shooting at the ceiling to catch everyone's attention.

as you put your hands up, the dormitory shifts.

you catch movement in your peripheral vision with players who’d been still, playing dead or cowering, suddenly spring to life.

a group near the back corner lunges at the guards, fists flying, forks flashing. it’s a mess of limbs and screams, and then you see player 120 leap up from a pile of bodies beside you.

she had been so still you thought he was dead, but now she’s moving fast. she snatches a gun from a guard’s hand in one fluid motion, the guard’s shout cut off by a deafening crack as 120 pulls the trigger.

the guard’s head jerks back, blood spraying in an arc, and he drops, his helmet clattering against the floor.

“the fuck?!” you gasp, stumbling back.

all of the other players are caught off guard as these other eight players start to fight against the pink guards.

semi’s on you in an instant, her arms wrapping around you, yanking you away from the escalating violence. she pulls you toward the wall, her body half-covering yours as the room explodes into a new kind of hell.

gunshots ring out now, sharp and sporadic, mixing with the guttural yells of players and the barked commands of the guards.

you glance over at namgyu, still unconscious on the bed, and your chest tightens.

he’s alone, vulnerable, but semi’s grip is unrelenting.

“stay with me,” she says, her voice fierce, her breath hot against your ear.

“i won’t let them touch you.” semi's eyes are wild, her protectiveness bordering on mania, and you realize she doesn’t care about namgyu, not when it’s you she’s focused on.

you’re all that’s left of your group. thanos, gyeong-su... they’re gone, their bodies somewhere in the carnage back in the bathroom and the mingle game room.

it’s just you, semi, and namgyu, and he’s out cold while the world falls apart.

your mind races as you crouch behind a bunk with semi, her arm still locked around you. you see more players grabbing weapons, turning on their captors.

are these other players really forming a fucking rebellion? you think, your pulse pounding in your ears.

the guards are losing control, and the dormitory is a battlefield once more. this time, it’s not just about the games.

semi’s so close you can feel her breath on your face, her body pressed against yours behind the bunk as the world burns around you.

the gunfire, the screams, the wet thud of bodies hitting the floor. it all fades into a dull hum as her eyes lock onto yours.

they flicker, darting between your lips and your gaze, a hungry edge to them that makes your stomach flip.

she’s too close, too intense, and then she smirks, a teasing lilt in her voice as she murmurs, “you can stop playing so hard to fucking get now, y/n.”

before you can process it or respond, her lips crash into yours.

it’s sudden, messy, desperate. semi's mouth is warm, insistent, and you freeze for a split second before you kiss her back, your hands fumbling to grip her shoulders.

the chaos around you melts away, just for that moment, and it’s only her...her heat, her need, her everything.

a few seconds later you feel her left hand, slick with blood, cupping your face, leaving a wet, sticky smear across your cheek. the coppery scent hits you, and the kiss deepens, her tongue brushing yours, but it’s too much and too raw.

you pull back, breathless, your heart slamming against your ribs. what the fuck have you done? her eyes search yours, wild and unrepentant, a faint red handprint staining your skin like a mark she’s claimed.

the next morning, it is clear that the rebellion failed.

it’s a brutal, bloody collapse. the players who dared to rise up are either dead or dragged back, their defiance snuffed out by the guards’ overwhelming force.

the dormitory is quieter now, the air heavy with defeat and the lingering stench of death. y

ou’re alive, somehow.

so is semi. and namgyu.

he’s awake, slumped on a bed, his head not-bandaged from where you smashed the bottle into him. luckily, those spots started to scab.

you catch his eyes briefly as you sit between him and semi, the tension between them thick enough to choke on.

semi glares at him, her jaw tight, her fingers twitching like she’s imagining wrapping them around his throat.

she hates that he’s still here, still breathing.

she wishes he’d died back there, wishes the glass had split his skull open instead of just knocking him out. nooo, you just had to save him and had to drag him to safety because you’re too fucking nice, too gentle, even in this hellhole.

it drives her insane.

“he doesn’t deserve you,” she mutters under her breath, barely audible, but you hear it.

you don’t respond, your mind still spinning from the kiss, from the blood on your face, from everything.

namgyu doesn’t say anything either, but you feel his presence like a weight.

he’s too quiet, too still, and it unnerves you.

the guards have rounded everyone up and all of the survivors shuffle into a grim line as food is served. it’s just an egg with another glass of water but you eat mechanically, the silence in the room oppressive.

the rebellion’s failure hangs over everyone like a guillotine blade waiting to drop. you’re surprised some players made it back at all.. like player 120.

you don’t notice namgyu watching you at first. namgyu's gaze is subtle, sliding over you as you chew, but it’s there...a dark, simmering intensity that’s grown sharper since he woke up.

he’s always been obsessive, his yandere edge cutting through every interaction, but now it’s different.

deadlier.

you’re unaware of the shift in his mind, the way his thoughts have twisted into something final, something irreversible.

he’s replaying it all with every moment you’ve spent with semi, every time you’ve chosen her over him, every second you’ve slipped further from his grasp.

the bandage on his head itches, a constant reminder of what you did to him, and it fuels the fire in his chest.

if he can’t have you, no one can.

he doesn’t say it out loud, not yet. namgyu's fingers tighten around the edge of his egg, the plastic creaking under the pressure, but his face stays blank, unreadable.

he’s thinking it through, plotting, the obsession metastasizing into something that’ll end in blood...yours, semi’s, his own, it doesn’t matter anymore.

he’ll make sure you’re his, one way or another, even if it means tearing everything down with him.

you take another bite, oblivious, the taste of the dairy bitter on your tongue, while namgyu’s eyes bore into you.

later the next game starts, and you’re on the blue team, decked out in a ragged blue vest that hangs loose on your frame. namgyu and semi are on the red team, their crimson vests like a warning you can’t ignore.

the rules are simple and terrifying: complete the tasks scattered across this sprawling, decrepit warehouse. you need to unlock boxes, solve puzzles, and find the exit before the red players hunt you down and kill you.

your hands shake as you adjust the vest, your breath hitching in your throat.

you’re scared shitless. every shadow feels like a threat, every creak of the rusted metal walls a promise of death.

you’re not a fighter, not built for this, and the thought of namgyu or semi coming for you twists your stomach into knots.

you start alone, the other blue players splitting off into the maze of corridors and broken machinery. your first task is a lockbox tucked behind a stack of rotting crates, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of mildew.

your fingers fumble with the combination, the numbers slippery in your mind as you glance over your shoulder every few seconds.

the room resembles a laser tag room, dimly lit by flickering neon lights. you hear distant shouts, a scream cut short, and your pulse spikes.

someone’s already dead.

you crack the lock, hands trembling.

you stick to the edges, creeping along the neon walls, your sneakers silent against the grime-slicked neon floor. the air feels heavy, oppressive, and you can’t shake the feeling of eyes on you.

you duck behind a door, catching your breath, when you hear a low, metallic clank, too close for comfort.

you peek out, heart hammering, but see nothing.

just shadows.

you force yourself to keep moving, jogging into the next room after what feels like an eternity.

it’s stiff, the neon room smelling too metallic.

you’re halfway to the next task, a next step in this maze, when you hear footsteps. deliberate, heavy, echoing through the cavernous space.

you freeze, pressing yourself against another cold wall, your breath shallow and ragged.

the steps stop, then start again, closer now.

you risk a glance around the wall to another hall, and your blood runs cold.

it’s namgyu and his red vest stands out like a wound against the neon surroundings, his face shadowed but unmistakable.

he’s holding a knife, the blade glinting faintly as he scans the area. you’re scared, your chest tight with terror, but a tiny part of you clings to hope.

it’s namgyu. he’d spare me… right?

he spots you and his dark eyes lock onto yours. he doesn’t smile, doesn’t hesitate. he starts walking toward you, slow and purposeful, the knife swinging loosely in his grip.

you stumble back, your sneakers slipping on the wet floor, and he picks up his pace.

“y/n,” he calls, his voice low, almost tender, but it’s laced with something unhinged.

you turn to run, but the maze is a trap and the walls keep blocking your path. namgyu is faster, closing the distance in seconds.

“stop running,” he says, and you do, because there’s nowhere left to go.

you’re backed against a wall, the cold wall biting into your spine, and he’s right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell the blood on him... someone else’s, not his.

namgyu's eyes are wild, pupils blown, and he tilts his head, studying you like you’re the only thing that exists.

“i was the one for you, y/n,” he starts, his voice steady but thick with obsession.

“i’ve always been the one. i gave you everything like my food, my trust, my fucking life in these games...and you threw it away. for her??”

he spits the word like it’s poison, his grip tightening on the knife.

“do you think i’m fucking stupid? i’ve seen the way you and semi kissed. yeah, i fucking saw it. i wasn’t out cold like you thought. i saw you pick her over me, saw you let her touch you, and mark you with her filthy slutted out hands.”

you’re stunned, your mouth dry.

he was awake? the memory of that kiss which was messy, desperate, smeared with blood flashes through your mind, and you realize he’s been stewing on it, letting it fester.

“namgyu, i—” you start, but he cuts you off, stepping closer, the knife hovering between you.

“don’t lie to me,” he snaps, his voice rising.

“you don’t understand what you’ve done. you don’t get that i need you, that you’re mine. i’ve watched you, protected you, killed for you in this shithole, and you turn around and give yourself to her? you think she loves you? she’s nothing. she’ll never be what i am to you.”

namgyu's breath hitches, his eyes glistening with something manic, something broken.

“its whatever though... it doesn’t matter anymore. if i can’t have you, nobody will.”

you scream as he charges, the knife flashing toward your chest. you twist, throwing your arms up, but he’s too strong, too fast.

you grab his wrist, fighting with everything you have, your nails digging into his skin as you kick and thrash.

“namgyu, stop!” you yell, but he’s beyond reason, his face contorted with rage and despair.

he slams you back against the wall, your head cracking against the hard neon stripes, and the world blurs.

the knife slips through your grip, and then there’s pain...sharp, searing, right in your heart.

it’s like fire, then ice spreading through your chest as he drives the blade in deep.

you gasp, your knees buckling, but he holds you up, his other hand gripping your shoulder.

“I'm sorry sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice cracking, “but this was the only way.”

he yanks the knife out, a violent, wet motion, and blood gushes from the wound, hot and fast, soaking your vest, your hands, the floor.

he steps back, watching you slide down the wall, his expression shifting from fury to something hollow, something lost.

after a minute, namgyu leans down. your eyes widen for the last time as you feel his lips press against your colder ones.

you couldn't kiss back, you had no energy too.

when namgyu noticed that, he stood up and started to walk away from your dying body to finish the game.

your vision swims, the pain fading into a numb, distant ache. you hear footsteps which are rapid, frantic... and then semi’s voice, shrill and panicked.

“y/n! what the fuck!! y/n, who did this?!” semi screams.

she drops to her knees beside you, her hands hovering over the gaping hole in your chest, blood pooling around her fingers.

you try to speak, your lips trembling, but all that comes out is a weak, “namgyu.”

she freezes, her eyes darting up to where he’s disappeared into the shadows, then back to you.

“no, no, no, stay with me,” she pleads, but the edges of your sight are fraying, black creeping in like ink.

your head lolls to the side, the games fading, her voice growing distant.

thirty seconds ago, he was walking away.

now, there’s nothing...just darkness swallowing you whole as your heart stutters to a stop.

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