#cw/tw — injuries (not graphic)

[withoutalice]

WIP doujin page. Kinda based in some past irl stuffs haha. Also can be looked at in the lense of my Max fic.

I know it looks bad in the tags but it's not medical malpractice i promise-

They're just trying to help...

[winguontheweb]

WAKE UP IT'S HALLOWEEN

Bonus Thursday update!

Moonchaser - Page 18

[matryoshkalex]

yesterday was izuku day so heres a lil dump of kinda old villain!deku art i realized i never posted here!!

looking at him in context of aiden is so funny because they are,,,,,, similar. i made aiden 10 years ago tho and had completely forgotten about him when i designed this izuku lol but u can tell they were both designed by the same person HA.

most of these were made in about march of 2023 so,,,, its been over a year at this point wow

n e wayyyy i had a whole plot for him buuuuut i dont know if i ever will work on that </3 i kinda wanted to make a comic for him but who knows

(more sketches/doodles under the cut!!)

[thecouncilofidiots]

Warning for unintentional self harm/self harming behaviors, in the form of a meme : coping mechanism style

Me : absent-mindedly yet incessently scratches at our skin when stressed/upset

Also me, when skin hurts and starts bleeding :

Stupid collar bone :(

[ryderdire]

Cw: blood animal abuse light body horror eye strain

And still It was never enough. I was never enough no matter how much I let them cut out.

——

I’d apologize for my hand writing but I am not sorry soooo

[rottedcreatures]

How Janus got his scars.

Tw: abuse, graphic depictions of violence, unsympathetic!Virgil, blood and gore.

(Fic under the cut)

The argument had started off so small.

Janus had been telling Virgil he wanted Virgil to stop drinking, and to put the bottle of bourbon down.

"You fucking slut!" Virgil screamed, smashing the bottle against the wall. He stared at Janus, face flushed from drinking, vision blurry.

Janus flinched when the bottle shattered, and put his hands up, palms out, to show he meant no harm. "Virgil, my love, please- you've burned through three bottlessss alrea-"

"Shut up!" Virgil screamed, grabbing Janus by the hair and forcing him to come closer, a clump of Janus's hair falling after he slammed the broken end of the bottle into Janus's eye.

Janus stumbled back, hands touching his face. Cold blood began to pour from around his eye, and the side of his mouth. He breathing shakily and looked up at Virgil. "Virgil, I'm ssssorry! But you can't keep doing thissss!"

Virgil grabbed Janus by the neck.

"Virgil, ssstop!" Janus cried, as Virgil sliced open his human cheek with the end of the broken bottle.

"You don't fucking talk to me like that, you whore." Virgil threw Janus to the ground and kicked him. "Don't get blood on my fucking carpet." He spat on Janus, and walked off.

Laying there, hands pressed to the wounds on his face, Janus began crying. But only from his human eye. Snakes can't cry, after all. He slowly sits up, taking a shuddering breath and using his extra hands to push himself up. The young deceitful side felt his way to the bathroom, turned on the sink, and splashed his face with water.

Dark crimson blood stained the marble countertop and the steel inside of the sink. Janus placed his gloved hands, now stained with blood, on the counter and looked in the mirror, eyes still wide. He was met with the sight of blood pouring down his face, his hair ruined from Virgil pulling out a massive clump of it.

He felt frozen, staring at his reflection. His vision began to grow spotty, and he quickly finished cleaning the blood off his face. He searched the cabinets for a healing plant or potion or something- he found a bundle of the plant Remus had discovered in the imagination that would heal wounds. He untied the bundle and ate the plants quickly, slowly starting to calm down.

He checked his phone. Another apology text from Virgil. Janus wiped the tears off his cheeks and cleaned the sink and countertop.

[peterofthedrakes]

some drawings of my favourite boy i had sitting around on my computer. idk if you could tell but i draw him kind of a lot.

[thecommunalfoolboy]

Goemon Ishikawa XIII is one of the other main characters and he’s. An interesting one. He’s a samurai that came from a long lineage of the best samurai in the world and spent his entire life training so because of that he grew up in an incredibly abusive and high pressure environment. The very first plot point he was in as well was where his Sensei was manipulating him for money, and he realized and Lupin killed his Sensei. He then fought Lupin to the death for like three days and I shit you not at one point in the fight they blew up a plane and both just collapsed laughing. And ever since Goemon just kinda joined them I guess because it was funny? So yeah he’s just here now and is sworn to Lupin. He’s definitely the most competent of them all and also one of his main things is that he has a sword called Zantetsuken which is apparently this ancient sword from a prophecy that was made of demons or some shit so. It can just cut through anything. He’s cut a plane in half before so it can just cut anything. Because of that and because he’s so- fast? Strong? Idk man when people shoot at him he just cuts the bullets in half and it’s useless so there’s that. He also got literally whitewashed, like in older works he was originally designed with dark brown skin and now he’s just fucking pale so that was pretty funny. They did that to Jigen too they made him fuckin ashy. The only dark skin character they kept dark skin is Zenigata and I’ll get to him later. Goemon is extremely autistic for many reasons but one big one is that he was raised as like very old timey traditional Japanese so he doesn’t know shit about the modern world and he refuses to eat if it’s not Japanese food. His same food is soba and he constantly asks for it. In most Lupin media he doesn’t know how to drive but he does know how to operate every other vehicle. He’s driven a forklift, a helicopter, some stage equipment boingy thing, a crane… he just can’t drive a fucking car I guess. Also he bases his self worth entirely on how good a samurai he is and has the need to be the best in everything and sometimes worries Lupin is better in combat than him and he gets really depressed about it and it mixes with the fact that he’s very untrusting and even sometimes doubts his trust in the others. So every now and then he’ll try to kill Lupin again and they always stop fighting and make up but one time in part 4 or 5 (I don’t remember I just know it was blue jacket) where he was starting to think Lupin is using him again so they fight to the death again and Lupin shows his loyalty by just standing there as Goemon slices his fucking chest cavity open LMAO. So he bleeds out and almost dies and Goemon’s like OH SHIT I DIDNT MEAN THAT and saves his life which was based of him. And yes these are definitely two straight heterosexual monogamous men anyway. Also Goemon just sorta fucks off for alone time a lot because again autism. Whenever he feels like leaving he just says bye and disappears into the woods for a bit and lives like a fucking animal. That or he’ll meditate for like days on end sitting on a cliff side in a mountain underneath a waterfall. The rest of them are just like ok Goemon have fun with that and know that whenever he wants to come back he’ll just find them and appear again. Occasionally they have to find him because shit starts going down and they know where the waterfall is so they always check there.

PSA

avoid conforming to traditional gender norms by avoiding this common palette:

try using these palettes instead!!

[fon-master-ion]

‼️Do not ignore my message. It is an emergency. There is nothing left for us. Now I need your help to buy medicine urgently. It is very expensive, worth $600. An anesthetic for the pain. He also needs to travel to continue the necessary treatment procedure. Please, you are my hope. Just donate what you can to my brother😭💔💔

https://gofund.me/73d4b003

Thank you for reaching out to me.

This campaign is verified here, please help out Farah's brother!!!

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 10: Killing in Self-Defense

Warning for Illness, respiratory issues, injury, faking injury, robbery, attempted murder, murder, minor character death

[qierxing]

Farewell to Thee?

A/N: (checks last post time stamp) Oopsie. (drops this in front of yall like a bag of groceries and fades into the distance)

Yan! Twst Isekai AU

CW/TW: the Mouse is Real™, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids/injuries, assault and kidnapping Pt. 3 Oh Woe is Me... | Pt. 4

◇ Continue

[Loading…]

“..llo?"

"Hello?" 

"Hellooo?”

Out of the wispy fog comes a familiar voice. It echoes on and on, fading into a whisper. The tenure worms into your brain as you struggle back into consciousness. And as your eyes open and focus, your brain finally recognizes who is calling out.

“...Mickey?” You respond quietly in disbelief. “Mickey!”

“[First]!” The reunion, however unexpected, is still relieving. You never thought you would be so happy to see the cartoony mouse again. But…

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, huh?” He chirps, walking up to your side. “I’ve been trying all sorts of things to get here, even trying to change my pajamas before sleeping too, heh…”

“So…this is a dream?” You ask hesitantly. Mickey smiles up at you, unaware of your inner turmoil. 

“Must be! This is quite unexpected, I usually only see your head and shoulders, not your whole body.” 

That makes sense, in a way. Only white nothingness surrounds you. Although you two are striding forward in a sense of strolling, you can’t make heads or tails on whether you’re actually walking somewhere.

“Normally I’d ask to take your picture but I don’t have my special camera.” You wryly smile in response. Did you succeed with your plan? Interactions with Mickey was usually out of the player’s hands…did you force a connection when you caused a game over?

“That’s a right shame. I was so looking forward to it since you mentioned it last visit.” Mickey sighs with a playful pout. It then changes to something more somber as he gazes up at you.

“[First], I’m glad to have met you again, but be careful.” You stop in your tracks at the warning.

“I sensed some dark aura around you when we first met. It’s gotten even stronger this time.” Mickey explains, worried eyes examining you. “Please be careful.”

“Wh-what do you mean…?” Your mouth runs dry. Something prickles in the back of your head, and to your panic, the vision of Mickey starts fading away, images blurring. 

“M…time….up….watch…” his last words hover in the air as you frantically reach out to him.

“M-Mickey?!” You fumble around, trying to reach out to him, but come up with air. 

“Damn it!” You scream, impatient rage blinding your sight. 

Just when you’re so close to getting an answer out of this damn game! You just wanted to go home! Was that such a sin?

The prickling in your head grows stronger and you grow lightheaded, collapsing in on yourself. You look up to see a bright glowing menu.

[True Ending has not been unlocked]

>⬛⬛⬛⬛ Key has not been obtained. 

>Continue?

–

[Loading…]

Your cheeks feel sticky.

It feels so gross. The smell of iron and rust floods your nose and makes your eyes fly open. Your fingernails scrape the substance as you push yourself off the cold floor. When you hold it up to your bleary eyes, you can see blood and dirt flaking under your nails. Your entire front is also soaked in blood and saliva. The disgusting sight makes you cringe. 

The ground underneath your body shakes. You regard the pool of blood, tears, and snot underneath you with a gaze not fully aware. You’re… in Twisted Wonderland?

Screaming? There’s people yelling somewhere, and it’s making your head hurt. You groan, raising your dirtied hand to steady your forehead.

What happened…?

"Easy, Trickster." A warm voice envelopes your ear. Suddenly, the scent of mint and petrichor overtakes your senses. Verdant green eyes peer down at you with relief.

“R…Rook?” The voice that comes out of you doesn’t feel like you. Someone else speaking in your body, like a ventriloquist. “H-How…?”

“[First]!” Grim flings himself into your face, adding to the pool of snot and mucus. It’s okay though. You hug him tightly, curling in on yourself, trying to absorb the warmth Grim gives. 

The others come and swarm you; trying to check in on you, but you don’t respond to their numerous worried inquiries, drained of all your energy. Something catches your ear though.

“Oh, we were so worried! When Neige told us you got accidentally poisoned, we couldn’t take you to the infirmary right away–thank Seven Rook was there!” Kalim clasps your hands tenderly, not minding the gross slew of fluids getting on his hands. 

Poisoned? How was I poisoned…?

A knife sharp pain slices through your brain when you try to recall what happened. You were with Neige…and then? Everything after that was all coming out as static noise.

“Prefect.”

You know who it is without looking. What a sight. How could Vil Schoenheit look this disheveled? Blonde greasy hair that is out of place, skin hollowed and pale with scratches, and bloodshot lavender eyes. He looks worse than you on death’s door.

"Vil…?" You gaze at him with empty confusion, unsure of why your heart drops at the sight of him. "Did…did something happen?"

Vil's eyes narrow but then close in resignation. Epel takes over, eyes wide in earnest. "Vil had an overblot, so we had to wrangle him back to normal."

Overblot…right…that's what supposed to happen, right?

Why…was that supposed to happen?

"Forgive me, Trickster. If only I had reached there faster with Monsieur Al-Asim…" Rook hums, surprisingly sincere. "Roi du Poison's madness and obsession…even when he had overblotted…how wonderfully beautiful it all was. The ink swirling around him, his stature…"

You shiver as his gaze rakes into yours.

"But, mon amour, you must not do that again, oui?" He leans in, lips ghosting over your ear and your blood freezes. What does he…?

"What a fine mess this is. What are we going to do now?" Ace drawls, eyes scanning behind him. Your eyes follow where he's looking and wince at the now destroyed colosseum. Debris and rocks flung everywhere, banners ripped to shreds, and electronics fried beyond repair.

For some reason, you feel calm despite the scene before you. As if…

"Well, well, if this isn't a sight."

Malleus.

Nothing registers until his gaze falls on you, and you swear his eyes glow for a fraction of a second.

"What have we here?" The question echoes and everyone looks nervously around at each other. “I arrive early to find not a single person and a stage laid to waste.”

You can only muster a sheepish grin in response. That's right. Malleus could fix this all up in a flash, no problem.

“Hornton, thank goodness you’re here!” Dried blood cracks on the edges of your smiling lips. “We could really use some help-”

“HORNTON?” You wince at the cacophonous pitch of everyone yelling. Rook is tactful enough to shield your ears but it only did so much to keep your eardrums from ringing. While Grim realizes who Hornton is, everyone else is flustered, attempting to explain the weight of his identity to the two of you.

You don’t need it though. His magic is enough of a demonstration as he winds back time and repairs the stage in moments. With that, the NRC group’s spirit and morale is renewed and once again, they’re raring to prove themselves to RSA.

The only thing that didn’t change is you.

Malleus gingerly carries you in his arms while Grim worriedly looks up at you. While they were reluctant to continue without you, even they were not foolish enough to let you go without urgent medical treatment.

You managed to stay conscious long enough to hear Malleus talking with the school medics and Grim muttering about stones before the dull ache in your throat and stomach forced you into an uneasy slumber.

–

The vestiges of a strange dream about mice and keys linger in your mind as you blink away the sleep in your eyes. 

Evening has fallen, the only light coming from the dim lanterns the office has set up for patients. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can make out silhouettes of curtains and several items on the table near you. 

Snacks from Ace and Deuce, herbal medicine from Vil, and colorful flowers by Kalim (you’re sure Jamil was the reason why it was not mountains of flower bouquets). The gestures are enough to make you weakly smile before it drops into a frown.

You turn to scan the room, and find no signs of life.

Did Grim leave?

An uneasiness begins to settle in your chest and you try to quash it. Maybe he just went to use the bathroom. Or if the staff made him leave, maybe he returned to Ramshackle. Anxiety begins to creep through your mind as the seconds tick by on the clock above the doorway. 

 Screw it.

You slip off the duvet covers and although the feeling of cold tiles on your bare feet is almost enough to make you give up, you push through and leave the room in the direction of Ramshackle. 

Soon, the familiar sight of the Seven’s statues come into the horizon and cobblestones turn into granite tiles underneath your feet. Something makes you pause, however. Like a feeling of deja vu, you wonder why you feel like you’ve been in this situation before.

A growl shakes through the underbrush and you whirl to see the devil tips of a tail thrashing through leaves. Your heart jumps to your throat.

Grim!

The next thing you see is glowing blue eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth and dripping black saliva. You stumble back partially in disgust at the sight and partially from fear. What happened to your friend?! 

“Grrr…mine…you can’t…” His words are hardly decipherable, making you furrow your eyebrows in concern.

“Grim!” 

He’s already descended into a rabid, feral monster. Your calls only anger him, and his eyes thin into needle thin slits. He bares his teeth again and you steel yourself. 

Letting out a guttural roar, he pounces and you narrowly dodge and avoid getting shredded by jagged claws. 

You will not lose your friend here. You can’t. Not when–

A fleeting vision flashed in your mind: pitch black ink surrounding your feet, before finally flowing away and hardening into a condensed mass. Your head immediately is wracked in red hot spasms, causing you to keel over in pain. What is…

Unfortunately, this leaves you open to Grim’s next strike, and his attack throws both of you off balance. The impact sends you into the grass and it’s only when your back hits a tree trunk that you shriek out loud. Your fragile medical gown is torn through by his claws, leaving bloody gashes upon your midsection. 

The excruciating pain is enough for feverish tears to run down your cheeks and your vision to start blurring as Grim growls again, no doubt readying to finish what he started.

“G-Grim…” 

Your vision darkens, and your world goes silent.

–

A heart wrenching scream rouses you awake.

“[FIRST]!!”

The sound of whistling wind blows in your ears and instinctively you shiver. As your eyes blearily crack open, a gray figure comes into focus.

Grim is hunched over you, shaking your body with tears in his eyes. The both of you seem to be…flying? What?

“Subject F and Y secured. Waiting for other units’ reports.” A cold robotic voice drones above you. You force your head up and see a tall robot donning armor and wielding a formidable looking oar like weapon. As your eyes adjusted against the strong breeze, you realized you and Grim were trapped in a steel cage. 

In the distance, your ears faintly pick up explosions and deep rumbling. 

“[FIRST]?!”

Both you and Grim turn to see Ace and Deuce gaping up at you from the forest floor below. You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come out. 

“All targets have been secured. All units fall back and return.”

“No!” Grim yowls. “My henchman, they’re hurt! Someone, help–!!” 

But his screeching goes unheeded by your stoney captors. And although you swear you hear familiar voices calling back, the robots are undeterred and whisk you both away easily. 

The last thing you see is the shattered ruins of a barrier and a school left in burned pieces.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 12.

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

wordcount: 4.6k

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

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death any tw's and cw's will be added to chapters with them in it.

story playlist

Shera’s head pounds, laden with rocks and gravel as if she were resting at the bottom of a creek. Joints cracking and aching, she sits up. 

She doesn’t recognize where she is, only smelling the salt air and the distant crash of the tides. Her mouth is dry, sticky with a cloyingly sweet flavor. “Mhh,” she groans, vision blurred more than usual, throat tight. 

“You’re awake,” a taunting voice observes. “Good.” 

It takes her a few moments to match the voice to Prince Daemon— her situation going from bad to worse. 

She must’ve made a putrid expression, as the rogue prince gave a chuckle. “Am I that off putting, Lady Stark?” 

She continues to grumble, unable to form words yet— she remembers being hit in the throat particularly hard, rendering her voiceless and silent at the time of her capture. “W… wh,” she breathes, lifting her head to glare at the blurry figure of Daemon. “Wh… y…” 

“Why?” he asks, tilting his head. “I did you a favor, rescuing you from the usurper’s halls. I’m sure that Otto Hightower would’ve had you wedded and bedded with his one-eyed grandchild at a moment’s notice if he thought that your brother might waver to his side.” 

“I… didn’t…” she grasped at words, the ability to speak fleeting, like birds spooked from a windowsill. “I don’t…. w-want…” 

“Don’t strain yourself now,” Daemon chided, scolding her like a child. He watched her for a bit longer, seeming to take in each minute detail of her face. “Nasty scar that,” he gestured to her eye. “Baela didn’t seem to have as good of an aim as Lucerys. At least my nephew’s injury was swift work, taking out the eye entirely,” he was closer now, brow perked. He unsheathed his dagger, embossed in swirling depictions of scales and dragon wings, and began to cut a strip of fabric from the blanket upon the bed.

Shera watched him in blurred confusion, backing herself up against the headboard, trying to be small— mayhaps if she was small, she would disappear. 

The prince offered the fabric to her. “To cover it up— ‘tis a ghastly sight, as you seem to know from your usual garb. I’m sure we’ll have some more… suitable dregs for you soon enough.” 

Her eyes flicked between the fabric and his hand, back and forth. Something in her blood welled to the surface as she leaned forward to grab the cloth. It was a feral rage, something ancient swirling in the pit of her stomach as she lurched forward, sinking her teeth into the soft of Daemon’s wrist. 

She tasted his blood, her nails scratching at any exposed skin she could grasp. Her senses darkened as she heard his far away voice, saying words she didn’t understand, yelling at her, pushing her off. 

The back of his hand met her face as she landed back against the headboard once more, chest heaving. She spit at him, body shaking with rage and adrenaline. “Your blood… t-tastes… like shit.” she cursed him, spatting his foul copper ichor back at him. 

He was enraged, she could tell, feeling a similar dragon-esque heat emanating off of him. A small part of her sobbed, deep within the recesses of her mind— it reminded her of Aemond, even if only for a moment. 

And yet, despite Daemon’s rage, he retained some sort of manic lightness in his eyes, even as he was bleeding, teeth marks indented onto his skin. He stared at her with a morbid interest, as if she was some type of animal he had never seen before, never encountered so close— and in captivity.

It was a blur as the maester walked in and lifted a cool liquid to her lips, tasting of that same saccharine sweet that filled her mouth when she awoke. It was undoubtedly an attempt to subdue her. She drank it gladly, wanting nothing more than to be asleep again. Mayhaps she would dream of Aemond. Mayhaps she would never need to wake and could dream forever. 

As her consciousness faded again, she never once broke the locked stare between her and the prince until her body gave out. 

If he ever got that close to her again, she would love nothing more than to sink her teeth into his neck, maybe even sinking her nails into his eyes. 

She would dream of ways to kill him, surely.

— 

He hasn’t been granted a marble yet— not even an official title for his seat has been bestowed. And yet, he is there, sitting at the head of the table across from the King. 

It had been ten days since Shera was taken, six days since the Velaryon fleet enforced its blockade upon King’s Landing, and four days since court had been held in the throne room to hear concerns from the smallfolk and lesser lords. 

Days upon days of doing nothing— of doing diplomacy as Aegon had put it, to parrot the words from Otto’s mouth. Aemond rolled his eye at the sentiment, knowing he would have this war snuffed out in a moment’s notice. 

Our house’s words are Fire and Blood, are they not? And yet we are nothing more than simpering whelps— for the sake of diplomacy. Aemond suppressed a scoff as Tyland Lannister spoke about the costly nature of the blockade. He could only think, mayhaps Shera would be proud of his restraint in holding his tongue. 

The thought brought a small bit of warmth to the tips of his ears, suddenly grateful for his hair covering them.

Aegon twirls his yellow and pink tinged marble in its circular setting, seemingly bored with the conversation at hand, his eyes set upon the marble as one council member or other continues to drone.

“… the shipments have been delayed due to the Sea Snake’s blockade…”

“… the shepherds are asking for compensation for their sheep being taken…” 

Aemond’s ears begin to ring— a high pitched, ugly, grating sound, drowning out the noise. He looks down at his fist on the table as it flexes and relaxes, the tendons and ligaments snapping and mending back into place like a taut bowstring. All this time of doing nothing, nothing, nothing— 

“Well,” Aegon’s voice snapped through his fog, effectively cutting off whomever was speaking. “I believe I have a plan that will solve all of these… predicaments.” he clasped his hands together with a self-assured smile. 

Otto visibly tensed, sprouting another proverbial gray hair. “Do share, your grace.” 

“You have dragonriders on your side, with very capable dragons. I don’t see why we don’t dissolve the blockade with fire.” 

“I will assume you are speaking of you and Aemond,” the hand spoke, his tone light. “The princess’ side has many dragons as well— what is stopping them from attacking King’s Landing while our two capable dragons are traipsing in the bay?” 

“You’re correct in your sentiment, grandsire. My half-sister’s army consists of more dragons than we— but most are babes or hardly fledglings,” Aegon drawled, looking down at the marble. “You are also discounting that we have another capable dragon and dragonrider. Do you forget your Queen’s dragon so easily?” 

There was a palpable silence in the room as Otto stared at the King. “Helaena is… she is no warrior.”

“She is no more a warrior than Rhaenyra is, than any of us are— but she does know how to say ‘Dracarys’, if I recall. Dreamfyre is large enough to defend the city while Aemond and I are gone on our quick incursion. I don’t believe I need to remind you of the speed at which dragon travel differs from horse travel, grandsire.” Aegon hummed now, seemingly pleased with himself. 

“Even so— it is incredibly reckless for you to be out. You are the king, not some paltry foot soldier,” Otto’s calm demeanor was shedding slowly, irritation bleeding into his words. “It doesn’t bode well for a king to fight so openly.” 

“Nor does it bode well for me and mine to sit and hide here and let paltry foot soldiers die in the masses when we could end it before sundown. I fear you won’t persuade us otherwise, lord hand,” Aegon stood up, pushing his chair back. “In fact, we will even return before you pass your evening constitution, grandsire. Does your privy have a good view of the Blackwater?” 

The Hand turned to his younger grandson, who’s single eyed gaze met him in kind. “Aemond? Do you believe this wise, as well?” 

Aemond didn’t move an inch, merely glazing over Aegon’s smug expression before returning to Otto. “I would not be so capricious as to challenge the king’s wishes, grandsire. I shall do as he commands and nothing less. The blockade needs to be eradicated— all of our diplomatic approaches have been exhausted. As his grace said, it shall be ended swiftly before Dragonstone hears a word of us even mounting our dragons.”

A cold chill befell the council room as Otto let out a tempered breath. There was a vein bulging at his temple, coupled with a myriad of new gray hairs. His expression could only be described as regret, for he is a tower cornered by two fire hungry dragons. “Very well. Rid the bay of the blockade and nothing more.” 

Soon enough, the chamber cleared. All that remained were Aemond, Aegon and Otto, the latter of whom waited until the door closed to speak. “You’re both being incredibly reckless. I expected this from you, Aegon— but Aemond, you are better than this. You have more restraint, more patience.”

The king wilted ever so slightly at the admonishment, turning towards the open window with his goblet. He remained silent. 

Aemond, however, stayed sitting. His leg was propped up against the table, one hand tracing the deep engraved ridges of the pommel of his sword. “Patience,” he echoed his grandsire’s words, mulling over the meaning of it. “Restraint,” the prince continued, finally looking back up at Otto. “I indeed have those qualities in spades, to some extent. But, patience is like an hourglass. The sand dwindles, granule by granule until there is nothing left. I am reaching my limit, becoming bereft of such patience, sitting here on my hands for days upon days. We are ready to do something.” 

Otto’s brow knit together as he observed his second youngest grandchild— a man grown now, always studious and hardworking, a true shining example of a prince. It was a perfect illusion, adept at fooling those who didn’t look deeper. A single crack at the surface reveals a fathomless gaping hole could be seen, leading to molten fire and an adept ability to not be swayed, not to be controlled by someone else. 

This is the first time Otto Hightower realizes how dangerous his grandson had become— and how much he was reminded of a certain rogue. 

Swallowing softly, the hand nods. “Do what you think is wise, Aemond.” 

—

The wolf still follows him, like a mangy shadow. Aemond didn’t care for the animal, but couldn’t bear sending him off somewhere else. 

Moongeist would let out a warbling whine each time they passed the corridor that led to Shera’s guest chambers, glancing down the hallway to see if she might be there, before padding to catch up with Aemond, who wouldn’t permit the wolf into his room. 

Aemond, admittedly, had done the same a few times, having to will himself to not venture to the guest quarters. His breath would catch if he saw a blur of auburn hair somewhere in a crowd, he would smell her scent of lavender and rosemary in the oddest of places. It felt like she was haunting him, her ghost steeping into every facet of his life.

But she wasn’t dead— was she? 

That was the ever clouding thought on his mind. He just wished to know if she was alive— even Lord Larys Strong, a man known to have his fingers and eyes in many places of Westeros, couldn’t catch a bead on Shera’s whereabouts. That in itself was disconcerting to Aemond. 

His gaze was glazed over as he knocked upon Helaena’s door, stepping in without a word or greeting to her handmaiden. The wolf, of course, followed. 

“I was wondering when you would visit today,” Helaena murmured, kneeling at one of the tables in her solar. She was fiddling with wooden cages fashioned for her crickets, facing away from Aemond. “Maelor will be happy to play with Moongeist, I’m sure,” she paused and murmured softly to herself. “The vines are overgrown, they strangled a green dragonfly just this morn…” 

The mention of the cherubic toddler caused Moongeist’s ears to perk up, his tail giving a small wag. Finally breaking away from the invisible chain that held him to Aemond, the wolf walked over towards the doorway of the nursery and took a seat, waiting patiently for the arrival of Maelor, who undoubtedly was taking an afternoon nap. 

“This one has been very quiet lately,” Helaena continued, bringing up one of the cages closer to her face, lips tugging into a frown. “Do you think it’s lonely?” 

Aemond walked to his sister, leaning down ever so slightly to observe the silent cricket. “Mayhaps,” he replied, hands behind his back. “Do crickets get lonely?” 

“Sometimes. They get lonely when no one listens to their song, so they stop singing. What would be the point to sing if no one can hear it?” she ponders, giving the cricket one last look over before putting the enclosure back on the table. “How are you feeling as of late, brother?” 

He was caught somewhat off guard by her question— it wasn’t usual in their family, perhaps even society itself, to ask something so directly. It took him a few moments to answer. “Fine. I am feeling fine.” his words were plain, hollow. 

“I miss her too,” Helaena responded, sitting up and straightening out her skirts. “It isn’t your fault, Aemond.” 

Aemond peered at his sister, hands finally unclasping from behind his back. His shoulders slumped for the first time in days, the muscles previously strung taut like thread on a loom. He couldn’t say anything for a long moment, brow furrowed. “I…” he cleared his throat, feeling more vulnerable at this moment than he would like to. It felt as if he was belly up, soft innards ripe for the slaughter. “It is my fault. I faltered in a time of weakness.” 

“Love isn’t a weakness. We all must love.” 

“Love— love is a… weakness. I allowed for one sliver of something good, I indulged when I should have starved. Look what it has gotten me, gotten us,” he continued, cracking a finger with each inflection. He needed to be doing something, anything rather than to be still. To be still, to be at peace, is to lie down and die. “I won’t make another mistake.” 

“You’re just like mother in that way,” Helaena sighed softly, taking her brother’s hands in her own to stop his incessant fidgeting. “You both have such a staunch code of what you think you deserve. All goodness is an illusion— a trick,” she squeezed his palms. “You deserve much and more.” 

His eye glazed over for a moment as he savored the feeling of Helaena’s hands in his own. He hadn’t been touched by another human being since Shera had gone— he would never let anyone else get so close. Aemond’s throat bobbed, mouth opening to say something, but the steel within him cut it off. 

Helaena felt this, letting go with a nod. “I think today is a good day for flying, don’t you think?” she began to hum again as she looked to the open window that overlooked the bay.

It had been a while since Aemond had left her chambers, leaving her to get on her riding leathers. She didn’t prefer wearing them, as beautiful as they were– she would opt for her regular dress and mayhaps some long pants to prevent chafing. The leathers felt restraining and tight, when all she wanted was to be free and to fly. 

Maelor giggled in the background as he played with Moongeist, who was gentle for such a large beast. But, it didn’t surprise Helaena in the slightest. The wolf was imbued with Shera’s soft sense of humanity, the thought of it making the queen’s heart ache. If she were more fierce, more brave, more fire blooded, she would go to Dragonstone herself and negotiate for her release. But where Aemond’s blood was molten fury, untethered and unpredictable, her veins were full of dreams and predictability. 

She knows that negotiating wouldn’t work, nor would burning down the island. Shera’s escape comes in the means of green dragonflies and barn owls.

“Will you watch him?” she asks Moongeist, who lifts his muzzle to lick her open palm as she approaches. Maelor is laying atop him, arms wrapped around the wolf’s torso as he sleeps, using the poor beast as a makeshift bed. He does not seem to mind though. “He isn’t like the twins. He’s more fragile, you see. The maesters say his heart is bad– how can that be possible? He is just a boy, never doing a bad thing in his life. He is pure of heart, you know that.” 

The wolf’s amber eyes blinked slowly as he gave a small chuffing sound in response. The wolf had attached himself to the toddler since they met, Maelor second to only Shera herself. Now with Shera gone, Moongeist likely felt the same amount of shame Aemond did, if not more. He couldn’t protect his master and she was taken– as much as he tried, as much as he fought, it wasn’t enough to save her. He favored Maelor now, perhaps because he reminded the wolf of Shera, and perhaps he likened himself to protect the little toddler with an irregular heartbeat.

Helaena leaned down and kissed Maelor on his head, then Moongeist between his ears before slipping out of her solar, off to the Dragonpit.

— 

He threw his leg over the saddle, not quite buckled in yet. Vhagar doesn’t rest in the Dragonpit any longer, opting for a craggy shore near the bay. She grumbles, lamenting softly at being awoken. Aemond thinks her akin to an old cat nowadays, opting more to nap than to burn and conquer like she did in days of old. He almost felt bad to disturb her, a gloved hand patting the exposed scale above the saddle. 

“Just burn a few boats, Vhagar, then we shall rest on the cliffs,” he murmured as they took flight, skimming low above the roiling waves. It took Vhagar longer to climb in altitude, but soon enough, they were looking at King’s Landing from the clouds. Her mass blotted out the sun temporarily, casting a shadow over the sprawling city. Even through the dim, a glint of gold caught his eye. 

Sunfyre, with Aegon atop, raced through the sky like a whizzing bee. The king’s dragon was young, hatching as an egg in the cradle, an admittedly gorgeous golden and pink whelpling. Aemond could remember the jealousy he felt at his brother’s bond with his dragon. Aegon had loose ties to many humans of the world– his nature wasn’t made for forging meaningful relationships, as much as he tried. Apart from his children, as well as a confusing relationship with his sister-wife, he was bereft in anything beyond that. 

But, Sunfyre was different. In many ways, the golden dragon reminded Aemond more of a giant dog than a fearsome beast. He was keen on giving and being given affection and was quite pompous, puffing out his chest to Dreamfyre and giving mewling coos when the she-dragon was in his vicinity. Aegon spoke to Sunfyre in broken High Valyrian, mostly opting to speak in the common tongue– the way the dragon learned to understand Westerosi and anything Aegon seemed to say was beyond Aemond. The bond between Targaryen and dragon was bound in ancient magic, but the bond between the king and his mount was even more so– supernatural, even. 

The golden beast lingered a good length away from Vhagar, knowing that she was in a testy and irritable mood. The two dragons seemed to converse, Sunfyre giving trilling whistles, while Vhagar returned in low grumbles. 

“Your old lady is upsetting my boy, Aemond,” Aegon laughed, head thrown back. He was always in his best moods in the sky– they all were. 

“Tell your boy to leave Vhagar alone, I know he must be spewing obscenities at her. You two are alike in that way,” Aemond bit back, the bite in his voice in more of a teasing manner. Aegon wouldn’t get a smile out of him, though. 

A low trill of a third dragon broke through the clouds above them, the cerulean and opalescent sheen of Dreamfyre parting from the blue in the sky as if she were invisible previously. Helaena atop her dragon, waved to them with a wide smile. 

“Seven hells, Helaena,” Aegon and Sunfyre reeled almost in unison at the sudden appearance of the duo. “How did you get above us? You hadn’t even left the pit when we took off!” 

“Camouflage, brother. Dreamfyre blends into the sky at this time of day so well, doesn’t she?” Helaena preened, hands off the reins and resting behind her head. She was always so carefree when riding, especially since Dreamfyre was one of the most steady flyers. When the twins were still little babes, Helaena swaddled them both to her chest and flew, much to Alicent’s absolute horror. They slept soundly against her breast, not disturbed by the movements of dragonflight in the slightest.

“Are we all prepared, then?” Aemond cut in, getting straight to business. “Helaena?” 

“Yes, we shall skim the clouds and keep an eye on the horizon. There aren’t many bugs this high… too cold for them,” she hummed, clad in her deep turquoise colored riding leathers. It was imprinted with embroidery of dragonflies, coupled with a matching engraving on the front of Dreamfyre’s saddle. 

Aemond nodded, not waiting for his brother to answer before he set off towards the bay, knowing he and his fast golden beast would be in tow. 

The Velaryon fleet laid beyond the outcast of the Blackwater, barely floating above the skyline. There were approximately twenty ships encircling and blocking entrance to the harbor. It was a bold move on their part, to taunt the King and his family so openly, in their own waters. Aemond sneered slightly as arrows were notched and released to no avail— Vhagar’s skin was as tough as armor to the pitiful splinters they let forth, and Sunfyre was much too swift to even be nicked. 

The two brothers made quick work of the blockade, blessing the boats in fire and watching them sink to the bottom of the sea. They met in the middle, lines of inferno mingling together. 

“Now we’re clear for the second bit?” Aegon yelled, eyes squinting from the ashes blowing in the wind. 

Aemond nodded, waving his arm towards the north. Decidedly, to the next part of their plan— a bit they did not reveal to the council nor their grandsire. It was something only shared between the three siblings and their dragons. 

They continued northward, the tailwind carrying them towards Dragonstone. 

–

It’s light, the luminosity of the sun reflecting off of the water. The lake was so large, the largest Shera had ever seen, she couldn’t even see the end of the opposite side. The waves were calm, lapping at her bare feet as they sunk into the soft sandy clay sediment that made up the shore. It was very different to the pebbled beach of the Blackwater, and the muddy, reedy embankments of northern lakes.

The air is still, quiet, her hair ruffling only when a dragonfly races past her, then circling back and hovering in front of her face. It is a green color, iridescent in its hue as the rays hit its thorax.

“Hello,” she whispers, greeting the bug like she does with all insects; a habit picked up from Helaena. She lifts her hand, finger perked. It lands on her pointer finger, impossibly fast wings coming to a resting speed. 

But then, it’s spooked by a gust of wind from behind them, fleeing off into the atmosphere. Watching it leave sparks an unexpected feeling of hurt deep within her chest. 

As she turns, she sees him— dressed in the traditional robes of Old Valyria. A garment of beige, steeped in red ochre at the ends. It is tied taut to his chest, a sanguine ichor dripping from his shoulders. His hair is down, his eyepatch forgotten, a pleasant smile lives on his face— one reserved just for her, just for them in this moment. Aemond’s hand extends, his palm eerily cold against her own.

Red leaves fall from the weirwood above them as a woman recites something. Her voice is garbled and as Shera tries to look upon her, a shadow is cast upon her features. Only her long, dark hair and the glint of a green eye is visible as she speaks in a manner of tongue Shera’s never heard before. The language feels… old, primal even, as it tugs at the very roots of her soul. 

Aemond palms her face, parting her lips ever so slightly with his thumb. She feels the cool shard of dragonglass pressed to her skin as it slices into her— barely a prick, blood beading at the surface. He offers her the knife, a shaky hand doing the same to him in turn. Bloody lip against bloody lip, the tang of copper satisfying the need of the Old Gods. 

Shera turns to look at the woman again— but she is gone, only a flitting feather remaining in her place. Her brow knits in confusion, head feeling airy and full of cotton. 

Aemond distracts her from her worries, murmuring slurred words in her ear. She is unable to discern what he is saying, a high pitched ringing drowning out the sound. 

“Ae—mond,” she whispers, clutching at his tunic, the red ochre staining her finger tips. “Aemond, Aemond.” 

He keeps speaking, but none of it makes sense. He still has that pleasant smile upon his face, his lip continuing to drip a steady stream of ichor. 

Splat. Drip. Splat. 

Droplets of blood spatter to the ground, overtaking any and every thought Shera had— it was all she could hear now. Her mouth is full of bile and viscera as the world around her changes. It darkens, castle walls enclosing around her lit only by a few candles. 

She feels the heavy burden of a cloak around her shoulders as a cup of wine is brought to her lips, her arm intertwined with another. 

“In the sight of the Old Gods and the New,” a gravelly voice spoke. “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity.” 

The wine feels like putrid spew as it’s tipped into her mouth, trickling down her throat. The arm laced with hers gives her a reassuring squeeze— and just for a moment, she looks to see him, to see Aemond. 

Except it is not Aemond. It never was Aemond. 

Jacaerys looks back down at her, brown eyes dilated into complete darkness. He is as sad as she is, it seems. 

“The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.” a man speaks, his voice infallible with authority.

[forwhump]

Touch

a/n; touch starved human weapon who’s never known kindness gets a hug :’) & a bunch of other times he’s touched, mostly in a horrible fashion

for the anon that wanted silas to get a hug & the anon that wanted more of the unit !! two bingo squares crossover episode best of both worlds babeyyyy

tw/cw: grievous bodily harm, mutilation, guns, traumatic brain injuries, implied rape/noncon, references to graphic violence, medical torture

living weapon whumpee

The first touch Silas ever knows is that of the cold, gloved hands reaching into the opened cavity of his chest.

Their touch is not gentle. Their touch introduces Silas to pain. It’s a pain that he will very quickly become familiar with.

They open him from throat to groin. They peel skin away from meat, and meat away from muscle. They pry apart his ribcage and crush his ribs into splinters of bone. They pull out chunks of organ tissue and they hold him down, against the cold steel of the operating table, as they take the colder steel of a surgical scalpel of his hairline.

Silas’ very first memory is waking up to those cold, gloved hands fishing his small intestine from his opened gut.

The very first touch Silas ever knows is that of those hands.

Silas doesn’t like to be touched.

He learns this very quickly.

It’s an empty cell, carved from stone, not quite tall enough for Silas to stand in but that doesn’t matter because Silas can’t stand. He’s shackled to the floor by the iron closed around his throat, and he’s left there for days in the dark.

He’s alone. He’s alone a lot in the beginning.

The first person that he ever sees, outside of that operating room, is a soldier. Silas doesn’t recognize him but he spits, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, you ugly fuck,” and swings his fist into Silas’ face with as much force as a human being can manage.

His name is Point, Silas learns later, and his touch breaks his right eye socket into splinters of skull.

They manage to save his eye. Much later, however, Point puts three bullets in it, and Silas loses his right eye for good.

Silas learns very quickly that touch is something vile. It’s something to be shied away from, something that hurts. Touch is inhumane.

When Silas is touched, it hurts him.

When Silas touches, he hurts.

They chain his hands in front of him, and they shackle him at the ankles. He has to wear a bite bar because they don’t trust his teeth.

They’re right not to.

Because they remove the bite bar, the chains, the shackles, and there’s carnage.

When Silas touches, he hurts. When Silas touches, there’s carnage.

Silas usually does his field tests alone, but not always. They are a team, technically, him and the unit, and the district needs to be sure they work well together, or some shit equivalent.

Silas had spent a lot of time making a careful point not to let the unit see him the way the soldiers see him, as the horrible thing he really is, and introducing them into the field tests had made him edgy, and it had made him feel kind of sick.

It turned out to be a waste of emotion.

Even now, the soldier’s gun aimed into Hal’s face, Silas makes quick work of pulling his throat out through the back of his neck. He uses his teeth, and still, as Hal stands, he wipes blood from his eyes with his sleeve and looks up at Silas with a grin that’s nothing but relieved.

“Good looking out, man,” he says, and holds his fist out to Silas. Silas doesn’t know what to do with that, so he doesn’t do anything. Hal kinda gestures with his fist and says, “don’t leave me hanging, big guy. Bump me.”

Silas raises his eyebrows and Hal reacts like he hit him.

“You’ve never had a fist bump?” And he says it like it’s something heinous, like it’s even the most heinous thing Silas has done in the last three minutes. “Oh, man,” he says, but his grin is bordering on obnoxious. “I’m so glad I get to take your fist bump-ginity.”

“No,” Silas deadpans, because he doesn’t know what that is and he also doesn’t want to.

But Hal says, “yeah. Come on,” which isn’t all that convincing on its own, but he adds, “Wren will think you’re really cool if he finds out you do fist bumps,” and Silas squints. Hal grins again, wide and innocent, and holds his fist back out to Silas. “It’s easy. Just bump my fist with your fist. Fist bump.”

“Why?” Silas says.

“I don’t know,” Hal says. “Who cares? Just do it.”

Silas looks at Hal’s hand for a long time and decides the pros — Wren might be impressed he’s learned something — outweigh the cons — he just doesn’t want to. He relents and knocks his fist against Hal’s.

Hal, who throws both his arms up and his head back as he cheers.

June, after she left the service, was a hairdresser for a while.

Silas knows this, because she tells him, “after I left the service, I was a hairdresser for a while.”

Silas says, “okay.”

“So you can trust me,” she adds.

“No,” he says.

June tips her head back, dramatic, as she groans. She’s been wielding the hairbrush like a weapon. “Silas. Come on, dude. Stop being a bitch about it. Let me brush your hair.”

“No,” he repeats.

“Silas,” she repeats.

“No,” he says.

“Wren’ll like it,” she tries, and Silas narrows his eyes. She grins, and she has a very predatory grin. “You wanna look good for Wren, don’t you, big guy?”

He’s starting to suspect these people might be using Wren to manipulate him, and it’s unfortunate that it’s working. Silas sits on the floor, and June, with the added boost of the back of the couch, pulls a brush through his hair like she’s trying to rip all of it out.

He complains the whole time, mostly for the sake of complaining. “Ow,” he says again, and June groans at him.

“You’re too big to be this much of a pussy.”

“You’re hurting me,” he says. She isn’t.

“I don’t care,” June replies. “Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving,” he says.

“You’re flinching,” she says.

“You’re hurting me,” he reminds her.

“You should’ve started brushing your hair six months ago,” she bites back.

“How was I supposed to know?” Silas asks, and he’s won, because she quiets behind him, and her hands tug a little less violently at his hair.

“Sorry,” she says finally, and Silas tries not to smile but it tugs on his mouth at one side. He doesn’t think she’s looking at him, so he doesn’t try all that hard to hide it and so it makes him jump when he turns and she’s leaning over his shoulder to look him in the face. “Hey,” she accuses. “That’s not funny. I thought I hurt your feelings.”

He cracks a smile, despite his best attempts. “You couldn’t hurt my feelings.”

June grins widely, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to try.”

Silas snorts, and she laughs as she pulls back over his shoulder to tug the brush through his hair again. She ties it up for him; a half knot, because, “I thought it would suit you. I was right.”

He tracks Wren down, just in case.

He has a pencil tucked behind his ear and Silas is strangely entranced by it. “Silas,” he says, and he says it with a smile. “You look so handsome.”

Silas doesn’t know what it means, but he’s flattered, anyway.

He’s on his back on the concrete, looking down the barrel of a gun.

It’s shaking. Point’s hand is trembling. “You stupid, disobedient fuck,” he spits, and Silas barely sees the bottom of his boot closing in on him before it’s cracking his cheekbone. “Bad. Dog.”

Both of Silas’ arms had been nearly amputated at different points, but he can still lift his left hand. Just barely, and it trembles with blood loss and severed tendons, but he manages to lift it from the wet concrete and fold almost all of his fingers down, save for the middle.

Point roars in frustration.

Silas knows the cold kiss of gunmetal, for only a second, and then an eruption of heat that’s white hot and electricity charged and Point empties his gun into Silas’ face.

Silas is reintroduced to the touch of surgeons, but this is nothing new.

He loses his eye.

They take Wren.

Silas couldn’t give less of a fuck about his eye. He’s got another one, he’ll be fine. What’s another disfiguring injury? But he gets back to the unit, and Robin finds him in Wren’s absence.

They’d taken Wren. Robin doesn’t know where.

His touch is a firm handshake that makes Silas’ skin crawl. But he accepts it, even if he didn’t need Robin to ask. Even if he would’ve raised hell, anyway.

He’d been really careful around Wren. He’d been so careful.

Wren’s different. He isn’t like any of the rest of them. He’s gentle in a way Silas thinks super soldiers just aren’t capable of. His skin is still soft. He’s still so human, and he looks at Silas, and he sees something in him that’s human, too.

But he’s wrong. Silas has known for a long time that he’s wrong, and whatever it is that Wren thinks he sees in him, it isn’t human.

He’d wanted so badly for it to be true, though. He’d wanted to believe Wren. He wanted there to be something human in him because he never wanted Wren to stop looking at him like that. He’d done his best not to let Wren see anything less, to not let him see him as any less human than a couple of fatal injuries.

He’d never let him see anything else. He’d been so careful.

But then he finds Wren, and he finds him with a group of soldiers.

Their touch is not kind.

He’s shackled to a bunk by an ankle to the bedpost, and Silas doesn’t even know what they’re doing to him but he knows it’s vile. The sounds make his skin crawl. Wren is begging for it to stop.

He’s crying, and it’s crying like nothing else Silas has ever heard. Wailing. He isn’t in complete control of himself after that.

The soldiers all react to him with flailing, frantic cowardice, shouting and clambering for guns, for knives, for weapons, and it’s embarrassing. Silas is embarrassed for them. Cowards, all of them — loud, cruel cowards. All so scared of Silas, every one of them, and they fuckin’ created him. What a fuckin’ joke.

He lets them scramble, looking at Wren through the blur of them. His mouth is swollen, face shiny with tears, and when he sobs, he sobs, “Silas.”

“Don’t look,” Silas says.

He doesn’t recognize any of the soldiers because their faces all blur.

Every one of them dies in that bunk, and they do not die gently. They die screaming and they die in pain.

Partway through suffocating a soldier with another’s small intestine, Silas lifts his head, and Wren is still there.

He reaches out and splinters the bedpost with one hand. He can’t look at Wren for too long — he doesn’t really wanna see the look on his face. “Run,” he says, and peels the jaw off a nearing soldier with one hand, without even looking at him.

Wren runs.

Silas is punished greatly for his disobedience.

Still, he isn’t looking forward to being back in the unit. The long walk back has his heart beating higher in his chest than he thinks it should. He only ever wants to be in the unit because he wants to be where Wren is — if Wren doesn’t want him there anymore, Silas will have to find a way to stay away, whatever he has to do.

He gets back to the unit and he’s expecting Wren to look at him in disgust if he looks at him at all. He isn’t expecting the way Wren pushes himself into Silas’ chest, arms so tight around his waist that Silas is surprised by the strength of him.

It doesn’t hurt, though, a very pleasant sort of vice, warm and Wren. “What are you doing?” He asks softly.

“A hug,” Wren says, face pressed into the spot just beneath Silas’ sternum and the pressure of him is nice.

“Why?” Silas asks, and Wren makes a sound that Silas can’t decipher as laughter or crying. It might be both.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he whispers into Silas’ crewneck.

It’s probably the stupidest thing Silas has ever heard him say. “I’d do anything for you,” he says, flat.

And it’s true. There isn’t anything in the world Silas wouldn’t do for him. Wren doesn’t even need to ask. Clinging a little tighter to Silas’ sweatshirt, he sobs.

Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand and lets himself be hugged.

The concrete of the common room floor is a cool touch against his cheek.

It’s the last thing Silas knows before his skull is crushed.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he has tremors in his hands and he doesn’t remember how to read.

When Silas gets back to the unit, it’s been months. He doesn’t know how many.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he’s surprised to immediately find his arms full of Hal.

“What?” Silas says, and then June is jumping onto his back, clinging to his neck, and Wren is at his side, small hands finding Silas’ skin beneath his sweatshirt and his touch is warm, impossibly soft. Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand. “What are you doing?”

Hal laughs from somewhere around his armpit as June laughs loudly into his shoulder. “We missed you, big guy!” She crows.

“We missed you!” Hal cries.

Wren laughs into his side and it’s a little wet. “We were so worried about you.”

Robin is lingering nearby and Silas points at him with his other hand. “Don’t come anywhere fuckin’ near me.”

His face doesn’t change, militant as he is, but his gaze flickers to Wren and back before he says, in the low, rumbling version of Wren’s accent, “welcome back.”

Silas lifts his chin, sort of a nod. He looks back down, at his shaky armfuls of the rest of them, and he can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth on one side.

They laugh and they cling to him and the touch of the pressure and the weight of them hurts, it makes his recently reconstructed bones groan in protest, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t but he’d also be full of shit if he said it bothered him at all.

Silas would consider himself pretty well versed in pain; this has to be his favourite.

[meowmaids]

I think it was really hard knowing he got a concussion because he was drunk and can't remember when he got hurt

Many of our close family members are severe alcoholics. I never started drinking or using drugs because it was agonizing to see loved go through addiction

Many family functions are include binge drinking. And it is so hard to see my little sibling drink so much. Or be invited out by family who are extreme alcoholics. He realizes now whats going on and is reflecting

Thanks to God he is home safe! And thanks to God we will be with him as he heals and gets better!

I just want him to know he is loved and I will always be here for him.

Man yea thanks be to God my brother is safe and well. He went for a CT came back and he just needs to rest, rest, rest and get better.

[groovynightstrawberry]

Tadfield Zoo - Epilogue

Rating: E

CW/TW: Animals, inc insects and reptiles, minor dubcon, non-graphic animal injury and surgery

Summary: Happily ever after

Excerpt:

Crowley has become quite used to waking up to find Aziraphale already wide awake. On their days off, with no alarm to wake them and force them out of bed, it’s become standard for Aziraphale to read in bed while Crowley sleeps in, using a tiny booklight to avoid hurting Crowley’s eyes when he wakes, no matter how many times Crowley tries to sell him on getting an e-reader.

So it’s somewhat of a surprise, when Crowley wakes up one Thursday morning, to find Aziraphale frowning at his phone instead.

Read on AO3

Start from Chapter 1

@goodomensafterdark

[angel-of-the-moons]

You don't have to do this request of you still don't feel like it but I have an idea.. what happens when the reader and possessive Baraka have a disagreement that makes her seek asylum in earthrealm? Of course he's not too pleased to hear about the reader. Write it however your heart desires and thank you again for all your amazing work! Love you and this blog! 💜

I'm not sure which Baraka you mean, but given the context I definitely feel this is more MK 11-oriented!

And tysm I have been off and on with my mental health but finally chipping away at these requests because the new DLC came out for MK1!

Runaway

Possessive!Baraka x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Angst, bit of Yandere, dark themes, some NSFW but nothing too detailed

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

You were scared. You were wet, you were hungry. You ached, your body sore and scraped in many places.

But you were free.

Your feet carried you swiftly, despite the soles of your shoes being worn thin; holes in places where they shouldn't be otherwise from your trek across the desert and canyons.

You were half-dead by the time you reached Outworld's capital.

You had been carried to the Palace where Empress Kitana lived, regaling her with the tale of how you fell in with Baraka, the rough and often violent warrior who had sworn his service to her.

She knew that relationships and matings with Tarkatans were often rough and bloody, it was their nature, after all; but to see one of her own people in such condition...

You couldn't even remember what had set Baraka off. Maybe a male had lingered his gaze upon you for longer than he felt was necessary, maybe you had done something without meaning to... Maybe he had a bad hunt or a fight, you just didn't know.

All you knew was that as soon as Baraka carried you into your tent over his shoulder, you knew you were in for it.

The night was rough; all teeth and claws, rough thrusts and primal, violent mating, a claim staked on your womb and body as his own.

He had left bite marks on virtually every part of you, a typical kind of "affection" among Tarkatans, to show their mate was strong and powerful, that they belonged to them.

The ones on your inner thighs hurt the most.

Kitana had urged you to rest, to let the healers tend to you while she spoke with Baraka directly. In making him one of her most trusted generals, he at least deserved a civil discussion about his treatment of you. You weren't Tarkatan--you were softer; fragile. You needed to be handled more delicately and with care...

But while Kitana left to go speak to him, Cassie Cage and her mother had come as an envoy to discuss possible supply routes to supply extra aid to the civilians injured during the final battles with Shao Kahn's remaining loyalists.

You took your opportunity.

The Earthrealm women looked at you with pity, noticing your injuries and burnt skin and cracked lips. You were scared, you knew that one of the most dishonorable things a member of a Tarkatans clan could do was simply walk away from their mate without fighting for their independence.

You would be labeled a coward, and Baraka would come for you.

Sonya had nudged her daughter and urged her to take you to Earthrealm, where you could be placed under protection by Special Forces--maybe even placed in the care of the Lin Kuei or Shirai Ryu--or possibly protected by the Shaolin monks.

You cried when you breathed the mountain air of Earthrealm; tasting your freedom and safety. You knew it wouldn't be easy for Kitana to explain to Baraka what happened--but maybe she could convince him to let this... situation slide. To take a "better", more hardy mate than you. One that can handle the way his fangs sunk into their flesh, the marks left on their body.

You didn't focus on that, instead, you let them guide you to the nearest medical bay to get treatment, collapsing on the first bed you were presented with--inhaling the crisp, clean scent of the fabrics you nestled into, your body melting into the first genuine moment of peace you'd felt since before you'd fallen in line with Baraka.

You had fallen in with his clan and into his bed in a rather rapid motion, surrendering yourself as his prized possession.

Your emotions were fragile and easy. He offered you pleasure, and security and undying loyalty, and you had surrendered to the Fakas Rakatan. By all cultural rights you were his.

And yet, you'd run away after he had given you perhaps the deepest rutting he had ever bestowed upon you. Yes, you cried and bled, but your body yielded to his pleasures regardless and responded with your own; trained to take pleasure in whatever he would give you.

He had been restless since you'd vanished, his lap bereft of your presence during the communal meals, his bed cold and his lions burning with untended desire.

He had ripped the hand off of a young male who had gotten in his way, in his rage and frustration when he discovered you'd slipped out of camp with stolen supplies.

What Baraka had not anticipated, however, was Empress Kitana to ride in on her mounts, words of you on her too-blunt teeth and soft lips.

One of the only things he liked about the "softer" race you were a part of was a mouth like that... blunt teeth and soft lips brought him pleasure he wouldn't have known with another Tarkatan. He could feel his girth swell and twitch as he remembered how yours had felt around him.

He repressed the urge to laugh as Kitana told him that you needed a more "gentle" approach, that you were weaker than he was and he should keep that in mind in the future... Or he should simply let you go.

He had laughed, at first, when she left. You were his, you had submitted. You belonged to him, and as far as the clan was concerned, you should have accepted that far sooner instead of choosing this path of cowardice and running away like scared meat rather than fight him directly about your treatment.

However... Baraka became enraged when Kitana returned with news that you had snuck off to Earthrealm while she was away; something even she took offense with. That you felt you weren't safe enough in her palace that you needed to escape to another Realm to feel so.

Baraka was able to convince Kitana to take leave to Earthrealm to speak with you directly. He would "convince" you. Be gentle with you, even...

Until you were alone.

Perhaps he would keep you on a leash, a small chain always tied around his wrist so you couldn't run away again. Perhaps he would keep you drugged with herbal teas to keep you responsive and submissive--and fertile.

He wasn't sure if Tarkatans and Outworlders could interbreed; but he made the decision that once he had brought you back to the clan, he would find out.

His blood thrummed with the promise of pleasure, weeks of you being absent would soon be taken out on your body; you would be used to the point all you could do was breathe, laying in his bed-furs, covered in his seed and scent and marks...

You were his, and he was not going to allow you to escape again.

Even if that meant maiming you to keep you close.