#death is going to have to drag me down kicking and screaming

[iloveaustinelvisandmannymore]

Wrecking ball.

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x reader

Summary: You're pregnant, just like Seong-je wanted.

Warning: FWB to Lovers, Violence Overprotectiveness, Possessiveness, Weird pregnancy cravings, Soft Seong-je? Mention of murder, Fat shaming? Arguments, Fluff? Yandere Geum Seong-je, Toxic relationship.

Part one

"FUCKING DAMN IT!" you screamed as the snack you so lovingly prepared for yourself and the baby in your womb fell from the counter to the floor with a booming crash of broken glass and scattered food.

Gripping your eight-month baby bump and the counter, you squaded the best that you could do and started picking up pieces of glass.

This had been happening more often than you would like. Since you got pregnant again, you somehow became clumsier, and no item was safe in your hands. Seong-je, Your boyfriend—yes, your boyfriend—was the one who picked up after your messes.

You just knew he would be pissed for not calling him for help, but he was outside smoking, probably leaning against the rail of your apartment, looking down at the people minding their business. Seong-je had surprisingly tried to refrain from smoking directly around you when you both learned of your pregnancy and you didn't want to ruin his smoke break.

After much more struggling, you picked up all the shards of glass, wrapped them in rags, and duct-taped them before throwing them away along with the food.

You were in the middle of washing your hands when the front door opened and footsteps came to the kitchen, stopping behind you and Seong-je's arms wrapped around your stomach. "How's my girls doing? " he muttered, tracing kisses down your shoulder.

"We're good!" You yelped as he bit your shoulder, snickering meanly. You rolled your eyes with a smile; he was still an asshole, that's for sure.

Once you got done washing your hands and dried them, you spoke up, "We need to go back to the convenience store. I ran out of my favourite snack"

Seong-je hummed before letting you go, "Fine, let's go." He took your hand and led you to the door.

The store was as peaceful as possible being a teen hot spot. Teenage boys laughed and talked loudly; they didn't care who heard them.

Their stares were obvious; it was like you were some blue, tall alien with a tail instead of a pregnant woman shopping for snacks, but the death glare Seong-je gave them coupled with his renowned reputation, they quickly went back to their own business but much quieter.

You walked out of the store, bag in hand. "Fuck. I forgot to get some cigs, I'll be back, Angel face." His arm slipped off your shoulders as he walked back into the store.

Not even a second, a boy came up to you, a smirk on his chapped lips, "Wow, you're so damn fat. Are you having little cows?" He laughed at his joke, his words slurred and his breath reeks of beer.

"Leave me alone." You said, taking a step back, and the boy followed, his hand stretching out towards you. Just when his hand touched your arm he was yanked back by his shoulder and flung back from the bone-crushing punch to his nose. You gasped, frozen in fear as Seong-je picked the drunk by his shirt, drew his arm back, and, with as much force, punched him; blood gushed out of the poor teen's nose like a red river.

Your breath quickened and your bag dropped to the floor, your hands covering your ears, trying desperately to block the sickening sound of Seong-je fist against bone.

Flashes of Hak-Kun, the man who made the mistake of wanting to be more than your friend—to be your boyfriend when you were already marked by Seong-je. Flashes of his body on the cold concrete of night, his features unrecognisable, his plasma a pool under his skull. The Union members laughed cruelly as they watched Seong-je beat the boy until he was no longer breathing.

You could hear his body being dragging carelessly against the concrete.

Your body trembled and the ability to breathe became harder and harder.

A suddenly strong kick from the inside of your stomach snapped you out of the anxiety attack, and your eyes shot opened.

Your boyfriend was still striking the man over and over again, each time he hit harder. People were gathering at the scene and phones were being pulled out. Fuck this wasn't good.

"SEONG-JE!!!" you yelled desperately as you watched helplessly. His fist paused just before he made contact, and he turned his head in your direction. His hardened eyes softened once he recognised the panic and fear in yours. He released the other boy's shirt and let his body drop to the floor with a thud.

You hurried to him, took hold of his arm and rushed him away, the bag of food long forgotten in the commotion. On the walk home, neither of you spoke a word to the other. You didn't care; you were fuming and you refused to argue in public.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!?!" You stormed angrily past him into the apartment and spun on your heels.

"I was thinking I wouldn't let some punk touch my girl. My pregnant girl." He looked at you over his glasses and stuffed his bloodied hands in his jean pockets, the indifference in his tone only made you more pissed.

"You can't just start fights! What if the police came and took you to jail?!" You paced, your heart beating fast at the thought of Seong-je being taken away from you and your baby girl.

He scoffed like your concerns were pointless.

"You could have killed him, Seong-je." You stopped pacing and turned to face him, hoping he'd see reason.

His eyes snap to you, "I should have. I fucking should've scooped his eyeballs out, shoved down his throat and let him choke on em"

Why? Why was he so incapable of seeing your perspective? You love him; you love him so that the mere thought of living without him was like the world ending to you and now you have a daughter on the way. It's like he didn't care about you or your baby.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I said get out! You just don't care! Do you?! Why can't you see things my way! You think only about yourself, not how it would affect me or our baby! You're such a fucking asshole! I thought you changed but you're still the same jerk!!" You wept "I can't even look at you!"

He stood unmoving, simply peering at you; what he thought or was feeling was unreadable, and then he sauntered out the door, leaving you to wallow in your emotions.

He hadn't come back until an hour later; by that time, you cried yourself to sleep on the couch. Waiting for him.

Seong-je sighed quietly, placing the plastic bag beside him as he squatted in front of you, his thumb brushing away the streaks of dried tears, "Angel face..wake up." He whispered softly,"Let me see those pretty eyes."

Your eyes fluttered open, a sleepy whine stuck in your throat.

"I got you something." He grabbed the plastic bag and opened it for you to see the contents inside. Potato chips, a jar of Nutella, Noodles and ice cream are a few of many of your cravings.

He wasn't always the best at apologising but he tried.

You smiled.

[pukefactory]

the recent Ena post broke me

can we get headcanons on what Salesman Ena would do if reader almost dies while they were advertising?

•☽────✧˖°˖ WITHIN SICKNESS ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Almost Dies Whilst Advertising

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): Mentions Of Death And Blood

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You collapse mid-sale. Maybe it’s a misstep on a broken mannequin-ridden stair, or maybe your soul just detaches for a moment like a misfiled invoice. Either way, ENA’s voice skips like a corrupted business tape,“Do you require… a lifestyle upgrade? A… divestment… opportunity—HELLO?!” She blinks in buffering horror before Meanie intercepts, slaps her own cheek and screams, “GET UP, YOU STUPID COUPON-CLUTCHING LIFEFORM!! DON’T YOU DARE EXPIRE ON ME!!!”

☆ Panic hits her like a thousand misrouted voicemails. ENA can talk the blood out of a rock, but now? Words feel like liability clauses, tangled, toothless. Still, she keeps babbling: “Did I catch you at a non-ideal time? Should I circle back with first aid? Or perhaps a… personal resurrection consultant?” Meanwhile, Meanie is hyperventilating into a sample catalogue and threatening to sue the universe.

☆ She immediately pulls out her megaphone, not to call for help but to scream into the void, hoping someone, anyone, has the emergency contact for The Boss or, failing that, GØD’s customer service. “HELLO?! SOMEONE?! MY PARTNER-IN-COMMERCE IS DOWN AND I AM NOT LICENSED TO REPAIR THIS TYPE OF DAMAGE!!”

☆ Her face glitches between the two modes like a flashing “SALE” sign stuck in an existential hurricane. Salesperson attempts to bring you back around with words, “I will offer you free premium membership if you live. Right now. Come on, I’ll throw in a branded stress ball. Don’t make me upsell the concept of breath.” Meanie tries to chastise you back to consciousness, “IF YOU DIE I SWEAR I’LL BURY YOU IN MY OLD REPORTS! I DON’T HAVE TIME TO MAKE AN EMOTIONAL MESS OUT OF MY QUARTERLY TARGETS!!”

☆ When you start to stir—groggy, aching, bleeding possibly metaphorically, she grabs your face with her clawed hand, mitten-hand flapping beside her like a glitchy semaphore. “ARE YOU ALIVE OR…DELAYED? Please rate your near-death experience on a scale of one to—TOO MUCH FOR MY WORKPLACE BOUNDARIES.”

☆ Once she confirms you’re not dead, her salesperson persona kicks in with aggressive nurturing. “Here, drink this.” It’s not water. It’s possibly a jar labelled “Productivity Syrup” with ingredients like caffeine, existential grit, and ‘distilled dreams from a bathroom genie.’ You drink it. You hate it. You feel better.

☆ Later, she tries to make a joke. “If you die again, I’ll have to pitch to your ghost. Hope they accept high-concept multimedia campaigns?” Meanie immediately barks, “YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?! NEXT TIME I’M GOING TO DUCT TAPE YOU TO MY HIP LIKE A CORPORATE SIAMESE TWIN! YOU’RE MY EMOTIONAL LIABILITY, GOT IT?!”

☆ She drags you off to the side of the street, shielding you with her hat as bullets, coal, or bizarrely large coins rain from the dog-shaped clouds above. “This is not ideal for client retention. You’re my favourite asset, you know,” she murmurs as she hunches over you like a strange, twitching business angel. Meanie mutters, “I hate this. I hate everything. But you, you’re…don’t make me say nice things. I’ll choke.”

☆ She insists on conducting a post-crisis review. “Let’s walk through what went wrong. What led to your sudden mortality event? Poor time management? Gravity? Faulty road signage from The Receptionist?” When you suggest it was just bad luck, Meanie roars: “LUCK IS A LUXURY BRAND, AND WE’RE ON A CLEARANCE RACK FROM HELL!!”

☆ In the aftermath, ENA never lets you walk anywhere alone. Not without a helmet, a multi-page safety disclaimer, and possibly a leashed plush version of herself that screams when danger is nearby. “Risk mitigation is key,” her Salesperson side chirps, cheerfully clipping hazard cones around your feet. Meanie grumbles: “Next time you almost die, I’m unplugging your soul and filing it under ‘Lost Assets’. NO MORE MISHAPS. NO MORE ADVERTISING NEAR LEDGES!!”

[grumpyghostdoodles]

So. About to go into surgery, that directly affects my mobility, so no physical way for me to draw. Legit no idea when Ill be back to drawing, could be two weeks, could be a month and a half, it all depends on the outcome and rehabilitation. DO NOT WORRY, I will be fine, this is a long time coming surgery, and it all will turn out fine.

Ill still be around in tumblr, checking my notifications and such, just not able to draw (which is gong to drive me insane, I just know it lmao).

Anyways, Ill be back soon-ish. Cheers! <3<3<3<3

[homunculus-argument]

A scene for a random story I have no context for:

A group of people including a small kid are on their way somewhere, and the kid suddenly digs their heels in and absolutely refuses to do something the adults know is perfectly safe and aren't scared of. The more the kid's mother tries to drag the kid in kicking and screaming, the more obvious it gets that this child is willing to fight to the death over this. And another person in the party goes "wait, let me try" and swoops in, getting down to the kid's level, saying

"look, I know it's scary, and you don't have to go the whole way if you don't want to. All I want for you to do is to take this one first step, and see how how that feels, ok? If it's still scary, you can go back and we don't have to do this."

Meanwhile the kid's mother starts scoffing in the background, of course they're going to drag the kid kicking and screaming if they won't comply. And the person who was talking to the kid stands up and turns around, going

"CAN YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP WHEN I'M TRYING TO RAISE YOUR KID FOR YOU, YOU UNGRATEFUL COW."

Like it's not even a question. Not a request, just a statement. And since now the whole party is staring at the person who was trying to help in startled silence, they internally go "oh shit, the kid", and turns around to check on this skittish child who must be twice as terrified now.

...and the kid is just standing there, beaming with awe and adoration, because nobody's ever done that before. The kid has never met someone who isn't scared of the mom, and they're now ready to follow this hero anywhere.

[rookiesbookies]

The boys catch their ladies reading smut, originally this had the books I was basing this on in them but I hadn't got the time to read the books so I remove the book titles and authors. I hope you enjoy <3

Price: Yeah, she’s younger than him. This book is like 100% just breeding kinks. So she was reading this book about a man breeding his young woman and being super obsessive and clinging… while sitting in their living room… with her fuzzy, super obsessive, newlywed husband. “What are ya readin love?” He said, swiftly snatching the book from her grasp as he sat down on the couch next to her. He kicked his feet up on the couch and laid so his back was against her shins under the blanket she was bundled in. “Nothing important! But you really should give it back!” She panicked, reaching for it. “Holy bloody Jesus, love. This is a casual read for you?” “... yeah.” He wiggled his eyebrows while looking up to see her. She put a hand in his face and took her book back. “You almost made me lose my page.”

Soap: Being bent over and defiled by a hot Scotsman in a kilt? Oh hell yeah. How could you refuse?

“Jesus, Bonnie, why are ye readin about this shit when ya could get the real thing with me?” He chuckled, flipping through the book she had poorly hidden in her nightstand. “My kilt is in the closet, give me less than 10 minutes to get me socks and straps on and I’ll rock yer world harder than some words on a page ever could. You’ll see, donnae worry.”

He did indeed rock your world harder than pages ever good.

You claim and cry that you want to finish it for the plot, he says you can only read “that filth” when he’s away on deployment.

Says its a waste if you have a real heavy, hairy, and thick Scotsman at your disposal on the daily.

Ghost: Reading a story about a man whose face was painted like death and has charm that causes hormonal riots? Sounds exactly like her Simon. She lay on their shared bed as he packed up for their walk to the park. Her legs kicked up in the air as she read. 

He raised an eyebrow at what could have her so giddy so he effortlessly snatched the book and was met with a nasty surprise when he looked over the words. “Take it you’d rather stay home than go to the park,” he mumbled with a smirk before bending down to kneel in front of her now with a red face. 

“No- no I think a walk in the park will be fine.” She nervously chuckled.

Konig: Hot giant caveman dragging a woman away to have his way with her? Basic Konig when he comes back from missions.

Grabbing his sweet girl and pulling her into the dark cave that is their bedroom, only letting either out once he’s had his way with her and showing her just how much he’s missed her.

His face was red flushed as he read over her shoulder though.

“Oh meine gut, Schatz."

The scream she let out even made him fall back.

“Don’t scare me like that!”

He pressed a kiss to her temple in apology. 

“This book made me horny, can we fuck?” She asked straight up, knowing Konig preferred her blunt. She didn’t need to ask him twice.

Gaz Hot british guy? Her standards were so low for her choices in literature as long as it was someone she could imagine her Kyle as. Hmmm easy.

So when she was leading her walk with her audio book in her headphones she was more than busy. When he got a hold of one of her airpods while at the gym and she forgot he had the other one, he looked over at her with wide eyes. He texted her, “I didn’t realize you were interested in being folded like that.”

[oceantornadoo]

stunted dove, broken wings

slightly dark simon riley x sergeant medic f!reader

misunderstood crushes to enemies to lovers, toxic masculinity, dubcon, somno, smut

When Simon Riley finally gets you in his bed, you go kicking and screaming.

Your captain forces you to take leave after Johnny's scrape with death, and you pointedly refuse to tell anyone on the team where you're going. Too shaken to go home, you don't tell your family that you found a hotel to camp out in in London, paid for courtesy of a well-timed SAS Combat Medical Technician credit card. You spring for a nice one, hoping the room charges will piss off anyone reading them on the back end.

The first two nights you can't sleep, stuck with the image of the bullet in Johnny's torso when you tried to push him out of the way. Your hands, covered in his blood, slippery as you tried to maintain pressure against the wound. Screaming for your captain, your Sergeant, so desperate as to call out for Simon with a pained "Ghost". You wake panting, sweat dripping down your back, and watch the sun rise from your window.

The third night, you decide a drink is needed.

It's the shittiest dive bar in London, you think. The music speaker is tinny, your alcoholic cider is definitely watered down and the bar seat is a little sticky. Perfect to drown your sorrows, and potentially find some asshole you'll never see again to drown in as well.

The footie on the TV drones low, a never-ending stream of consciousness you focus on. You let it drown out the sound of Johnny wheezing under you. The beeping of medical machines when you got to the field hospital, the pale tone of his blood-drained skin. The rasping of his intubation tube, his throat bulging because of the plastic intrusion. The rabid look in his eyes when he finally woke, irrevocably changed because of you.

The game cuts to commercial. When you drag your eyes away and to your left, the empty seat is newly occupied by a man.

Prey for the night, hopefully.

"You watchin'?" He gestures to the screen with a beer bottle in his hands. You take in his buzzcut, the way his muscles don't fully fill out his t-shirt, his worn jeans. Good enough, though when you're surrounded by military men all the time, civilians seem to pale in comparison.

You shrug. "Men yelling at each other is background noise at this point." He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised you didn't follow some unforeseen script. "That so?" He asks. You smile, thin and feline. "In one ear and out the other." You answer, turning so you face him instead of the bar. "That why you're talking to me? 'Cause I'm not yellin'." He leans closer, one elbow on the bar. You cringe to think of him putting his bare skin against the sticky faux-wood, completely unaware of his surroundings.

"I'm talking to you because I think you have something to offer me." You let your gaze fall down to his lap and trail up to his face, ending with a smirk. When he leans forward, the staleness of his Axe cologne hits you. You wrinkle your nose at the sliver of disgust in your stomach, but when you think of the empty room waiting, you decide to push through.

"I-"

A figure appears in the empty space on your left. Foreboding, like he should be wearing a dark robe and holding a scythe. You ignore it completely.

"Hey, man, we're talking. Can we get some space?" The brave, or stupid, stranger ventures, scanning your lieutenant up and down. "No." Simon grunts. You keep your head straight, refusing to engage. His presence is all-consuming, heat rolling off him like a furnace while his anger seems to heighten by the minute. "Thoughts on an offer?" You murmur, taking care to keep your voice steady. You turn your shoulder slightly towards the bartop so you don't have to keep seeing Simon in your periphery. The stranger copies you with hunched shoulders and disgust at his meekness rolls through your veins.

"You know this dude?" The stranger whispers, nodding over his shoulder. You follow his gaze, looking at Simon for the first time since he's arrived. You start at the top of his head, out in the open as he switched out his usual skullface for a black medical mask. The short blonde strands look like honey in the bar light. His eyes have remnants of eyeblack, giving the illusion that he just finished mining in a cave somewhere sinister. He's in his usual outfit of a black sweatshirt and dark jeans, but it fits him so unlike the stranger next to you. His shoulders stretch the sweatshirt impossibly thin while his thighs do the same against their denim confines. That cologne of his, a spicy scent usually mixed with gunpower or blood, is for once just that -- no heady mix of warfare to be found. You can still sense war on him though, in the hands that flex at his sides.

"Never seen him before in my life." You lie, biting down a smirk before it appears on your face. "Move." Simon orders and you sigh, turning so that you can leave the chair. Instead, a hand clamps down on your shoulder, keeping you rooted to the spot. The stranger takes the hint, scampering away back to whatever rat hole he came from. Simon takes his seat, dwarfing it with his sizeable mass of muscles and tension.

"Shouldn't lie, Sergeant. Bad look." He suggests, a mocking tone in his voice. You refrain from rolling your eyes, reminding yourself you're still in the presence of a superior, though technically as a medic, the lines are blurry. "I wasn't lying. I've never seen you as a civilian, Simon." You hum the syllables of his name, ones you've never let roll off your tongue. You've said them in your head thousands of times, ever since you peeked at his confidential medical file for some reason or another. Si-mon, haunting you with his arrogance on and off the field.

He tenses at the sounds of his name, one hand fisting against his thigh. You watch the veins pop and release as he tightens the leash he has on himself, a soldier to the very core. He breathes in then out, and suddenly it's like nothing ever happened. Simon scans the bar, the creaking of the lights and the debauchery of the clientele, before landing back on you. "Didn't expect you to be drinkin' in a shithole." He remarks. He fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, some black battered thing with a skullface. "Think that's a little on the nose, Lieutenant?" You nod to the ghostface, holding back a snort. He looks down at the lighter like it's the first time he's seeing it. "Johnny gave it to me few years ago; Christmas gift." Your heart sinks at the mention of him. The brother-in-arms that you let get shot, didn't pull out of the way fast enough. The one who's currently sentenced to six months of PT and will probably be discharged after, forced into civilian life like a square peg into a circular hole. On that note, you check your pockets for your hotel key and phone. Once you've confirmed you have your stuff, you slap down some cash for the cider and get up out of your seat.

"See you later, Lieutenant." You walk past him, your knuckles brushing his knee as you fail to control your fast-paced walk. It's a bolt of lightning, Zeus laughing from somewhere above as you're unable to control the shiver down your spine. You keep your head up, continuing past him until you exit onto the backstreets of London. Cars honk and pedestrians yell and lights blare as you remind yourself that you're in regular society and not the battlefield. You turn left towards your hotel, walking briskly so you can speed up the inevitable.

Heavy footsteps follow you the entire time.

-

You don't try to push him out of the elevator when he gets in, only trailing by a few seconds. There's no point in making a scene and you definitely don't want Price hearing about this, his subordinates getting into yet another squabble about something inane. Instead, you stand there, resisting the urge to shift back and forth on your feet like you used to do before the SAS trained it out of you. Simon stands silently on your right, having to be the one to press the button of the floor. You don't tell him your floor number and he doesn't ask.

You've learned not to question these things.

He crowds your back at the door of your room, barely giving your arm room to fish your keycard out of your jean pocket. It beeps green and you push through, toeing off your shoes. He follows and you hear the audible click of the lock, all three available. "Shoes off," you snap when you hear him try to step on your carpet with god-knows-what on his boots. They thump loudly and suddenly it's quiet.

"I'll take first shift." He declares, shouldering past you to explore the room. You can sense when he takes in the extravagance you've allowed yourself: room service menus scattered, goodies from the spa service you had yesterday, bra and underwear draped over the chair in the corner. The only other place to sit, with all your outfits spread out, is the couch.

Simon approaches the chair without caution, grunting dispassionately as he gathers lacy items in one large paw. He scrunches them in his fist, as if to feel their weight, then tosses them on the couch. "It's a hotel, Simon, not a campout." You bite out. He's still standing in front of the chair, blocking your path to the couch where your pajamas lay. He's just so big -- taking up every aspect of your life and your room, the one week he wasn't even supposed to be here. Instead of asking him to move, which he clearly won't do, you shoulder past him. It's your shoulder and arm and leg against his own, burning with awareness that this is the most you've touched in a non-medical setting. He doesn't stop you, but he doesn't move either, simply watching as you grab the t-shirt and shorts you've been wearing to bed. Alone, they made a perfect pajama set. With how the sleeve of your shirt falls off one shoulder and the tiny barely-there size of your shorts, you could almost pretend you're a regular woman with a regular job, who didn't send her coworker to the hospital.

You wash the bar grime off you quickly in the bathroom, distinctly aware of being naked while your lieutenant waits outside. Towel, lotion, change, then it's time to brush your teeth. As you stick your bright pink toothbrush in your mouth, you remember how Simon seems to be here with no supplies. The drawer contains an extra white disposable toothbrush, and you snatch it and exit the bathroom without thinking.

He's practically naked.

Well, the most you've ever willingly seen. Only wearing a t-shirt and boxers, it feels illegal to see him like this. You've seen him naked, once: a bullet graze on his outer thigh. It was medical and fast and adrenaline-driven, no time to clock the tattoos that start on his arm and the scars that make themselves known everywhere else. The mask is off and you've seen his face too, but coupled with all this skin it's like a new man. And then you remember what he said and did and you hate him all over again.

"Here." You throw the toothbrush square at his chest, your words muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth. He doesn't say thank you, just looks down like you've thrown him a live grenade. You go back to the bathroom and finish up, ready to sleep this stupid day away. The lack of sleep has finally caught up with you and it's making you delirious, imagining that Simon's eyes were locked on your thighs when in reality, he was probably just caught off-guard.

Though he never really gets caught off-guard. He's the Ghost, after all.

You exit the bathroom and immediately beeline for the bed, ignoring how he walks into it after you like that's normal. Communal showers on base aren't the same as this, him using the same aloe vera hotel soap you did.

You turn off the lights, not caring if he can't see. Then it's ten minutes of shifting around in bed until the bathroom door opens and you stiffen like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't have. The chair in the corner creaks with his weight. When you peek out behind the sheets, you can see him lean his head back on the headrest, jaw sharp in the moonlight shining through the curtained windows. You hide yourself in the mountain of blankets and pillows and by some miracle, sleep.

A ticking bomb. Johnny shouting, Price in your ear, Ghost and Gaz lost somewhere in the building. Footsteps and yelling and the click of a safety turning off and you jump out from the corner, hands grasping at Johnny's legs as you try to drag him out of the way. The thud of a bullet hitting skin and you're reaching for your gun, aiming steady like how Price taught you and not hesitating like how Ghost showed you. It fires and Makarov crumples but Johnny's in your arms, blood everywhere and you can't tell if the bullet hit his heart but he's murmuring something in a language you don't understand.

Other medics arrive and they have to pull you off him. You're apologizing to empty air and the lieutenant brushes past you. You try to grab his arm and say sorry but he shakes you off, fire in his eyes.

"It's your fault, tech." Tech, the derogatory name some less grateful soldiers call you when you get in their way. Ghost's eyes squint under his mask. "Get out of my way before you get me shot, too."

You wake up crying and thrashing, tangled in sweaty sheets.

"You're okay, you're okay. Deep breaths, dove." He's half-straddling you, one leg pinning your lap down while the other stands straight on the floor. Bare callused hands cup your face, holding you firmly in place. You blink the tears out of your eyes, vision blurry and light nowhere to be found. The clock blinks 2:08AM at you, red and oppressive. He jerks your head away from the clock to turn back to what you assume is his face, but it's hard for you to see in the dark.

"It's my fault he got shot." You admit. You shake his hands off your face so you can swipe at your tears, palms against the underside of your eyes to stave off more sadness. "'s not. Was a stupid move he made." He replies, voice low and raspy with sleep. He was sleeping and you woke him up with your stupid, stupid nightmare. "You said it's my fault." You whisper, the true root of your tears. The man you thought might like you, might do more than tolerate your existence, blaming you for the near-death of his best friend. The one he calls a brother.

"I did." It's not a question, but you nod to affirm his words anyway. "And you called me tech." You add as an afterthought, embarrassed at how much you care. "I'm sorry, dove. Was mad and not thinkin'." You might've accepted that answer years ago. But you won't take it in the dark like this, not when he didn't offer it without prompting. "I'm going to bed." You reply, ripping yourself out of his arms. As you turn, instead of going back to his chair, he lifts himself over you and to the other side of the king bed.

"What are you doing?" You whisper-yell, trying to ignore how his warmth seeps into your bones despite there being enough room between you to not touch. "Sleepin'." He asserts like he's daring you to say no. You huff and roll your eyes, turning so your back is towards him. Exhaustion washes over you and you sleep again.

-

You wake again to a heavy arm around your waist and fingers brushing against the waistband of your shorts. "What're you doing?" You slur, sleepy and comforted by the warmth of him against your back. "Thought you were fuckin' Johnny. Tha's why I was mad." He murmurs against your skin. Your shoulder is bare, shirt slipped down, and suddenly there's pressure against it. Simon mouths at your bare skin, tongue laving at the sweat that's accumulated the whole night. "I hate you," you sigh, not pushing him away but not arching into him either. His fingers slip under your shorts and find your cunt sopping. He has to pry your thighs apart slightly to have room and you find yourself unable to resist. Rough fingers slide up and down your folds, petting at the soft curls there. He runs them against the seam of you but doesn't dip down in between, content to just feel.

He kisses into the crook of your neck, running his tongue brazenly across your skin like he owns you. "No, you don't." He corrects you in his Lieutenant tone. You don't respond, neither confirming nor denying, and it's enough to make him slip down between your folds. The angle is awkward, but his thumb finds your clit anyway, rubbing small circles as you jerk under him. His middle finger teases your hole, and he chuckles as it flutters under his attentions. "I know, baby, I know. It hurts, doesn't it?" He jeers. It hurts to be so empty, his fingers right there but not going in. "Simon." You whine, giving in. You muffle the last syllable into the pillow underneath you, turning your face inward. He doesn't like that you're hiding from him, growling as he has to make out with your neck and not your lips, so you open your thighs wider to compensate.

His finger slips in and it's like heaven.

He's bigger than your own fingers, thick for you to clench around. Now that he has more room, he experiments with angles until he finds the right one. It's all-consuming, his mouth on your neck and his thumb on your clit and his finger pumping in and out like he knows what's better for your body than you do. Your nipples are hard and with every movement they brush against the soft fabric of your t-shirt, just the right amount of friction and heat.

"Turn." You refuse, mainly to punish yourself for giving in when you're just so mad. His fingers slip out and you're cursing and he's yanking off the comforter and pulling down your shorts. Simon settles himself on top of you, one hand on your jaw so you're no longer face-into-pillow. He slips in two fingers and his thumb is back on your clit and you keen, hips bucking in contentment at being filled. A streak of moonlight hits his face, giving you a glimpse of blown pupils and a set mouth. It's you who closes the difference, feeling his lips on yours for the very first time. You're not sure who's more angry but it's him who bites your upper lip a little too rough, leaving you to gasp openly into his mouth. He takes the chance to slip in a third finger.

"Fucking bastard." You breathe into his mouth, core tensing as you stretch around him. He smiles against you, feral. "Need you prepped, dove." You kiss him to shut him up, bruising as your noses brush unkindly. He rubs harder and you flutter around his fingers, orgasm creeping up unexpectedly. He leans his weight into the next kiss and you break, clenching hard as your release makes you boneless under him. A low moan rumbles through you and you sigh, forehead pressing into his collarbone. "Take my cock out, baby." You shake your head at his order, too tired to follow. His fingers slip out and you sigh discontentedly. "I can't." You complain, body not obeying his commands.

Powerful hands grip your hips and flip you so you're face down. One of the pillows smothering you disappears and slips under your hips, tilting them upwards. A massive weight presses into your back and his forearms bracket your head where your head is turned to the side for air. Some fabric shifts and he pushes in, stretching you so wide until you combust. "Simon, it hurts." He slides to the hilt and you gasp, so full you swear your insides won't ever be the same. He pulls back and pushes in again, the slide easier than the first. "Relax and it won't, dove." He grunts next to your air, warm breath rasping against your ear. You force your muscle to relax, taking a deep breath. The next thrust is good and the next one even better, stuffing you full of him further and further. It feels peculiar, that spot inside you being hit with every thrust, something that's only happened once or twice.

"Feels funny." You slur, almost drunk with the weight of him on you and in you and all around like you'll never be alone again. "So tight for me, baby. Didn't think you would be so fuckin' sweet." You moan together as he hits a particularly satisfying spot, your hips arching innately. That spot inside you pulses and you feel the crest of another orgasm gathering inside, a rush of endorphins waiting to be unleashed. Your arms are tucked under your chin and you pull one out, scrambling until you find his hand. He laces them together, sweaty and slippery and a perfect fit. One more rough thrust sends you over the edge, walls clenching around his cock as you sink into the mattress.

"Fuck." Simon swears. A moment later, you feel warm liquid between your thighs and hide your face in the mattress, embarrassed to be so fucking expressive. "So good, baby. There you are." He calms you with an easy tone, skin slapping as he increases his pace. A moment later he eases against you back as heated cum fills your cunt, dripping out around his cock and onto the mattress. He crushes you with his weight and all it does is make you clench your thighs.

He squeezes your hand. You squeeze back.

-

shoutout to the post i saw about prone bone i can't remember who wrote it but it was very #inspirational

yes reader is a medic bc im still obsessed w the pitt

[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[writing-fanics]

don’t mess with the devil

Part ii

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

[warning: angst: mentions of death: death?]

Your movements became sluggish. The wound on your side bleeding more and more with each movement, and swing of your angelic weapon. “Can’t even hold a weapon.” Adam mocked, as she glared at him. Already tired and she looked down at her wound. “Who would’ve thought a fucking human, making a deal with the devil.”

“Was it for dick? It was for dick wasn’t it?” Adam laughed, and mocked. You let out a battle cry flying towards him.

You screamed in pain, as the yellow light shot right through your wing. Your wings started going weak, as you struggled to keep up with Adam’s attacks. He laughed and cackled, taking enjoyment in your struggle.

“Where’s your little boyfriend huh?” He mocked, as more and more yellow shots kept hitting your body. Until you could barely keep your body up, “awe, is he not coming to scared to show his fa-”a fist punched, Adam in the face. Causing him to let go of your chin, but you didn’t fall instead.

A pair of familiar arms held you, “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t be here sooner,” said Lucifer, as he nuzzled his head against his partner. Then lifted his head and glared at Adam, eyes fuming with rage.

“Sorry, for being so stubborn.” You mumbled, knowing this was the reason he didn’t want you to fight. Even though, he gave you some of his powers. You were still a human. He nuzzled, his head against yours once more. “It’s okay,” He said, as he landed on the rooftop.

He handed you off to Charlie, his daughter taking your injured body into her arms. She looked down at you worriedly, as you took shallow breaths. Your face battered cuts and bruises covered your face, and your right eye was swollen. Landing on the rooftop, walking towards Adam.

“Huh? Okay? Seriously?” Adam panted, as he stood up slowly. “How many of you freaks do I have to fight?!” He shouted, glaring at them.

Lucifer rolled up his sleeves, as he walked towards Adam. “Oh, I’m the only one that matters.” said Lucifer, as he looked up at Adam angrily.

“See, you messed with my daughter and my partner.” his eyes burning with rage. “and now I’m toning to fuck you!” he shouted, and everyone went silent as they stared at him dumbfounded.

Charlie leaned over, “It’s fuck you up dad?” Charlie whispered, and he looked confused as he raised his eyebrow, “Wait what did I say?” He said, and then Adam flew towards him sending them both into a wall. But Lucifer transformed into a white snake.

You could barely keep your eyes open, as the pain became worse. You didn’t know how much blood you were losing, but knew it was a lot. You were just a mere human, a human who fell in love with the king of hell. Him inevitably giving you some of his power in an act of love.

Your memories of how you ended up in Hell, a blur. You still figuring out a way to at least see your family again. But now that seemed to be in vain. You wondered if this was how it was going to end for you. You wondered, what would happen to you a human dying in hell?

Would you be dead forever no second life? Or would you just enter purgatory?

“So, this is what you’ve been up to since Eden?” said Lucifer, taunting him.

“Gotta say, you really let yourself go buddy.” He said, as he taunted Adam.

Adam laughs, as he grabbed Lucifer by the tail. “You judgin’ me?” He shouted angrily, as he tried to throw him. But he transformed again, this time into a duck. “You’re the most hated being in all of creation.” Adam shouted, angrily looking at him.

“Well, your first wife didn’t seem to hate what I had to offer.” said Lucifer, as he made a V shape with his fingers and dragged it downward from his mouth.

“or the second.” He said looking Adam straight in the face, “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” He said, as he backed away making a thrusting motion with his hips. Adam lunched at him, and Lucifer transformed into a horse. Kicking him around, “I’ll fuckin’ end you!!” Adam shouted.

Your vision started to blur, as you leaned your head against the wall You didn’t want to die not like this, not without seeing your parents again. Wondering if they’re worried about their missing child, who they haven’t seen in almost a year.

You’ve been stuck in Hell for that long. Lucifer and You, still figuring out a way to get you back. But you always promised that you’d stay in Hell with him, and visit your friends and family once in a while.

Maybe this was to be your fate, dying in Hell. Where would your soul go? You couldn’t imagine the heartbreak your death would bring to both, Charlie and Lucifer. You couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them cry, you’ve grown to love them so much. Seeing Charlie as a child of your own.

Lucifer your partner. The best thing to ever come out of being trapped in Hell. He was so kind and caring, when he found out about your situation. Wanting to help you anyway he could, which led him to falling in love. How his heart swelled whenever you smiled at him, turning his cheeks red.

How seeing you cry made his heartache, knowing you missed your family and friends back on earth. How when that ‘Red Bastard’ at the Hazbin Hotel, took your hand and kissed him while staring mockingly at Lucifer. Boiled his blood.

A smiled grew across your lips, as you grew tired. You were too tired to even notice the beam of light, heading straight towards the hotel. Towards you. Everything went dark.

Y/n?

Y/n?

Y/n!

who’s calling my name?

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - vii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. strangers to “lovers.” suicidal resolve. major character death. violent drowning. a reckoning. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

When you’re sure that Johnny’s friends have left, you return to the beach. The wind has died down in the late afternoon; the clouds sit heavy and motionless in the sky.

Night is coming, and it promises to be cold. It hangs in the wary stillness of the air, in the waiting quiet. The seabirds’ calling is absent; the dune crickets’ singing has ended.

He’s there on the sand. Somehow, you knew he would be. Felt it, even before he came into view. He stands by the kayak, almost as if he’s been waiting there for you.

You hold the folded pelt with both hands against your stomach as you approach. The fur is so soft against your palms, your fingers. Cool from having spent a night in the ground.

He looks at it with sharp eyes. Then, up to you, expectantly.

His eyes on you in the cottage bedroom, moonlight shifting in them. Teeth in your neck. The taste of brine in your mouth.

Pearls in your memory. Parting gifts to enjoy, as you come to the close.

“Missed you at the end there, bonnie,” he says, even and purposefully steady. “The boys were glad to meet you.”

He’s known—the whole time. He always has. You don’t know how you know this, but you do.

“I’ve had a nice time with you, Johnny,” you say, when you’re only a few paces away from him. “But I think it’s time for me to go.”

Three days. That’s all it’s been. Nothing much, objectively, to say goodbye to. A good way to end things, truthfully, with the aftertaste of good food still on your tongue, the heat and girth of him still lingering inside you. The etchings of his calluses still fresh on your skin.

A kind ending. A gentle one. Better than you and he deserve.

You hold out the pelt.

He looks at it. Mouth a tight line. Brows low and flat. Then his gaze moves to you.

“Where will you go?” he asks, still steady.

“I’m not sure,” you say. “Maybe—Amsterdam. Does it matter? I don’t know.”

“Just like that,” he says flatly. “After everything.”

You frown. “I was always going to leave, Johnny. Remember? I only booked the place for a month. This is just…earlier.”

Something frenetic buzzes in his posture. The slight lean forward in the way he stands. The angles of his face seem harsher, more pronounced. Eyes dark as wet stone.

“Johnny, just—” you shake the pelt at him, still holding it out. “Just take it, okay?”

He looks at the pelt again, and then back at you.

At it, then you.

It—you—

Johnny lunges.

In one swift surge forward he snaps the pelt from your hands and flings it aside. As it flutters to the ground his hands whip at you, seizing fistfuls of your shirt a half-thought before you realize it, wrenching you forward.

“What the fuck?!” you cry, but then you’re off your feet, falling toward him, arms flailing as you lose your center of balance. You topple into him, and he hooks you beneath the shoulders with the iron bands of his arms, stepping away from the kayak, and only for a moment do you think that maybe he’s going to bring you back to the cottage before he starts dragging you in the opposite direction—

“Johnny, no,” you breathe, as you hear a wave break on the sand,“Johnny, no!”

You start to kick and thrash. You throw yourself against his grasp, dig your heels into the sand, try to find the meat of his forearm with your teeth, but he is resolute. Unstoppable.

You start to scream.

The waves eddy around your feet, rise up to engulf your ankles, your calves, as Johnny roils the water with wide, unfaltering steps, deeper in—

The water closes around your thighs. Your waist.

This is happening. This is really happening—

“Had a month to get to this, bonnie,” says Johnny, over your screaming, rough and harsh and completely unrecognizable. He slings you around to face him, jaw set hard, the muscles in his temples flexing as he clenches his teeth. “But I guess we’re doin’ it now.”

“Johnny,” you plead, “please don’t, Johnny, please—Johnny, no, no, no, no—!”

He clamps his hands on your shoulders and shoves you downward. You claw at him, push against the seabed, but your lover is too strong, immune to your fighting, and you are barely able to inhale before he forces your head below the water.

Frigid cold—it rushes into your ears, through your hair, knife-sharp and paralyzing. Salt flooding the open canals of your nose—

You close your throat. The surface swirls above you, distorting him, rippling and folding in on itself as a wave recedes. Hope waits for the retreating water to expose you, but he has dragged you out too deep, far enough that even the lowest point of the backwash still submerges you.

Seawater, eroding cilia, ramming against the rolled stone of your epiglottis. Burning the film of your corneas.

You reach up, swinging your hands at his face, but the distance of his straightened arms, muscles flexing to hold you down, is too great; you beat at empty air, or collide with the rock-hardness of his shoulders.

Another wave comes in, deepening the surf around you. You kick out, knee upward, wrench against him—you just need him to loosen his grip once, for just one moment, and then you can get away. You try to pry his fingers up, but they may as well have rooted in you.

Lungs pulsing. Throat already fighting to open. Chest heaving, diaphragm beating upward to pull in air. Pain lancing up your chest, unimaginably sharp, head so heavy it might burst—

You throw yourself to one side, kicking against the sand, and physiology subsumes your control. The cost of fighting is breathing. The floodways open—the ocean rushes into your throat—

Salt abrades the walls of your esophagus, claw-slashing downward. Acid bypasses the filters of your alveoli, honeycomb structures collapsing to the pressure, to the spasming of your lungs desperate to send oxygen to the rest of your body. Your diaphragm contracts—your chest convulses to cough, to force water out, only to welcome more of the sea in.

You beat at Johnny’s arms again. All you manage is to throw water against him. He is a sea stack above you. A pillar. Unmovable.

Holding your body against his in the bedroom, frighteningly strong, moving against you like the ocean itself—

The water churns above you with your struggle. You cannot see his face. All you see is the unstable shape of his silhouette, wavering lines distorting the edges as the corners of your vision darken.

More seawater, expanding your chest. Heart stuttering between your lungs, yanking in the last of your oxygenated blood, with nothing to send back out. The weight of your body swells, arms too heavy to hold up. They crash into the water before you force them back up again, searching and unwieldy.

Perception narrows. Him, and you. That’s all.

Sunlight through the window the next morning, rimming him in gold. The heat of his shoulder pressed to yours.

The seawater steals the tears from your eyes, throat convulsing on a sob you cannot make.

Grinning as you shared oysters.

You slap your hands against his arms, clapping your palms to whatever they can find, begging, praying—

Him moving inside you, his warmth, his smell, the weight of his tongue in your mouth. The tug of his hand on your arm.

His smile, his voice, his hand in yours—

Fists like weights holding you down. Fire in your chest. Too full.

Upward—something in you tugging upward.

You want to live. You want to live. You want to live—

It’s done.

Johnny lifts your body from the surf and carries it back to the beach. You fit in his arms as if they were the mold you were cast from.

He knew you would the moment he saw you in the airport. Perfect. You were perfect for him. He saw it in the angles of your body, the way you stood, the emotions moving behind the mask of your face.

He tried to explain it to Price once—the seeing. The knowing.

How he could look straight at his old captain, for instance, and know, without ever hearing the man say a word, that he felt responsible. For everything. For the gunshot. For the months afterword. Even though he hadn’t chosen to discharge Johnny himself, Price saw the mold of his hands in the shape his sergeant’s life had taken.

It’s how he knows Gaz couldn’t see the change in him, because he saw what he wanted to see—his best mate whole and healthy, thriving in a new stage of his life.

It’s how he knows Ghost doesn’t even recognize him anymore. Not really.

And it’s how he knows you’re just like him.

He lays you down on the sand, cradling the back of your head so it settles lightly down. Stretches your legs to rest straight out. He aligns your limp arms with the length of your torso, turning your hands upward so the sand will not cling to your palms.

Beautiful. Even with your face slack. Eyes half-open, unseeing. Mouth parted; seawater dripping from the corners.

Your feet touched the island the same way his did, years ago. Running away. Looking for the end, without really trying to find it. It was in the set of your brows, the tight pull of your mouth against your teeth.

Life had gone in every direction opposite of your intention. And it had left you alone.

Johnny smooths a few stray hairs away from your forehead, and kisses the place between your brows. The little line that has sat between them this whole time is gone, smoothed away. He kisses the bridge of your nose, and then your mouth, and then stands.

It took him a while, back then, to make the decision. It was hours before he woke to find Price watching him, sitting despondent on the sand, tears tracking salty down the older man’s face.

He goes to the place he threw his pelt away and retrieves it, shaking it out. Holding it in his hands assuages the anxiety that has wriggled in the back of his mind since the day he shoved it into the lintel of the croft. He’d known where it was, but survival instinct prevails over logic—for the rest of his life, he will always fear its loss.

It’s a consequence, but not one he’d been unfamiliar with.

And, in the end, preferable to the alternative.

He lowers himself to the sand a little ways away from you, propping his knees up and spreading the pelt across them.

When he had done this—he’d done it alone. It had been close. He almost hadn’t made it.

If he takes up this vigil—if he stays, the whole time, watching you—you’ll make it. It’s not a matter of hope or belief. It’s a matter of knowing.

He knows every time he looks into your eyes. Every time he’s been inside you. Every time your body has risen to meet his touch.

You want to live.

So he sits back. He keeps his eyes on you.

And he waits.

The sky claps you between its palms and hurls you back down the gravity well—

You vomit up the ocean.

Panting, with burning lungs. Closer—everything is much, much closer, loud and bright, and suddenly, individually distinct.

Channels of sound and aroma dance on the wind—sea salt, the smoke of someone’s grill from the village, burning meat, the rolling crash of the incoming tide, birdcall and the gust of beating wings and—and—

And you can sense them all.

A gap in the clouds lets the sunlight touch the earth.

You move on the sand. Turn onto your belly, chest heaving, empty and light. The cove—you’re still in the cove. There’s the path back up to the cottage. There’s the kayak. There’s—

Johnny, riotous, waiting in the crashing waves.

He calls to you: loud, long, triumphant, teeth bared in jubilation.

You cry out. Wordless. If you’d had any words to say, your lips could not shape them.

You’re alive.

It crashes into you. Alive.

You lift your head into the wind coming off the ocean. It caresses your face softly, tenderly, like a mother’s kiss on your cheek.

Johnny suddenly turns from you and darts into the water.

You wail with surprise. A wave rushes up to where you lay, water licking up the fibers of your body. You’re not ready. It’s too soon. Why did he leave you? What’s happening? Why isn’t the water cold?

You clutch at the sand. You can’t find your legs—you can’t stand up. All you can do is crawl, shuffle your ungainly body forward with the clumsiness of a newborn child. You cry out again, trying to convince him to return, to come help you, but if he hears it, he does not come to your aid.

Another wave surges forward; salt water crashes across your face. You flinch away from it, but something nictates over your eyes, shielding them from the burn.

Once you reach the surf, the water cradles your body, buoyancy easing your way. You submerge, finding something to kick with—

And then you’re gliding.

Murky, and blue. Sand clouding in the tide. But comfortable—cool, without being cold. You remember frigidity cutting into your skin only hours earlier, rending you at the seams, unmaking you.

Now, it receives you like an old friend.

Ahead of you, Johnny moves further out. You can feel him, far out in the distance, tiny eddies of water rippling against your cheeks.

He’s not the only thing you can feel. The radius of your awareness vibrates with blips of movement, darting, swaying, dancing, below and above and all around. It shocks you to realize, and you go still, hovering in place, momentarily stunned by how much there is living around you.

Johnny pauses too, ahead of you. Waiting. A lone distinct figure, patient for you to follow.

You shiver with startled wonder, and resume your way toward him.

The coastal shelf slopes downward, falling away. The water gradually clears as overhead, past the surface, the sun sinks in the sky. Warm golden light dyes the sea around you. He leads you on, further and further, until a forest of kelp grows up around you.

In the turquoise, ribbons of twisting green undulate and twirl, feathery and dancing in the windy current. Silvery bubbles trail toward the sunlight, intermingling with tiny schools of glimmering fish that dart and jump between the fronds. Down below you, red and green algae fur valleys of rock, swaying lazily like prairie grass.

It’s beautiful.

Johnny drifts to a stop in the middle of it all, wheeling around to face you. You approach him, coming in close—and it’s almost like approaching the sun, so much that he radiates across your senses.

His dark eyes hold yours the same way they had that day on the beach, and the pendulum swings balanced now between you.

He brushes the side of his face along yours, and with his touch he leads you downward, following the stipes of kelp toward the stone to which their holdfasts grip. The heat of his huge body warms the water that flows in the narrow spaces between your bodies, even as the coolness intensifies the further you dive.

The two of you draw up along the forest floor—and find the myriad little denizens of the sea. You’d known they were there, at the very edge of your senses, and now they bloom into fullness in your attention.

Shrimp perambulate beneath rocky ledges. Crabs walks along the ridge of a huge boulder, like climbing a mountain. And there, further down, snails in their spiral shells, pulling themselves across the sandy grain. Starfish, in shades of red and blue and orange. Anemones, translucent hair streaming.

Tiny lives—insignificant to you, before. Hardly worth your notice. Now, you marvel at them, reeling. You want to cup them all in your palms and bring them up to clutch against your chest.

Something brushes against you.

You look up—Johnny, sliding along your side, curving back in toward you, then looping underneath. He nudges at you, then darts away; you gaze at him, confused, so he comes back in, shunting you with his body, and once again retreats.

Behind him, you catch a turtle fluttering in between the green leaves. Atlantic salmon chasing capelin. An eel peeking out from its cave. Undisturbed by Johnny’s—and your—antics.

He nudges you again, then backs off, looking at you expectantly. Realizing his intentions, you follow—he makes a low clicking sound in his throat, pleased, and jets into the flowing leaves, buffeting you with the wave he leaves in his wake.

You’re shocked only for a moment before the kelp parts for you in your pursuit. Johnny quickly disappears ahead of you, dipping down below the canopy. You feel him rapidly shrink in your awareness, and you propel forward, scanning for telltale splashes of gray and white, arms of green caressing you as you pass.

You close in on him, but suddenly he evades. You follow again, only to find he’s nowhere in view. Then the chase is on: he stays in one place only long enough for you to catch sight of him before he bolts, or wheels around and backtracks to confuse you every time you approach. Teasing, taunting, flaunting the dexterity he has underwater which you have yet to acquire.

Golden shafts of dancing sunlight begin to dim and shorten as he leads you on. Frustration rapidly builds in your chest, buoyed as your lungs press against your ribcage. You need to breathe, even as Johnny becomes no more than a dot of movement in your senses, confounding you at every turn.

Why is he doing this? Why won’t he stay with you? If you surface, you’ll lose him, but the sudden memory of saltwater flooding your chest has you kicking toward the fading daylight. Self-preservation taking its place at the head of your priorities, and you follow it with no longer any second thought.

Above you shifts a mirror of silk.

You rise. Faster as the weight of the sea lessens, your reflection blooming as you approach, closer and closer to the wedge-shaped face, the large, dark eyes—

You swim into yourself and breach the air. Your nostrils open, and you inhale the wind.

You see the twilight bleeding into the day. Clouds moving quickly off as the sun sinks into the horizon.

Where is Johnny?

You can’t sense him anymore—as you knew would happen—and your chest contracts with fear and longing, suddenly believing you’ve seen him for the last time—that he’s left you all alone, to figure out what to do next, with no idea how to live in the skin of this new self you’ve become.

You give a mournful howl. You don’t want to do this alone, you can’t, you thought you wouldn’t have to—

But in the distance, back the long way you came, you hear an answer.

You whirl around, facing the shore, and almost too far away to see, a dark shape rests on the sand.

Your throat convulses with a clumsy breath, and then you dive. The water parts for your body, sliding around you, streaming through your hair. Faster than you expect, the slope of the shelf draws close, and you jet upward, belly meeting the sand, and when the water recedes and you drag yourself back onto the beach, your own weight settling heavy on your bones, you cry out again.

You shake the water from your head, wailing at the top of your lungs, desolate and blind as you blink the salt away, and then there’s a warm body up against yours, weight melding against you, heat reaching out to drive away a coldness you hadn’t felt until you’d surfaced.

You continue crying as Johnny closes his teeth around a hank of your neck and drags himself on top of you, pressing you down into the sand. You shift to let him settle over you, and all of his weight compresses your body—sandwiching you between himself and the earth, pinning you down in one place.

Something in you still wants to fight. To shake him off—to escape. But all you can do is cry. He enters you with no resistance, and you cry more, harder, until your lungs deflate, and then you take a deep breath and start wailing again.

Saltwater streaming down your face, dripping into your own mouth. Your voice hits the cliff walls, rebounds off the stone until the air fills with your weeping. Johnny shifts on top of you, pressing your head down to the sand.

The vessel you have contained yourself within overturns. You cry.

You cry for yourself. You cry for him. You cry for what you’ve done, what you haven’t, and for what you can never undo. Your lament fills your own ears and spills out again, all across the beach, catching in the wind to fly off into the ether, raised to the birds, to the passing clouds overhead.

You cry with despair of never going back. You cry with the terror of Johnny finally rolling off of you, to dart back into the waves, to leave you here alone again. You cry until your throat hurts, stinging and raw—

And Johnny’s hands, strong and warm, edge beneath your pelt and pull you out, still bawling with every drop of shame you’ve carried in your body since the day you realized you hated yourself.

“Shh, shh,” he murmurs, drawing you up into his chest, arms steady and strong around you. “It’s alright now, bonnie, it’s alright. I’m here.”

You cannot respond to him. Your mouth hangs open only to wail your grief. Your body wracks against him, convulsing, involuntary, as you scream with despair and relief and horror and resolve, too much to contain, too overwhelming now to ever split yourself away from.

You find his arms with your shaking hands and grip on tight. He slips the pads of his thumbs beneath your eyes every so often to clear away your tears, and you feel his mouth press against your forehead. You wait for him to drop you. Wait for him to see the mess you’re making and wash his hands of it.

He doesn’t. Every time another sob wracks you, he grips you tighter.

Eventually—when you begin to wonder if it ever could, if this is all you are now, a squalling bundle of fragile skin pebbling in the cold—it passes.

The next time you pause to draw breath, you find nothing more inside you to disgorge. You begin to shake in Johnny’s arms, trembling with exhaustion, whimpering with clenched eyes.

He breathes slowly against you. Calm and even. He strokes your face with gentle fingers, even and patient, as if there’s nothing more in the world he’d rather do.

You find the courage to meet his gaze when your heartbeat steadies, finding the rhythm in Johnny’s chest to match. You see again what you saw that first day, that next night; you know now what you’ve always known, somewhere inside you. Your face is familiar in the reflections of it in his eyes.

His mouth curls gently as he gazes down at you. His eyes dance in yours, corners creasing as he traces the curve of your cheek. Light catches in his pupils.

You see him clearly, as the sun gives way to the evening, and the moon rises over a cloudless night of stars.

epilogue

a/n: shoutout to @/gildui for suggesting screenshots for that one section of text. Thank you to @/bi-writes for trying to figure out how i could keep the formatting with tumblr's coding. Please let me know if alt text is necessary. God forbid a text-based website allow for formatting said text.

[slytherin-pen]

Nothing To Prove

pairing: Garrick Tavis x Reader

word count: 3k

warnings: RSC torture, injuries, ptsd, side character death, hurt/comfort

a/n: now that i’m nearly at 200 followers i finally post my ‘100 followers appreciation’ fic. looks like i’ll be posting another poll soon 😆 genuinely though thank you for all the support, it truly means the world to me. comment if you’d like to join my Fourth Wing specific taglist!

Everything was muffled—like someone had stuffed cotton in your ears. Pain pulsed through your body, a sharp, aching throb that started in your face and spread down your body. You were only meant to have been in the RSC training torture chamber for two days, but it felt like it had been much longer than that. It became obvious early on that you were being targeted due to your relationship with Garrick Tavis when you were strapped into a chair in the middle of the room while the rest of your squad was chained to the wall next to each other.

But they didn’t break you. Even after they took away the bond with your dragon, even when they took their frustration out on your squadmates. You held the line. You wish you could say the same for everyone. One of your squadmates, Patrick, had given in.

You now understand why Professor Grady had only responded with ‘Don’t’ when a cadet had asked what happens if you break. Your whole squad had held their breath when Patrick gave up his phrase. That’s when the delusion had kicked in—that maybe it would be ok. Your squad would just have a few points deducted, your Wingleader would scold you and call you all embarrassments to the Wing but Patrick would be fine.

He was not fine.

The two Infantry cadets executing the interrogation had started beating him relentlessly. Punching his face, kicking his stomach. You think you might have screamed, but it was hard to tell over the cries of pain from Patrick and the shouting of your squadmates.

That alone felt like it had gone on for hours, and by the time they pulled away it was a shock to see him still breathing. His face was purple with blood running down his nose and chin. A couple of his teeth lay on the stone floor and his nose was undoubtedly broken. You thought his ear may have been hanging off but it was hard to see through your swollen eyes.

It wasn’t long after that when Professor Grady walked into the room, gave a disapproving frown toward your squad, and then broke Patrick’s neck.

Someone fainted. Someone else pissed themselves, but no one else broke after that. Thank Zinhal the interrogation ended soon after.

You survived. Now, you just had to survive the aftermath.

The bright mage lights of the Healer’s Quadrant were disorienting after spending two days in the dark chamber. Fuzzy figures passed you, one stopping by to pour some disgusting tonic down your throat. The only reprieve was that you could feel your dragon, Thalor, again. Grunts and moans of pain filled the room and the smell of antiseptics nauseated you.

You barely registered it when strong arms lifted you from the cot you’d been placed on after your squad was escorted to the infirmary. There was a low murmur of voices, but your head lolled against a broad chest, exhaustion dragging you under. That’s when the scent of leather and steel reached your nose. Garrick.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

The world blurred as he carried you to the barracks, his grip secure yet gentle. You wanted to say something, anything, but you were too drained to open your mouth. You let your head rest on his shoulder and shut your eyes.

His steps were long and determined, quickly navigating the halls of Basgiath and narrowly avoiding being spotted by leadership. He knew you wouldn’t want anyone to see you like this despite disagreeing with your reasoning. Everyone who had survived second year knew exactly what it was like to go through RSC scenarios, and they would be hypocrites for judging you. Garrick’s heart hammered in his chest, his rage ready to lash out like a beast in a cage. He saw the rest of your squad lying on the other cots when he walked through the infirmary, and you looked significantly worse. Blue and purple bruises marred the skin that was visible outside of your uniform, and dried blood was smudged around your face.

He tried to remain calm for you though. You likely had enough panic running your system to power a dragon, he didn’t need to add to it. Even though RSC torturing was a sanctioned scenario, it didn’t mean those running it couldn’t take advantage of an opportunity to cause you harm. You weren’t a marked one like him, but at Basgiath you weren’t as good as guilty by association. Choosing to be with him was frowned upon but you never batted an eye at the whispering or glares cast your way. You’d just raise your chin and grab his hand, signaling to everyone who could see that you did not care what they thought. It’s one of the many reasons Garrick loved you.

He finally approached his room, unlocking the door with a flick of his wrist. His rucksack and swords were still tossed in the corner where he left them when he found out you had been released from the chamber. Xaden had him running extra drop-offs just to keep him busy, too busy to run down there and break you out.

You whimpered when the warmth of his body disappeared as he placed you on his bed. Garrick pulled the blankets over your trembling form. His hands, calloused from years of flying and fighting, gently brushed the hair from your face before checking the damage.

His voice was a growl when he finally spoke. “I should kill them for this. I should—”

He cut himself off. Cool. Calm. Collected. You were sensitive to emotions others gave off, and him getting worked up would only set you off.

Garrick took a deep breath. “Just rest now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You mumbled something he didn’t quite catch, but then your body relaxed and he knew you were asleep.

The memories chased you in your slumber. The feeling of the leather straps being tightened around your wrists. The terror you felt after you realized you couldn’t communicate with your dragon anymore. Your squadmates being beaten over and over again. Patrick as his body hung loosely from the grip of the chains after Professor Grady snapped his neck.

Your nightmare took on a mind of its own. Patrick started to move. His neck, at an unnatural angle, turns to look at you. Lifeless green eyes staring into your own. He was muttering something—you couldn’t tell what. He began to thrash against the chains as you screamed. Your screams got more frantic as you looked around the room and noticed all of your squadmates were dead too. Slouched with bones going in the wrong direction, blood dripping from their throats.

You jolted awake as a large hand gripped your shoulder. The flickering of a candle on a desk across the room was the first thing you saw, then your head snapped toward the hulk of a shadow sitting on the bed next to you.

“Garrick?” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He frowned, eyes roaming over your sweaty form. “I told you I’d be here when you woke up.”

You blinked, struggling to remember when he said that or how you got here. Swallowing past the tightness in your throat you asked, “Don’t you have training with Xaden tonight?”

He let out an exasperated huff. “No, love. I have much more important matters to attend to.”

Your sleep-addled brain was slow to catch up. “Like what?”

His hazel eyes softened as he met your gaze. “You.”

Something in your chest cracked with those words. You knew he loved you, of course. But Garrick was always so busy. Being a Section Leader, assisting a revolution, helping train the first years—all on top of keeping himself alive. An insecure, anxious part of you sometimes sees yourself as less important. I mean really, how do you compare to the protection of an entire province and a hundred and seven marked ones?

But then you looked at him. Really looked at him. His dark, curly hair was tussled like he’d been running his hands through it. Dark circles lined his under eyes, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hands with seeming restless energy.

Garrick had always been the calm and steady one. When you were pacing or nearly tearing your hair out, he was the anchor that kept your mind from drifting too far. Preventing the waves of your emotions and worries from pulling you under. But right now, there was something unsteady in him too.

“Garrick, I—” You tried to push yourself up, but the pain hit like one of Imogen’s punches, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

He was there instantly, hands bracing your shoulders, stopping you from moving too fast. “Easy,” he murmured.

He adjusted the pillows behind you and helped you slowly scoot up to lean your back on the headboard. You sighed as your muscles relaxed slightly. Garrick handed you a glass of water and you gulped it down, the cool liquid soothing the dryness in your throat.

You whispered a thanks as you handed the glass back to him, and placed it on the table beside the bed.

“You’re staring,” you mumbled as your fingers fiddled with the seam of the blanket.

His lips twitched, crinkling the scar that ran along his cheekbone. “You make it hard not to.”

“Because I look like I got thrown off a dragon?”

His expression darkened. “Because I hate seeing you like this.”

You exhaled, shifting against the pillows. “It’s part of training. We all have to go through it.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he shot back.

“Still. You don’t have to babysit me,” you sighed. “I’m a big girl, I can manage to not bust my ass on the way to the bathroom.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not babysitting you. I’m taking care of my girlfriend.”

The word sent a strange warmth through you.

Girlfriend. Riders didn’t often use those terms. Usually, two people would hang out and hook up regularly, and then after graduation they’d get married if they wished. That was when labels were put on things. Life was so short and uncertain at Basgiath, using labels like boyfriend or girlfriend felt so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But as a warm fluttering swarmed your stomach, it didn’t feel so insignificant.

You and Garrick had always been close. You met him just before you crossed the Parapet during your first year at Basgiath. After he took your name for the roll he had warned you to tie your hair back so it wouldn’t obstruct your eyesight. Looking back, it should have been obvious to you that being blinded by your hair might lead to your death, and maybe he should have let you cross as you were and you would have had no one to blame but yourself. But he didn’t. He broke a rule for you before you’d even properly met. Then he found you after your first formation and invited you to join him and his friends for training later that night. Somewhere between midnight flight drills when neither of you could sleep, relentless sparring practice, and stolen glances during Battle Brief—things had shifted. He had become the one person you could truly let your guard down with. Someone you didn’t have to hide your spiraling thoughts or sensitive heart from.

And now, when you were at your lowest, he refused to leave.

“I just—” You hesitated, frustration rising in your throat. “I hate this. Hate having to rely on someone.”

His lips dipped into a slight frown. “There’s nothing wrong with needing a hand. We all can use a little help every now and then.”

You scoffed. “When have you ever needed help?”

“After I watched my parents die.” He looked down at the relic winding up his arm, stroking it thoughtfully. “After Parapet and I realized this wasn’t all some fucked up nightmare. That we really had been sent to this death sentence of a college for the crimes of our parents. I was lost. But Xaden picked me up. And Bodhi, and Imogen, and Liam. We help each other. We lean on each other. And I’ll be damned if my girl thinks she has to stand on her own to do what? Prove that she’s strong?”

Your throat tightened, tears gathering in your eyes.

Your dragon, Thalor, chimed in for the first time since getting access to your bond again. “The Section Leader is right. You have nothing to prove. I chose you. You held the line. That is enough.”

Garrick sighed and grasped your hands in his. He leaned in close enough you could see the mix of brown and green in his eyes. “You are strong. I know it, your squad knows it, this whole damn quadrant knows it. The only person who still questions that is you.”

The memories of the interrogation hit you again. The bone-deep chill, the fear on your squadmates’ faces. Your own fear.

Tears ran down your cheeks and your breath hitched before the dam broke. “I was so scared,” your voice cracking with the admission. “The whole time. I wasn’t brave and I wasn’t calm. I was an embarrassment to what it means to be a Rider. Every time they walked into the room I wished I could flee. And then—and then they killed Patrick and I—”

Garrick grabbed your face with his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Baby. Baby, look at me.”

Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, your chest rising and falling too fast. Garrick’s eyes were wide, his brows drawn together when you met his stare. Your hands trembled as you pressed them against your ribs as if you could somehow steady the erratic rhythm of your breathing. The room felt too small, the walls creeping closer, the dim lighting casting shadows that flickered like ghosts.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and gentle. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He seemed to notice your aversion to the darkness and with a flick of his wrist the mage light was on, casting the room in a light blue glow.

You forced yourself to nod, but your throat was tight, your body locked in place. His gaze jumped around to your face, your arms—the bruises, the cuts, and his jaw clenched. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly. When he met your eyes again, there was no pity, only quiet understanding.

“What you went through…” He hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully. “No one walks away from something like that without scars. It’s normal.” His voice softened further, the words weaving through the haze of your mind. “Your reaction is normal.”

A shuddering breath left your lips. “Then why—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard. “Why does it feel like I can’t breathe?”

He removed his hands from your face and instead grabbed your knees, squeezing lightly. Grounding you. “Because your body still thinks you’re there,” he said. “It takes time to teach it that you’re safe now.”

Safe. You wanted to believe him, but you’re never truly safe at Basgiath, are you?

Garrick gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll go grab a med kit, I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of a cabinet opening and closing filling the silence. When he returned, he was carrying a small black box. He returned to his spot beside you, opening the latch with one hand.

“Let me?” he asked, holding up a cloth he’d soaked in antiseptic.

You nodded.

His touch was firm but careful as he cleaned the cuts on your hands and arms, his thumb brushing along your skin with the occasional silent apology when the antiseptic stung. He grimaced the same times you did when he got to your face. There was a cut through your left eyebrow and on your cheek. From experiencing a lifetime full of injuries he knew the face was the most sensitive. His movements were so at odds with his body. This large, muscularly dense man, who could snap you like a twig if he wished, was using a gentleness that made your heart stutter. It was as if you were a priceless vase and he was trying to put it back together. His methodical movements, the crease between his brow as he focused helped soothe you, the panic receding like the tide.

“I can’t believe the Healers didn’t patch you better,” he said through gritted teeth. He placed your wrist on his knee as he wrapped it with a bandage.

You licked your dry, cracked lips, focusing on his face again rather than his hands. “They gave me a tonic and I think they mended a few bones, I don’t remember much though. I was pretty out of it by the time we got there. But they had a whole squad to heal, they couldn’t spend all of their time on me.”

He clenched his jaw but said nothing. You looked up at him as he moved back to your face, placing a butterfly bandage on your brow. Your hand twitched with the urge to caress the two days worth of stubble that covered his sharp jawline.

“There,” he said after smoothing a balm over your cheek. “All patched up.”

You blinked, snapping out of your reverie. He didn’t move right away, and neither did you. The weight of exhaustion pulled at your limbs, but you were hesitant to succumb to it. The fear and adrenaline still running through you. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he just knew you better than you know yourself sometimes, because the next thing he did was set the med kit aside and motion for you to scoot over with his chin.

He untied his boots and kicked them off before climbing into the bed beside you and maneuvering under the blankets. His arm curled around you, pulling you against his chest, the steady beat of his heart anchoring you. His other hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands.

“Go to sleep,” he said, his tone soft yet leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be right here. I’ll keep you safe.”

And this time, you believed him, the rest of the adrenaline draining from your body as your eyes finally shut.

[eunoiiaff]

| Smalls - J.M & T.M |

Pairing: Joel Miller x Tommy Miller x Sister!Reader, Ellie x AuntFigure!Reader WC: 2.2k

Summary: Of all days to be out of town it had to be then. For twenty years you thought your big-brothers were dead just as they thought you were. You sat in the cage, cold, scared, alone, certain that with each breath you were one step closer to death itself. What you hadn't expected was for a young girl to be thrown in with you; and who would have thought that she'd be the one to bring you home.

Warnings: David, blood, violence, death, sexual assault, mentions of Sarah, angst, fluff, use of y/n, reader is insinuated to be shorter than Joel and Tommy and to have "deep" eyes, reader is described to have a slight Texan accent, reader is somewhat close in age to Tommy and Joel (early to mid-40s), nickname refers to reader being younger. A/N: PLEASE give me some miller-sister fics im starving omg REQUESTS OPEN

______________________________________________

Masterlist ______________________________________________

YOU PUSHED ELLIE FURTHER BEHIND YOU AS DAVID AND JAMES STORMED INSIDE, TRYING YOUR BEST TO HIDE HER AS YOU BACK FURTHER INTO THE CORNER. Ellie screamed from behind you as the gate swung open. "Get the fuck away from her." You yelled out, your fists clenched as you swung at James. From the moment Ellie had been thrown in the cage with you, from the moment she reluctantly told you her name, you knew you were going to help her. She wouldn't be another one of David's victims. She couldn't be. She was just a kid.

There was something about you that had lured Ellie in, the depth of your eyes and the soft accent bringing her a sense of warmth and familiarity that she couldn't quite pinpoint. Your protective nature helped, your tone as you spoke of how you swore you'd get her out safely made her want to believe you.

You'd tried your best to fight, truly, but the exhaustion mixed with dehydration and the cold made it difficult. Your head ricocheted off the tiles as he threw you down, a low groan escaping your lips as your head pounded.

You watched with tears as they dragged Ellie out of the cage, the girl kicking as she tried to get away, her teeth sinking into David's hand before he kneed her in the stomach. You grabbed David's leg and tried to pull him away, your teeth clenched so tight they could have fallen out. "Bitch!" He yelled as he kicked you across the face, your body falling back as pain radiated through your face; you knew you were bleeding, warmth covering your jaw along with a big bruise beginning to form, your lip busted and swollen already.

David slammed the gate shut behind him and locked it leaving you to watch on as they threw Ellie onto the table. "Get off her! Stop!" You pleaded through tears as you tried to reach through the bars.

"I'm infected!" Your voice fell silent. What the fuck. "I'm infected." She repeated. You watched with furrowed brows, silently begging for David to drop the cleaver. It didn't matter to you. It didn't matter that you'd been stuck in the cage with an infected girl; all that mattered was her not dying at the hands of David. "And now so are you. Roll up my sleeve. Look at it. Look at it!"

A whimper escaped your lips as David slammed the cleaver into the table right by Ellie's head, your eyes falling shut in relief before opening yet again, watching on intently. Despite not being able to see, you knew it was true. The look on David and James' faces told all. "What did you say? Everything happens for a reason, right?"

"David," James whispered.

"No. No, she would've turned by now. This isn't real."

"It looks pretty fuckin' real to me." Then, blood; it was all you saw, the blood spurting out of James' neck after Ellie had slammed the meat cleaver into him before jumping off the table and running. Good. You began desperately pulling at the cage wiring, the metal ripping at your palms and the insides of your fingers. You watched anxiously as David aimed his handgun and shot at her before tossing it aside and grabbing the clever from James' neck.

Then, you were left in silence. Sickening silence. All you heard the faint grunts and yells from the dining room. Your arms ached as you tugged at the wire, blood beginning to seep from between your fingers as you desperately tried to escape. Not for your own sake but for Ellie's. It felt as though forever had passed, for who knows maybe forever did pass and now Ellie was dead, but nonetheless, you had to get out, you had to be sure.

You fell back as the wiring was ripped from the poles, swiftly scrambling up to crawl through, careless of the open metal scratching at your skin, or the warmth of your hands as blood covered them. You coughed at the smoke, the black substance enveloping your lungs from the inside. You had to get to Ellie.

Your stomach fell once you walked through those kitchen doors, the sight of David on top of Ellie, his sick eyes boring into hers and the grin on his face made you want to throw up. But you couldn't. Not yet. Your head spun as you ran, ramming into his side and knocking him off of her. Your hands wrapped around his neck, nails digging into the skin as you grunted. You felt him grabbing at you, felt him try to rip you off of him, but it didn't matter, at least not until he succeeded that is.

Pain shot through your back as it hit the ground, David swiftly getting up and kneeling over you. You felt his fists pummel into your face, the pain overwhelming as your face swung side to side with each hit. And yet, you didn't care. All you could do was silently plead that Ellie got his keys and ran, then, you saw her swing the bloodied cleaver at David's head.

You watched on as she struck him. Again and again, over and over, blood splashing onto her face and clothes. You didn't stop her, instead you watched. A glint in your eyes that hadn't been there for a long time. David got what was coming to him. Finally. You felt numb.

Eventually, you told Ellie to go ahead, promising that you'd follow after her in a minute. You coughed through the smoke as you stumbled into the back room, picking up David's disposed gun from the ground.

The gun shook within your hold as you checked for bullets, shit, empty. It didn't matter. You could still use it, you tried to convince yourself. Your eyes burned, the atmosphere thick, making it difficult to get a full breath of air. Despite that, despite the pain that came with breathing, you stopped. David's body lay motionless on the floor, blood still pouring from his almost unrecognisable face.

You kicked him. Then again, and again, and again, and again. Over and over. Screams escaped your cracked lips. Finally, he was fucking dead. Your body ached as you limped outside, the pain finally getting to you. The snow froze at your feet, hisses escaping your lips as you stepped out into the cold with nothing but socks. The torn sweater you wore did little to keep the cold out, the once-warm blood soaking your body turning cold in an instant.

Your lips felt freezing, your nose flushed and cold. Your body shivered, your arms closed around your torso trying to preserve any warmth left. Then you saw them, Ellie and a man you didn't know, your brain unable to register the fact that Ellie wasn't fighting. You raised the gun against the back of his head, you'd just have to make do. "Get away from her." You said weakly, your voice shaky from the cold and likely imminent hypothermia. "Turn around."

Despite the weakness of your voice, you were stern, your eyes glaring into the back of the man's head as he slowly turned around with his arms up. "Y/N, no-" Ellie spoke up as she stepped towards you, her eyes red and rimmed with tears.

"Joel?" Your ears rang, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Maybe you were dying, hallucinating. Yeah, that must've been it. But then you felt it. His hand. First, it was just on your jaw as he gently cradled your face in his hands. Then it was all over. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, one hand coming up to hold the back of your head.

"Smalls?"

You felt like a little girl again, the moment reminding you of when you'd fallen and scraped your knee only for your big brother to come and tend to you. Tears cascaded down your cheeks like tidal waves. Your body shook, this time from your cries rather than the cold. Ellie watched on confused, her brows furrowed, blood still sprayed across her face.

"This isn't real." You said through sobs as you shook your head, hands sitting idly at your sides. "You're dead." You cried; Joel pulled back, his hands moving to cradle your face once again careful of the injuries adorning it. For twenty years you were certain he was dead just as he had thought you were dead.

His mouth moved but nothing came out, unsure of what he could say to make things better. If there was even anything to say to make things better. "I'm right here." Your chest hurt as you sobbed, your fingers clawing at his shirt; for the first time in a long time, you felt safe. The pain in your body had dissipated, your mind uncaring of the blood still dripping from your palms. You had your brother back.

The chill of your body irked him, you were freezing. The bag dropped from his shoulders as he ripped out whatever clothes he could to cover you up, his jacket already layered over Ellie. Along with, he pulled out some boots; they weren't your size by any means but they were better than the ripped socks you'd started with.

He didn't care. Joel that is; he didn't care about the pain in his abdomen or the cold that nipped at his face, all that mattered was that he had his girl's back.

__________

THE TRAVEL HAD BEEN EXHAUSTING TO SAY THE LEAST. With your body already weak it was difficult, especially in the beginning; you had to stop more frequently to rest, though, whatever rest you did get wasn't the most fulfilling. Your dreams were plagued with David, with the memories of what he'd done to you, what he'd done to Ellie. Joel eventually told you about Sarah, the news - despite being twenty years old - hurt, guilt filling you all over again for not being there.

It didn't take Ellie long to grow on you and vice versa. She'd learnt quickly who you were, though it didn't exactly surprise her. Your protective nature and attitude reminded her of Joel, with the similar attitudes - your mannerisms reminding her of Tommy from what she'd seen of him -, though you were a lot more open with her off the bat than Joel was. And so, when Joel decided to save Ellie, to kill the Fireflies and keep the fact from her, you followed. She was his family - even if he didn't say it himself - and so she was yours.

Your body groaned in pain as you neared Jackson. Ellie and Joel had told you enough to know that it was safe, that they'd have a place for you there. But you couldn't help the suspicion you held, the belief that they were hiding something.

The gate creaked open, your eyes darting around suspiciously. You still found it hard to trust. Part of you unwilling to believe that you were truly safe, that you ever would be. But then, you heard his name. "Tommy!" As the words fell from Joel's mouth, you froze, your eyes still locked onto the ground, your hand grasping the handle of your backpack tighter.

It must have been a different Tommy, it had to be. You were already lucky enough with Joel, it couldn't be. "Smalls?" The nickname hit you hard - Joel slipping a slight smile at the sound reminding his own reaction - as you looked up and locked eyes with him. Holy shit.

Your legs pumped, your feet hitting the ground harshly as you ran to him, tears already cascading. A soft grunt escaped your lips as you collided with him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso, his around yours as simultaneously cradled the back of your neck. "Holy fuck." He muttered into your hair, repeating it once, two more times, his body shaking as he cried silently, still looking at Joel in shock. He didn't let go of you for a while as neither did you, honestly, you weren't sure you could. He smelled the same. Yes, a little smellier - though that came with living in an apocalypse -, but just like Joel, he smelt the same as before. He smelt like home.

You remembered driving back into town a few days after it happened, bodies still filling the streets as you pleaded for your family to be safe. When you showed up to an empty house, you sobbed; for hours you couldn't stop crying, you wouldn't. You were the last, you were all that was left. Alone and scared. But now, somehow, you had found them. Despite the fucked up world, despite the pain you had suffered, you found your big brothers, a family. A broken one, maybe, but a family nonetheless.

As you felt Joel's hand on your back, Tommy's arms still encircling you, you knew that none of it mattered anymore. The years spent alone, memories of David, the scars that adorned the inside of your fingers and face from saving Ellie, it didn't matter anymore. Now, you had something to fight for, people to fight for. Now, you had people to fight for you, to protect you, to calm you after another panic attack, to remind you that you're free. You had a family.

[bibiwrld]

Creepin’ In— Sammie “Preacher Boy” Moore x Black Vamp Fem!

Synopsis: Charlotte and how she came to be

Warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of death, mentions of slavery

Tags: @pinkpantheris @dakotali @shimmerfyre @motheroffae @heyyimmisunderstood @resurrectionist3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

1828, Savannah, Georgia.

At the age of 19, Charlotte always wanted more in life. She wanted to be a seamstress, a designer even. She often stitched up clothes for the children on the plantation, she found enjoyment in it, but she wanted much more than this.

She wanted to wear the finest fabrics, live in a bigger house, leave the plantation.

Ever since her father passed from constantly being overworked when she was 13, wanting better for her and her mother only grew stronger.

Running away to New York, make a name for herself, be the biggest fashion designer in the city. A new life; that’s what she wanted, that was her dream. She heard stories from her Massa’s business partners, eavesdropping dropping as she did her daily chores.

Her mother always warned her from doing that, telling her that she’d get in trouble with Massa one day.

“They take their business very seriously, Lottie.” Her mother would always say.

But hearing stories always helped her cope. This harsh reality that she was living in, truly couldn’t be it. There had to be more.

But she should’ve listened to her mother, eavesdropping was truly the death of Charlotte.

“She’s sorry, she ain’t mean it, Massa!” Charlotte’s mother, Betty, cried on her knees.

Men, women and children stared in horror as Charlotte was dragged by her ear across the field by the plantation owner, James McKenney.

They wanted to intervene, but they knew they’d suffer the same fate as Charlotte.

Older women attempted to console Betty, trying to lift her off her knees.

“MOMMA!” Charlotte screamed, kicked, cried— but nothing stopped James.

Sometimes you don’t know if you’d live after he was done punishing you.

The sun was down and there was no sign of James stopping.

In the dark forest is where all the slaves who dared to defy James McKenney were punished and even died.

The whip cracked at the back of Charlotte’s legs once more, her hands tightening on her bunched up dress that she was forced to hold up, as ordered by James himself.

“Think you smarter than me?!” His arm drew back, then forward sharply, the whip hitting her legs again, breaking skin.

“N-no, Sir!” Her voice broke, jolting at the stinging feeling. She could feel the warm blood running down to her feet.

“Louder!” And again, but this time he aimed higher.

The whip struck across her back, causing her to collapse to the ground, not having strength to hold herself up.

“Get up!” Her kicked her side, making her wheeze. “Lil’ nosy bitch!” James continued beating her as she laid helplessly on the ground.

Her dress of cheap material began tearing at the impact. She screamed into the ground, dirt and leaves sticking to her face.

This was how she was going to die. At least she’ll finally be with her father again, but now her mother was going to be completely alone. She didn’t achieve anything, she didn’t make it to New York.

But then he came down, almost like an angel, saving her from the clutches of the devil.

No words were exchanged. Even if there were, Charlotte couldn’t remember, she was at death’s door, her hearing and vision leaving her by the second.

It happened quick. His hand pierced James’ chest, and the plantation owner fell to his knees, blood running from his mouth.

The unknown man pulled his hand out of the now deceased man almost in disgust, wiping off the blood on his pants.

He swiftly turned around to the young girl’s battered body. She was breathing—barely. He had to be fast. Now on his knees, he carefully turned her over, receiving low hisses of pain.

“Shh, I’m gonna make it all better, lass.” He hushed her, bloodied hand stroking her cheek gently.

“N-no more.” She weakly uttered, vision blurring. “S-sorry.”

“No need to be sorry anymore.” He finally said before revealing sharp teeth and piercing her neck.

Waking up the day after the frightening event, felt like she was reborn. In an unfamiliar bed, better than the one at home and a strange white man smiling at her.

The room was rather dark too, only an oil lamp as a source of light.

She found it even stranger that there were no cuts and bruises on her body, but only a sharp pain on her neck.

“S-sir..”

“Remmick, my name’s Remmick and you’re Charlotte.” He rose from his seat.

An Irish accent, Charlotte’s never met one of them before.

“You want to go home to your mother.” He was now at the side of the bed, eyeing the now healing bite he gave her. “But that can be no more, I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Her voice cracked.

“Because you’re dead now.”

Her heart thumped and she was feeling…hungry? Extremely hungry.

“Wh—”

“Don’t worry, I’m here to help you every step of the way.” His dried bloodied hand rested on top of her head, in a means to console her.

He taught her the ways of her newfound life, one that he blessed her with.

A vampire, he called it. She’s never heard of such a silly thing.

As for their relationship, Remmick was someone Charlotte could trust. They got along, they had each other’s backs, inseparable. He never put her under the hive mind, he didn’t see the need to, not to someone he cared for like his own child.

“Rem?” Charlotte rested her book down on her bedside table.

“Yes, Lottie?” He rested his own book down, giving her his full attention.

With a twist of her lips, she hesitated to continue.

“What’s wrong? The blood you had was bad?” He grew worried, slowly getting out of his seat. “Makin’ you sick?” He tried opening one of her eyes wider with his fingers, staring deeply into her eye.

She smacked his arm playfully, giggling. “No, silly!”

He sat on the bed, sighing in relief. “Then what is it? I ain’t gonna read your mind to find out.”

She shifted around in her bed. “Why’d you save me that night?”

“Honestly, I felt sorry for ya.” He answered. “You’re just a child, I couldn’t let that happen to ya.”

She wasn’t exactly looking for a specific answer, just an answer and that was enough.

Time went on and their bond only grew stronger.

“Hey Rem?” Charlotte wiped blood from her mouth.

“Yes, Lottie?” He snatched a red ruby off the woman’s corpse, inspecting it to see if it was real.

“Why are we in Mississippi?” She walked around in small circles. “We goin’ back to New York, right?”

“Yes dear, but something very special is here.” He threw the ruby to her.

Catching it giddily, she inspected it, licking the blood off. “Thanks, Rem!” Hugging his side tightly, her bloody smile widened.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled, looking down at her lovingly.

Ever since Charlotte came into his life, it’s been nothing but brighter days, even as the sun was no more for them.

“Now what special thing you’s talkin’ ‘bout?” Her head tilted curiously.

After her encounter with Sammie, Charlotte began to feel some sort of regret and new found emotions.

“Remmick, maybe we shouldn’t—he’s a nice guy.” Charlotte twirled the end of her brown dress.

Remmick got it for her, he always brought back gifts from his hunts. After she told him about how much she loved fashion and pretty things, he’s made it his life’s mission to get the best of the best for Charlotte.

“You’ve got a lil crush on ‘em?” Remmick smirked, drinking blood from a wine glass.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “He invited me to the Juke Joint tomorrow night.”

His eyes brightened. “That’s great! You’re goin’!”

“You been actin’ strange and it’s scarin’ me.” Her eyes narrowed at him. “Rem, you used the mind thing on me.”

“No need to be scared, Lottie.” He sank into his seat. “And you were losin’ focus—”

“Did not!” Her fangs were now bared. “You promised to never do that! ‘member?!”

Now on his feet, he walked over to her, putting both hands on her shoulders. “Calm down.”

She smacked his arm away, stomping away to her room. “I’m calm.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he mumbled to himself. “Kids.”

The special night was finally here, she didn’t have a clue on what to wear. Trying on multiple dresses, skirts, heels and hats. After finally deciding on an outfit, Remmick came to lean on her door frame.

“You look gorgeous, dear.”

Rolling her eyes, clearly still mad at him.

One of the things about being a vampire, that Charlotte truly hated, was that she couldn’t see herself. Not able to properly admire her curly hair, see if she had something on her face, or just look at an outfit she put together.

But Remmick was there, he was her eyes, her mirror.

“I’m goin’ now.” She walked past him, making her way downstairs.

“Have fun!” He exclaimed. “Not too much though!”

She groaned, slamming the door on her way out. “Old bat.”

[runforthehillsbestie]

Sympathy For The Devil

Part 1 - we're gonna die

Pairing - Thomas Hewitt x Female reader

Read the story context and warnings here

He'd let you hitch a ride if you gave him a blowjob. An even trade, he said, reaching out the window of his pickup to brush a strand of your tangled hair out of your face. How he could even think of that when he saw a bloodied, limping girl with a black eye, you wouldn't know. But then again, you looked weak and vulnerable, and he didn't think to ask what had happened to you, or if that was your blood. His mistake.

You get in the truck.

He wastes no time, unbuckling his pants with one hand and driving with the other.

"You know what to do?" He asks, and you nod silently, running your sore tongue over your teeth.

You'd bitten it when your boyfriend punched you--now your ex by way of death. It's his blood that is soaked into your clothes, causing your shirt to stick to your skin.

"Well? Go ahead," the man says. "Earn your way. Suck me real good, and I'll even buy you dinner."

The thought of food makes your stomach rumble. Food, clothes, money. You hadn't thought of any of those things while you hauled your boyfriend's still-warm body to the river and let the rushing water drag him away. You can't go back home. Your father probably won't shoot you upon sight like vermin, but you're not entirely certain. No need to risk it. You paid a heavy price to get away from your family, and you're not about to go back now.

"C'mon," the man coaxes. "See, I even got it nice and hard for you."

"Keep your eyes on the road," you mutter, your voice coming out hoarse from all the screaming you did earlier.

"So you can speak! Will you look at that," he crows.

You lean down and take his shaft in your hand, angling it towards your mouth. The moment you slip the swollen head past your lips, he sighs contentedly.

"Yeah, that's it," he groans, rubbing your back before he lifts his hand to your hair.

You wince as he begins to tug, guiding you to take him deeper. You play along until his grunts and moans are loud enough to cover the clicking sound of the razor knife as you pull it out of the waistband of your shorts and extend the blade. It's tacky with your boyfriend's arterial blood. You hesitate.

How do I do this?

You learned quickly that it's harder to kill a person in real life than it is in the movies. Your boyfriend's screams echo in your mind, raising goosebumps on your arm. You palm the razor blade and wonder if maybe, you should leave this guy alone. After all, dinner would be nice...

"The fuck?" The man says, and you tuck the blade away and lift your head.

A massive tree has fallen on the fork in the road, blocking one side off. He doesn't seem to notice the way the trunk looks neatly sawed-off, as though someone used a chainsaw to cut it down.

"Shit, I'm going to have to call the long way through that fucking town," he groans, thumping the steering wheel.

"There's a town?" You perk up.

"It's abandoned," the man replies. "Nothin' out there but ghosts and wild animals." He wheels the pickup onto the dusty road and floors it.

You pass a rusty sign that says Welcome to the town of Fuller and whip by houses with broken, boarded-up windows and sagging porches. The late afternoon sun beams into your eyes as it begins to settle on the horizon.

"There's no need to go so fast," you tell him, but he only scoffs.

"Wouldn't want to be driving on this road in the dark. I've heard some stories. Hey, weren't you busy? Get back to it."

You shrug and lean down to revive his half-hard cock but before you can, something pops. The car skids, and the man curses and slams on the brakes. He pushes you away and yanks his pants closed.

"What the hell was that?" He says, jumping out of the truck.

It's a flat tire, you discover when you get out and join him.

He kicks the wheel angrily. "Now I got to change the damn thing. At least I have a spare." He pauses and gazes at you. "Hold on a minute, this is your fault, isn't it?"

You're not in the mood for games, so you level him with a hard stare. If he tries anything, you'll go for his throat.

"Those stories talk about hitchhikers that appear around these parts like some kind of bad omen. Plenty of travelers have gone missing after picking one of them up." He notices your hand lingering close to your hip. "What have you got there?"

"Nothing." You back away as he strides forward.

"Let me see," he demands, quickly escalating into shouting at you and threatening to leave you here.

You feel something black and ugly rising inside you, your lips curling into a sneer. He doesn't like that and lifts his hand to hit you. You put all your strength in your legs, ready to spring forward and bury the razor knife into his neck, when a gunshot goes off. He staggers backward, clutching at his shoulder, going pale with shock. He tumbles to the floor as blood pours over his fingers. A man appears on the side of the road, chuckling. That's when you notice the cop car tucked behind the bushes.

"Shame on you, raisin' your hand on a woman like that," he drawls and turns to you. "Sheriff Hoyt, at your service. You alright, Miss?"

You nod wordlessly. He has a sheriff's badge and a cream-colored hat resting over his bushy grey brows. His jaw works as he chews on something, spitting dark saliva against the ground as he saunters over to the man on the ground.

"Y-you shot me," the man stammers. "What the fuck, you shot me."

"And I'd say it serves you right! Think I didn't notice you blowin' through here going 80 in a 45, hmm?"

"Wha--" the man groans. "I'm bleeding."

"Put some pressure on it, wussy," Sheriff Hoyt says. "Both of you, in my car."

"But I need a hospital!" The man cries out.

"We'll get you fixed at the station." Sheriff Hoyt grunts. "Now get in, son, 'fore I put another hole in you. You too, Missy."

Your fingertips itch at the tempting thought of your razor blade tucked away in your shorts, but you eye the gun at his hip and decide now is not the time to be taking gambles. You get in the Sheriff's car, and he drives down the road. "M-my truck," the man says. "Someone'll come by to pick up that hunk of junk," Sheriff Hoyt says. There's nothing but the sound of the injured man's breathing and the squeak of the loose hinges of the doors. Sheriff Hoyt adjusts the review mirror, taking a long look at your chest. You haven't got a bra on, and the sticky shirt is abrasive against your nipples, making them perky.

"Aren't you a sight," he says. "Whose blood is that?"

"It's not mine." You cross your arms over your chest. "I thought this town was abandoned, Sheriff."

"Well, someone's gotta make sure the bikers and hooligans don't make a mess of this place," he says, spitting out the window.

In a few minutes, the Sheriff's car pulls up to a large farmhouse sitting amongst a graveyard of dusty cars and leaning barbed wire fences.

"This isn't the police station," the man mumbles, his speech slightly slurred, eyes hazy. "You said we were going to the station."

"Mae can fix you up good as any," Sheriff Hoyt says, getting out of the car with a grunt.

You watch as he comes around to the man's side and yanks open the door, leaning his hands on his knees as he leans down to look at the man. His eyes gleam with a sadistic cruelty you know far too well.

"Boy, you don't look too good," he says. "Let's get you inside. Tommy?! Come out here and help me bring in this poor sod."

Even though the man is almost delirious from blood loss, he can tell something is wrong. He begins to shake his head.

"Nuh-uh," he slurs. "I won't go in there."

Sheriff Hoyt plunges his thumb and pointer finger into the wound on his shoulder and swishes them wetly around. The man howls in agony. You push open your door and get out.

"There now, here's the bullet," Sheriff Hoyt is saying. "You'll be fine, quit your bawlin'."

The farmhouse is sitting on what was once a functioning farm, but now there's nothing but broken farming equipment and dry yellow grass. Your gut instincts have served you well so far, and you trust them. Right now? Everything in you is putting up warning flags and ringing alarm bells. You're in danger. It's instinct that causes you to start running, but you only make it a few feet before you bump into the biggest, burliest man you've ever seen. You catch a glimpse of black scruffy hair and dark eyes before something hits you hard on the head, and you slide bonelessly to the floor with spots in your vision.

"Tommy, you almost let her get away," a female voice is chiding. "One look at a pretty face and you lose your wits, don't you?"

You roll onto your back and find an old lady with a soft face and fluffy blond-grey hair peering down at you.

"Shhh," she says. "Go to sleep, hun."

It's not like you want to, but your head hurts and your eyes feel heavy, so you close them for just a moment. It feels like a few seconds pass before you open them again, but when you do, you're in a different location. A basement, maybe, because you can see stairs on the right that go up. Water drips persistently from a pipe nearby, and butcher knives and meat hooks hang from the rafters. Your shoulders are tight and burning with pain. You've been hung up by your wrists, the scratchy rope biting into your skin. Your toes are just a few inches off the ground. You hear the thump of footsteps and squeeze your eyes shut, pretending you're still passed out but peeking through your eyelashes.

It's the huge man you saw earlier, and he's got the pickup driver tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He has a mask that covers most of his face. It seems to be made of strips of leather with a hole in the middle, showing you a glimpse of his unsmiling mouth. You watch as he proceeds to tie the man's wrists together with a thick rope, tugging several times to make sure he's secure before he hangs him from one of the meat hooks just like you are. He screams as his shoulders take the brunt of his weight, and he seems to pass out again.

While you ache all over, most of the pain is gathering low in your belly. You realize you've started your period, of all things. It's often irregular, causing you to spend a day or two in complete agony as it tends to come up on you fast. You can tell from the warmth in your panties that you're about to soak right through. You let out a soft groan as your muscles clench up, and the man spins around to look at you. You flinch as your eyes connect with his. There's a primal hunger in them, like the eyes of an animal.

He lumbers over to you, gripping something laughably tiny in his hand. It's your razor knife. He twists it one way, then the other, looking at the blood on it. He prods your ribs and stomach, looking for the cause of the blood on your shirt.

"It's not mine," you croak, swallowing to try and wet your sore, dry throat. "The blood, I mean."

Not that blood, anyway.

You feel a trickle of warmth down your thigh, and since he's looking at you, he notices as well. His calloused fingers scrape against your inner thigh as he smears at the blood. It's warm, of course, and fresh. He lifts your shirt just high enough to check your belly, but other than the bruise on your side from your ex-boyfriend's boot, there's nothing to see. His thick fingers fumble with the button on your shorts. Finally, he yanks them down and they slide down your calves and catch on your shoes. You can't see, but you know your white cotton panties are crimson at the crotch. You can't see much of his face thanks to his unruly hair and that strange mask, but he seems confused.

"I've got my period," you tell him.

He doesn't seem to care that you're talking to him, his chin lowered to his chest as he stares between your legs.

You try again. "I'm menstruating?"

He tugs your panties off, and you cringe, unable to do anything other than hang there, your shoulders begging for relief and a big ball of pain in your belly. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch him hunker down, putting his face way too close to your intimate parts. He's still holding your razor blade. You're almost relieved when he reaches out with his empty hand, though that changes to dismay when he drags his finger through your folds, coating it in blood. You jump and squeeze your legs together, letting out a shriek when he smacks you on the thigh, a clear sign that he wants you to keep them open.

Your thigh stings, and your whole body trembles as you let yourself go lax again. He's still confused about where exactly you're bleeding from because you're clearly not injured. His thick finger prods between your folds, and when he finds a spot that seems to open up, he promptly pushes his finger in. You cry out in shock more than anything. He has his finger up in your pussy. It's thick and rough, simultaneously scraping and stretching your walls. You whine at the intrusion.

"Supper's in a minute!" Sheriff Hoyt calls, and you hear his footsteps clunk down the stairs.

"Cleanin' up your dolls?" He asks as he comes in, pausing as his eyes fall on the sight of the man crouched in front of you with his finger pressed into you.

Your cheeks burn with humiliation, and you look away, gritting your teeth. He grins.

"Well, well, would you look at that! Looks like Tommy's learned something new, haven't you, Boy?"

Tommy pulls his hand back, staring at your blood, which winds down his palm in a trail of red. Sheriff Hoyt whistles when he sees it.

"What, did you just pop her cherry?"

"It's period blood," you hiss angrily.

"Oh, Tommy doesn't know about that stuff," Sheriff Hoyt says. "Now's a good time as any for a lesson, I reckon."

He ambles closer, sticking his thumbs through his belt loops. "Why don't you go ahead and try that, son? Have a taste."

"No!" You splutter, queasy at the thought.

Tommy lifts his finger to his mouth and you hear a wet sucking sound as it disappears into the hole in his mask. He grunts.

"Whatcha think?" Sheriff Hoyt says, his gaze glued between your legs. "Does that taste good?"

Tommy nods, and Sheriff Hoyt laughs. "There's plenty more, son. All for the takin'."

"No," you whine, squirming in place. "Nooo. Stop!"

Tommy's hands, large and warm, clasp around your thighs. You try to kick him, but he pulls you close with a yank, kneeling on the waterlogged floor. His breath blows between your legs, and you freeze at his noisy, ragged inhale.

"There we go," Sheriff Hoyt says, rubbing the bulge in his pants as he watches. "Lookie, he's a natural!"

You shriek when you feel the material of the mask against your skin and a wet tongue probing against your pussy. It's a horrible, terrible sensation, dragging both a painful cramp and the slightest bolt of pleasure out of you.

"Stop," you whimper as you dangle.

Tommy ignores you and presses closer, his muffled breathing noisy and hot as he laps at your folds. His hands dig into your thighs to the point of pain, dimpling your skin, and he squeezes, sampling their softness. The pain in your shoulders is so overwhelming that when Sheriff Hoyt tells you to rest your knees on Tommy's shoulders, you do it without hesitation, moaning in relief as your shoulders get a break. This brute can lick you all he wants if it means you get to stay perched right there. Sheriff Hoyt is watching Tommy closely.

"Hold your horses, son, we can't have you bricked up at the table."

Tommy doesn't stop, and you jump when you even feel a slight aggrieved nip, like he wants to continue.

"Don't bite me there," you gasp. "Please."

"Thomas Hewitt!" Sheriff Hoyt shouts. "You stop that right now."

Tommy freezes. Slowly, he scoots back. You're unprepared to bear your weight and squeak when you jangle back down. Tommy rises to his feet, towering over the Sheriff. His hands open and close in loose fists. He could probably snap the Sheriff in half if he wanted to, but the shorter man looks unconcerned.

"Gotta learn some self-control," Sheriff Hoyt grunts and gestures to the stairs. "Come on up now. That filly ain't going nowhere."

Together they disappear up the stairs, leaving you in the dark. A few minutes later, the man on the hook stirs, letting out a bone-deep sound of pain as he wakes up. He raises his head and spots you hanging a few feet away, bare on the bottom. Now, when he looks at you, the only thing in his eyes is terror.

"We're gonna die," he rasps. "We're going to fucking die."

Part 2 - whatever it takes

@runforthehillsbestie

[stchisaki]

DAY XI. — BREEDING/NON-CON (CABIN IN THE WOODS AU)

cw: Blood, Gore, Mentions of Death / Past Death, Violence / Allusions to Violence, Non-Con, Breeding / Allusions to Breeding, Monster! Hawks, Slight Gaslighting / Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere, General Dark Content Not Suitable for Immature Audiences, Fem! Reader. Reader discretion is advised. 18+ Only!

author's note: My friends and I have constantly joked about a Cabin in the Woods AU in which our favorite characters are monsters kept in that underground base. Hawks is probably something akin to a harpy. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is strictly fiction! Do not force yourself to read if you're uncomfortable.

word count: Approximately 1.3k words.

A throaty shriek bounces around in your head before a heaving pressure slams into your back, sending your weary frame spiraling down an incline. You’re screaming, kicking and swiping your fists out to throw the weight on your body off, but you hear what sounds like a hiss before multiple piercing pains puncture into you. A gasp slips out of your mouth, and you glance down in terror at yourself while you’re still tumbling down, lower and lower. 

Sharp talons, claws that glitter under the moonlight, are digging through your flesh. Five knives on each palm, one through your shoulder and the other buried deep in your ribs underneath your breast. You can feel something poking against your lungs, a reminder that one wrong move will kill you. The pain grows, and you finally stop rolling. That thing is still on your back, heavy and panting, and you nearly gag at the hot and disgusting breath breezing down the ridge of your nose. A hearty chuckle. 

“Y’know… haaa, haaa, it took me a little bit to find you. Ya really threw me off of my game, did’ja know? I can’t believe you managed to trick me like that, little songbird.” 

His voice is poison and ice in your ears, shuddering winds that lets you see your foggy breath even in the desolate summer heat. You don’t want to even dignify him with a response, you want to toss your head back and slam it into his face. The thought crosses your mind in a flash before you do such, and the reverberating thunder that makes your ears ring whenever the back of your skull knocks against his teeth makes you cry out in agony. You hear his call, too, and whooshing wings flap before they shield your body. 

“Owww, little bird! W-Why’d you do that? I thought we were going to play nice with each other. That’s why you’re alive, isn’t it? You wanted to play with me?” 

Sure, if by playing you mean fighting for your life and stabbing him in the arm whenever he had picked you up with those hawk claws, dragging you into the sky to spear your belly through the top of a tree—just like your friend, just like your friend. Tears well in your eyes now. Your wrist was broken, but it wasn’t like this monster cared. And you don’t even want to know, you don’t want to contemplate why you’re alive, why he kept you alive, why he chased after you, why he pinned you down underneath him and talked to you as if this were normal.

“Come on, no need to be so cold. Talk to me a little. I know you can—didn’t you with that human male?” 

There’s a shivering chill that flicks you between your eyebrows, but you just groan and rest your cheek against the forest floor. You don’t want him to talk to you. He should just murder you like he did to the rest of your friends. He should slice you open, eat you with those razor teeth. Intestines, blood, spit and fear. You can see the horror painted like a dreary window sill on your closest friend’s face. 

“He wasn’t worth it, in my opinion. It’s strange, isn’t it? I can’t believe I’d find my own human pet. But you’re being so mean right now, it’s so harsh. Here, I’ve got an idea.” 

The monster doesn’t give you enough time to even comprehend his statement before the hand inside of your shoulder withdraws, spilling fresh blood and weeping yells, and starts to trace down your back. Something distinct snags your heart, veins that thump in anticipation and a dawning realization that makes jelly and tar form in the back of your throat. His hand slips to your bottoms, claws at the ready, and you can’t even scream before he tears them off. The monster’s shoving your panties aside, ripping the fabric like it was just a sheet of paper before the hand leaves and braces itself to the right of your head. 

“N-No, stop! Stop, stop! Please, don’t—” 

“Shhh, little bird. This’ll feel good. If you don’t want to talk, then we can do this instead. It’ll be just as fun.” 

And before you can even bite your tongue, something stiff and slimy slips between the line of your thighs and starts to prod between your cheeks. Terror like you’ve never known before begins to storm in your body, like crazy drums and guitar strings, and it makes you shake, thrashing and begging. 

“I don’t want to do this! Leave me alone, please! Please, just kill me instead! I—”

“Kill you? Nahh, I don’t want to do that. Though, that blood of yours sure does smell tasty. You won’t mind if I need to steal a taste, would you?” 

You’re throwing your head around, wriggling your body underneath his, but those wings block your exits and his limbs start to ensconce you in the most horrifying ways. This was just supposed to be a vacation! This was supposed to just be a great time with your friends before the new semester started! This was supposed to be time hidden in the woods, drinking and toasting fate and happiness! This was just supposed to be for fun! Fun! Fun! Fun—and all of your friends are dead, murdered, killed in mortifying ways by the monster starting to gyrate his hips against the cleft of your ass. 

His feathers tickle. 

“Calm down, calm down. It’s what all things were made to do, you’ll start to enjoy it once you calm down!” 

He doesn’t sound frustrated in the slightest, no, a hint of glee coats the outskirts of his tone. His hips angle down, his stiff cock manages to slip down between your squished thighs, and his cockhead starts to poke against your entrance. You’re so dry that his slickness makes you queasy, tears like stars in the night sky. 

“I don’t want to do this, please, pleeeeeease. God, please. I’m scared.” 

That cockhead just pushes forward, an amused chuckle the belltower of your doom. 

“Don’t be, songbird. You’re my mate now. And you know what mates do, right?” 

You do. And you have zero clue what made him so delusional—what gave him conscious thought to choose you. Shouldn’t you have been his prey? Why is he? Why you? Oh, God, why you? Is it because you fought back? Is it because you managed to escape every time? Is it just luck? You don’t know, you don’t want to know, you’ll never know. 

He’s slowly pressing into you, slotting his slimy and gritty cock inside of your cunt, spreading your chapped lips, sending your head in a frenzy, a desperate plea that doesn’t even reach your fingertips. He weighs you down like a ship’s smoke on the horizon. 

“I’ll take care of you from now on. That’s what males do. You’re supposed to just be mine, ‘kay? Let’s get it on. I’ll make sure you’re satisfied.” 

You don’t listen, don’t want to. You just decide, with those red feathers tickling your nose and cheeks, with the claws in your body, with the joints bending into yours, that you’ll just lay here and fade away into nothingness. Stop thinking and it’ll be over. And hopefully once he’s used you up enough, you’ll find your bowels accidentally splayed on the mushy grass and your friends holding their hands out to you. 

“And maybe we’ll get a couple of chicks. Yeah, sounds nice. Yeahhhh. You’ll be a great mate.” 

Then, with your shuttering eyes, the monster fills you up. 

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

I can only share my interest in Aegon to you, so I’ll just drop this here. (Dw, contrary to what I say next, this is not a request. Just desperation.)

Broski, I NEED reader wife who’s scared of heights and dragons but Aegon gets her to ride with him just cuz he feels like it. (My hand is probably 1/3 smaller than one of their teeth. I believe Anyone sane should be scared sh’tless while seeing a dragon. 💀)

I ONLY READ ONE FIC WHERE THEY FLY ON A DRAGON! WHY ARE THERE SO MANY AEMOND FICS OF THISS??? HELP ME FIND MORE CUZ I NEED TO HAVE A RIDE ON A DRAGONNNNN. Imagine the refreshing air and scenery. (I personally imagine the beautiful pink/orange clouds from Httyd when Hiccup and Astrid fly together for the first time)😭⚰️

.

.

Also, about the death threats, you handled it well. Really, when everyone finds out you like a hated character, it’s like they are trying to get you to sign your own death sentence. Anyway, keep doing you. You write exceptionally 🤭🫶 ily

PROMISE NOT TO DROP ME? ONLY A FOOL WOULD DROP YOU. ( HOTD x Reader )

pairing: Prince Aegon ii Targaryen x Lady-in-waiting! Reader prompt: Aegon kidnaps you to ride on dragonback, it does not go well. word count: 1, 000+ words

You had been very very firm when it came to dragon's. You were no Targaryen nor held a drop of Valyrian blood in your veins. Sure, you like to gawk at them in art. The dozen paintings, stained glass windows, and books that filled the Red Keep were enough. You would never dare to go near one in real life. Dragon’s were not natural. To ride one, to tame one, it was not natural. A lot of the things that the Targaryen’s did were not natural. 

So when you started as Helaena's Lady-in-waiting, you did everything you could to politely refuse to be near them. Need to go to the Dragonpits? The carriage was nice and comfy, no need to leave it. When Helaena offered to fly with her? Suddenly you grew ill with a cough. Helaena accepted, understanding your fears. She offered kind words and an open invitation should you ever change your mind on the matter.

Aegon was, as always, different. The word 'no'  just could not connect in that tiny little brain of his. He took it as a challenge. He would jest about kidnapping you and taking you flying. You laughed and told him you'd push him out of a window if he dared to do it. 

Of course, he had tried once with a look a little too serious on his face. After waddling away, clutching his groin from your hard kick, he learned that it would not be easy to get you on dragonback. You’d fight back. You would be a challenge, he liked that a lot.

Kicking and screaming at the top of your lungs, you did everything you could think of to get free of Aegon's hold. Clawing at his arms wrapped around your waist, he dragged you along to the Dragonpits, the dragon keeper's onlooking in confusion and mild horror. You could give less of a shit if they thought you mad. There was no way in the Seven Hells that you were going on a flight with Aegon. You'd rather kiss the King's rotten lips than to go flying.

"No! Put me down, you drunken oaf!" You shout, thrashing against him.

"No."

"I am going to kick you so hard you'd never be able to get it up again, Aegon! Put me down!" You bellow, yanking at his hair.

"Not a chance, we are going flying." Aegon brushes off your threats, "You will enjoy it. Tis' delightful."

Letting out a loud scream into his ear, he did not falter, running off of pure spite and stubbornness. It would have been admirable, if it was not for the fact he was dragging you along to go flying. Yanking hard on his hair, he yelps loudly, though his grip does not falter. Gods damn it, why did he have to be strong? Sensing that fighting would not help you, you tried another way.

"Please, please, Aegon." You beg, "I'll give up my desserts for a whole moon. Just let me go."

"Tempting." He chuckles, a smirk on his face.

"Please, Aegon. I do not wish to fly." You beg, on the verge of tears.

"I fly all the time. Once I even did it drunk, tis' nothing dangerous." He scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

Shaking your head frantically as his grip tightens, he drags you into the dark cave, the stench of dragon thick in the air. The few torchlights in the cave illuminated enough to see his dragon, Sunfyre, burrowing into his rocky nest. Feeling tears of fear bubbling up, you go deadly silent, losing your voice. This was your worst dream come true. Face to face with a dragon. Holding back the whimper in your throat, Aegon presses a kiss onto your temple, refusing to let you go.

“He won’t harm you. He’s used to your scent.” Aegon whispers into your ear, “I brought him one of your dresses to smell.”

“Let me go.” You whimper out, voice full of pure terror. 

“Come on, you’re already here. Let’s just go for a quick flight.” Aegon argues, shaking his head dismissively. 

“Aegon..”

Slowly letting go of your waist, you go to bolt for the cave exit, only to be swept back up into Aegon’s arms. He carried you like a toddler who had a habit of running away. Letting out a loud cry as he refused to put you back down, he wags his finger mockingly, a half amused look on his face. Hearing Sunfyre stir in his nest, you try more desperately to get away, the rumbling of the dragon echoing loudly in the cave. 

“No, no, no.” He scolds, “Bad Y/n. No running away.”

“Put me down! I want to go back to the Red Keep!” 

“No, if I have to attend Court, then you cannot escape this.” He suggests, “Consider this your duty.”

“Fuck duty. Put me down, Aegon!” You sob, bottom lip wobbling. 

“Ooh, so now we do not care about duty, hm?” He mocks, shaking his head with a smirk.

Pressing a gentle kiss onto your temple, he carried you closer and closer to Sunfyre, until the two of you were right in the dragon’s face. Feeling your grip tighten on him, he slowly smiles at the feeling, like see you so unlike yourself. This had to be the first time he had seen you act so improper and anxious. It was refreshing, amazing, and amusing all at the same time. 

Smiling bright as Sunfyre stirs away, the golden dragon huffs at the two of you, his two large green eyes staring back. Puffing his chest out in pride, he hoped the sight of his dragon would impress you and make you swoon. His dragon always got compliments. Looking down at your face, there was not an ounce of admiration or awe or anything positive, only terror. 

“He’s pretty is he not?” He gloats proudly, “You know, they say he is the prettiest dragon to have ever been hatched.”

“If I survive this, I am going to kill you.” You whisper out, face pale.

“Stop speaking as if you are going to die. Sunfyre would not dare to attack, not whilst I am here.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I’ve seen your dragon, can we leave now. I want to go back to the Red Keep, Aegon.” You whimper, tears bubbling up in your eyes.

"No. Don't you dare." He argues, "Don't you dare do the whole crying trick on me. I am not foolish like Helaena and can be swayed."

Watching as you sniffle and whimper, his grip tightens on you, not wanting to give up just yet. Seeing the big puppy dog eyes you give him, he grits his teeth, tensing up. He falter's for a moment. He was always sucker for those big puppy dog eyes of yours. You knew how to make him crumble.

"No, no, no, don't give me that look." He tries to resist.

"Please, Aegon."

"No. Stop that." He shakes his head, "Stop that right now. I demand you stop that."

"I..I want to go home, Aegon. Please, take me home." You beg, sniffling.

Letting out an exasperated groan at you begging and pleading to go home, he begrudgingly agrees to it, knowing that it would be no fun if you cried the entire time. Scowling like a child who had its toy taken away, he loosens his grip on you, putting you back down onto your feet. One day he’d get you on dragonback. Sadly, just not today.

"Aegon, please, I want to go home." You whimper, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks.

“Fine, fine, stop crying.” He grumbles, “But next time, we are going to actually get on the dragon.”

---

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@nightvers

@zaldritzosrose

[thought--bubble]

Upon his Brother's Table

Aemond X (Aegon's betrothed Reader)

Warnings below

Word Count: 1,748

Canon Aemond Master List

Full Master List

MDNI Banners & dividers by @arcielee

*Just a little something i put together for @queen--kenobi 's table sex event. I had to contribute to the petty. It was too good!

Warnings: Infidelity, choking, unprotected P in V, Dub-con. Potential spoilers of future events

Aemond paces back and forth, his heels clicking against the cold stone floor in the council room, his face is flushed, and his composure is nearly gone. Not a look one would usually see on Aemond, but his patience has been pushed to the brink.

"I served him... LOYALLY!" The anger radiates off him in waves as you stay seated, quietly allowing him to vent his frustrations.

"I gave everything for his cause. Would have died for his cause. Almost did die for his cause and this ...... this is how he repays me? By taking from me that which is rightfully mine?"

You flinch as he brings his fists down harshly upon the council table.

You were speechless, shocked by this turn of events. Your betrothal to Prince Aemond at the start of the war was nothing more than a political match. A way for the crown to guarantee that your father's armies and banners would ride for King Aegon II and not the pretender Queen Rhaenyra.

When Queen Heleana perished during the war, you never thought King Aegon would then change your betrothal from his brother, the prince, to himself, though your father was elated. With the deaths of his sons, the King needed an heir, and with you as his betrothed and soon to be wife, it would be your duty to give him one. Putting your family's blood on the throne. A thought that had your father salivating but had the one-eyed prince seething.

You sat disinterested as Aemond hisses in anger, pacing the length of the council table in continuum.

"All of these things are his because of me." The amount of hatred stitched into each and every word that comes from his mouth is evident.

"The red keep is his because of me, the kingdom is his because of me, the throne is his because of me......"

He stops in his tracks and turns to look at you. His one violet eye pierces through you, causing you to stiffen in your seat.

"You are his because I dragged him from death's door and brought him here." He clenches his teeth tightly, the muscles in his jaw flexing with the tension.

"And he sees fit to take you from me? As if I lost nothing fighting this war in his name!" He stalks toward you, pulling you up to your feet by the thin material of the front of your dress.

"My prince!" You squeak out in shock at his brazen move.

"I will have what is mine." With a growl, he lifts and tosses you on the table. Papers and other random items scatter to the floor as he climbs up onto the table, hovering above you.

"Your maidenhead was promised to me." He shuffles the layers of your dress up to your hips hurriedly as you lay still beneath him.

You know you should scream, kick, tell him to stop, but a type of morbid curiosity keeps you silent. Your eyes follow his fingers. Making a mental log of each movement they make from rucking up your skirts to the quick movement of curling around your small clothes and the subsequent tug of the material down your legs.

"Will you not try and stop me then?" He huffs as his grip tightens around the flesh of your thighs.

"I believe you are a good man, Prince Aemond. I do not believe you will go through with this. Thus, there is no need to fight. " You portray confidence in your words, only the slight tremble in your legs gives away your nervousness, yet the clever Prince Aemond is never one to miss signs such as these, no matter how subtle.

He smirks, it would be beautiful if it weren’t so condescending.

"Then you are more of a fool than I took you to be," he pulls your thighs up around him, resting one on each side of his hips while he leans back on his haunches.

"I am going to take you, my lady. Right here upon my brother's table." He lifts one hand from your thigh and slides it against the sleek treated wood of the table beneath you. "The table that is his only due to my own efforts."

He brings one hand to the laces of his breeches, skillfully taking apart the small knot, keeping them closed and tight to his lithe frame. His other hand remains on your thigh, intermittently squeezing at the soft flesh there.

He grunts quietly as he frees his cock from its confines, slowly pumping himself to full hardness.

"I will not be gentle, so I advise you to hold on."

He reaches down to your heat with his free hand, rubbing your clit with his thumb in rough circles.

You can't help but release a small gasp at his touch.  As your brain was telling you to stop this, to make him stop, your body was betraying you.

Your back arched up off the hard table beneath you, your hips canting into his rough touch.

"We...... should not. " You finally huff out between wanton sighs.

"But we shall," he growls back, removing his hand from your heat and gripping your hips tight, slightly lifting your bottom half from the table and into his lap.

Your eyes slightly roll back when you feel him press the fat, throbbing tip of his cock against your entrance.

"You mustn't!" Even as you say this, you make no moves to get away from him, even as you feel him continue to push into you, splitting you apart in a way that is painful yet satisfying.

"Oh, but I must," he says through gritted teeth, pushing himself further into your clenching tunnel. "A point must be made."

He lets out a low growl as he bottoms out, stilling inside of you. You take this as a small gesture of kindness. He must not want to hurt you. That is, at the very least, a good sign.

As the pain starts to subside and is replaced by an overwhelming feeling of fullness, you move your hips, and he chuckles.

"Ahh, I see you are ready now, my lady" he pulls his hips back his cock sliding effortlessly out from you before he pistons himself back into you, his pace growing more fervent with every thrust.

The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through the otherwise quiet space, the only other sounds being your heavy breathing and the squeaking of the table legs beneath you.

"Tell me, sweet girl," he snarls as he grips your hips tight, slamming into you harshly. "How does it feel to be fucked by the great Prince Aemond? Mighty warrior? Hmm?"

You attempt to focus your eyes on the ethereal man above you, sweet drips down his brow, and his eyes rest on the place where you are so intimately connected.

"I....... I" your words fail you. Only a stutter and moans can be heard.

Aemond licks his thumb before bringing it against your pearl, resuming his earlier ministrations, and chuckles darkly as your legs twitch around him.

"Speechless, I see... it gladdens me to know how grateful you are, that I have allowed you such an experience" his other hand leaves your hip and slides up the length of your body until it rests upon your throat which he uses to hold you in place, thrusting into you ever harder.

Your legs clench around him tightly as a pressure builds in your lower stomach, as unfamiliar as the feeling is you find the stronger it gets, the more desperate you become clawing at the prince attempting to bring him closer to you, to feel more of him on your skin.

"Aweeee," he coos, "and now you beg for me? How darling." His condescending smirk returns as his thrusts get harsher, and the grip around your throat tightens.

"Now thank me," he demands, his hips moving faster and that coiling in your stomach reaching a fever pitch.

"T-thank you!" As the words leave your lips, the coil snaps, and your entire body tenses.

Your back arches off the table as if you are being lifted by something unseen, and the control you have over your own body has been snatched away from you.

 Aemond throws his own head back, gripping your throat tightly as he chases his own end.

"And here is yet another gift I bestow upon my ungrateful brother." his words come out as a hiss, his thrusts getting sloppier and more desperate.

He gasps loudly as his hips still pushing himself into you as far as he can possibly go.

A warmth can be felt spreading through you, a strange yet calming sensation that sees your limbs finally settle back on the hard table beneath you.

As quickly as your calmness came, it was gone, Aemond pulled himself from your body, quickly pulling up his breeches and getting off the table.

As he fixes the strings and his doublet putting everything back into place, he finds you still sprawled across the tabletop, his spend dripping from your abused cunt.

"You need to get up and compose yourself. Someone could enter at any minute." He says gruffly while tossing your small clothes onto your stomach.

You sit at the edge of the table and slide the fabric back up your legs covering the sticky mess he had left behind.

When he was confident you looked presentable, he took a few quick strides toward the council room doors, no doubt making a hasty exit.

"What was the final gift?" The words flew from your mouth before you had a chance to think it through.

"Come again?" He turns back to look at you, his one violet eye meets yours. You see no guilt, no pride, no anger. Indifference is what it looked like. He had returned to that emotionless stoic prince you had seen haunting the halls of the red keep like a specter.

"You said earlier. That you were bestowing yet another gift upon your brother. What was the gift?"

He chuckles again, a smile that actually reaches his eyes.

"An heir, planted in your womb this day, to sit upon the throne I won him." He doesn't wait for any further response from you and opens the door, escaping out into the corridor and disappearing from sight.

Leaving you alone and visibly shaken. Your body is held up only by leaning on your arm that rests upon his brother's table.

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