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girlsworldillusion · 1 month ago

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Scream for me little lamb (FINAL PART)

PART ONE HERE

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What could possibly go wrong after all?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 15k (fuck, that's it, I'm physically incapable of writing something succinct)

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND ROUGH SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post.

Please do not mistake this for a love story. The reader clearly suffers from a serious level of emotional instability and the abuser takes advantage of this fragility to threaten and use her. This is NOT healthy and NOT romantic in any way and I obviously do NOT agree with this attitude in real life. This is just a FICTIONAL HISTORY and it is only in this context that something like this can be tolerated. The tags are all there however and if you do not feel comfortable reading something like this, there is no need to leave any derogatory comments. JUST DON'T READ IT.

To those who stay, enjoy reading!

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

In the previous chapter:

And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims. You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty holes. The knowledge that there is no way out of the room is painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders stretching almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here was if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

----

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your head tilts down discreetly. Submission. It’s instinctive, really. Your body knows what this man is capable of, remembers the brutal, bloody state his victims were found in. You don’t want that fate for yourself.

He hums at that, pleased with your pliant reaction - and you blush at the raw humiliation of feeling so inferior to someone else.

“So good, sweetie.”

He sighs ecstatically, pushing the two of you deep into the bathroom just enough to close the door, the click of the key locking it sounding purposefully loud. You feel the shape of an invisible hand holding your beating heart between its fingers, your breath coming in shallow huffs through your lips. He’s locked you in here, with him.

How did this happen? How did you, probably the only person who was actually taking this whole police alert about a serial killer on the loose seriously, end up here? How the hell is this possible, God?

Your phone vibrates from where it's on the floor and you jump in fright, the screen facing down doesn't allow you to see who's calling when you look at it. But it doesn't matter. You immediately look up at the man, see how he understands what you're going to do before it even happens; his ghostly face tilts toward the ceiling, an almost disappointed sigh sounding from beneath the mask.

"I praised you too soon, right?"

It turns out that if showing their fragile parts to a predator seeking mercy and lowering the head in submission is a natural primal instinct when there's seemingly no escape, then it's also a natural instinct to act immediately when a glimmer of hope and survival appears.

And your phone ringing is a glimmer of hope.

You dive to where it lies with your heart racing, desperate for the opportunity to warn someone of your situation and get help. But your fingers barely graze the object before a large hand grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head, holding you in place before you can reach it.

On your knees on the bathroom tile, you’re thrashing hysterically in his iron grip, ugly sobs of pain escaping your lips with each rough tug at the roots of your hair.

“No! Let me go, please! HELP!” You scream as loud as you can, hoping it’s enough to alert someone outside, even though the obnoxiously loud music downstairs limits your chances to almost zero. You barely register the heavy thud of the knife hitting the floor as you open your mouth to scream louder, your voice muffled by another heavy hand slamming into your mouth, the leather of his glove squeezing your lips and cheeks until they hurt.

He lifts you to your feet with just his grip on your hair, your scream of agony once again muffled by his gloved fingers. The man doesn't let you go even when he reaches the bathroom sink, where he practically throws you against the counter, your hip bones jarring sharply with the impact. You slip a little in pain, shaking hands gripping his wrist as you claw desperately to make him release your mouth, staring in horror at the shadowy figure behind your body.

Your heartbeat is roaring loudly in your ears as you cease the attack and stare at the dark, empty eyes of the mask in the mirror, his body against yours.

The indigo lighting makes his presence even more sinister, shadowing a tall, frightening silhouette looming over you like a mythological god of death, dressed all in black. Except, of course, for his bizarre mask with sunken, innocuous eyes, like black holes etched in an agonized expression, the mouth dark and open in an eternal silent scream. The material of the mask is so white that it contrasts exaggeratedly against the black background covering his body, even in the violet light of the bathroom. Over his head he wears a wide hood that frames his mask and gathers around the long line of his strong shoulders like an ominous shawl, followed below by a kind of ragged-looking tunic, long sleeves on each arm, a subtle tightening around his waist, deliberately highlighting the defined plane of his abdomen. Below his waist, the tunic continues flowing to his ankles, with an opening running the length of each leg clad in trousers - to allow ease of movement, you presume. He needs agility to stalk students and kill them mercilessly, after all. To finish off the somber look, he wears military boots on his feet, intricate lines of laces running the length of them.

"How about you and I play a little game?" He asks close to your ear, white mask poking the side of your face, empty eyes staring at your reflection in the mirror. You struggle to breathe between the gaps of his fingers on your face, your eyes growing moist as the desperate situation truly sinks in.

"A really fun little game called 'don't scream when I let go of your mouth and in return I won't decorate the floor with your entrails'. How does that sound?" The way he says it, casual and easy, rivals the cruel grip on your hair, or the way his fingers press into the flesh of your cheeks until you squeal in pain.

The smell of blood surrounds you again, the same metallic, damp smell you felt when you were near the dripping knife he had between his fingers, and your senses seem to be heightened by the adrenaline flooding your veins. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the smell is coming from him this time. From his clothes, you notice, as if the slimy stuff had been splattered across much of the shadowy fabric covering his body. And it was. You know it was.

Who was the victim tonight? Who was stabbed so brutally that their blood splattered like ketchup all over this monster’s clothes?

Would you suffer the same fate?

“I asked you a question, princess. Do you want to play with me or not?” He presses, a hint of impatience in his voice, the already crushing grip on your scalp tightening even more.

You nod as best you can at the restraint of his fingers in your hair and mouth, pretending you actually have some say in this, salty tears sliding down your waterline with the shaky movement.

“Good girl.”

He laughs close to your ear, a low, dark — but happy — tremor. He’s enjoying himself, basking in the satisfaction of your scared, teary expression. He’s insane.

“That’s it, love, isn’t it so much easier this way?” He purrs as he loosens his grip on your mouth, the back of his index finger massaging your cheek as you practically choke on the breath that vibrates too raggedly through your newly freed lips. He towers over you, watches you in the mirror with predatory focus - sees you struggle to keep yourself together, fresh tears dripping from your lower lashes, wetting the leather of the glove on his finger. “Mmm, you look so good like this, it makes me so fucking hard to see your tears fall for me.”

“Oh my God…” you choke, absolutely terrified at the man’s sickening sincerity, your eyes wide and wet, face to face with the singular reason for your nightmares.

“Shh,” he takes a step closer to you, pinning you even tighter against the sink counter and his body, letting you feel the undeniable truth in his earlier statement — the thick tent in his pants digging into your lower back until you whimper out a sharp sound, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.”

You find yourself subtly wilting at the dangerous warning, though more out of sheer horror than subservience.

“A-are you going to kill me?” Your voice cracks at the end, scared and shrill; the sound of someone truly cornered — a little mouse caught in a cruel glue trap, just awaiting its inevitable end.

“Now, that wouldn't be fun, would it?” he pretends to ponder, his gloved fingertip drumming over your jaw now, down to your cheek, and you’re shaking so hard you think you might be shaking his body along with yours. “Oh no, I could never kill you. Hurt you? Yeah, maybe. But killing my little girl? That's a big nope to me.”

If he thought that would bring you any comfort, then he was sorely mistaken.

He grabs your face before you can properly react to his frightening words, his large, strong hand barely needing to exert much effort to do so, eclipsing your delicate features with his long fingers, the endless darkness of the glove contrasting with your skin. He squeezes your cheeks together until your lips purse into a fishy pout, forces your jaw up so you meet the blank stare of his mask in the mirror - and all you can do is cringe under his dangerous aura.

“Look at that, aren’t you the cutest little thing?”

You definitely don’t like the tone he uses, the easygoing, smug way he holds himself above you; as if he knows there’s absolutely nothing you can do to free yourself from his grasp, completely at his mercy. Chest thrusting into you, muscular thighs encasing your hips, hips pressed against your ass; keeping you in place. You try to claw at his wrist again, just to confirm the horrifying fact that no, he’s not going anywhere.

The grip on your cheeks loosens as he slides his hand to your throat, gloved fingers curling to rest over the hysterically pulsing vessels on either side, completely encircling the slender column of your neck with elongated digits like spider legs. He doesn’t apply any real pressure, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to. As he holds your gaze in the reflection with those cold, dark circles of his ghostly mask, the threat of his vast capacity for violence hangs as heavily as he does over your body.

He could rip you apart, right here and now. He could sink his sharp teeth into your neck like a dog would a chew toy, shaking your stuffed body between his jaws until only foam and patches remain.

The paralyzing fear is an increasingly real sensation in your chest, the cold curtain of numbness lifting on your skin and you swallow hard, your throat working under his fingers. Your heart pounds violently, so hard you can feel it in your ears, in your skull. Your eyes flutter in the mirror and your breath is just a broken whistle between your lips. He's pushing you straight into what will be a second episode in the same night, an unprecedented feat in your life - as fucked up as it has been so far.

"W-wait, please I-" You gasp, pulling at his grip messily, already feeling the spiral of panic wrapping around your thoughts like a vise, the claustrophobic noose that is the feeling of total inability to control yourself tightening around your throat.

"Cut that shit, little girl." Your tormentor breathes close to your ear, firm and authoritative, almost sullen as he stares into your terrified eyes in the mirror, his fingers on your throat squeezing slightly - just enough to make you feel it. "You're staying here with me, understand? It was cute the first time, but I don't want to hear about that shit now. I have much more interesting things to do with you than watch that pretty little head go somewhere I can't reach it. Yeah, I'm a selfish guy like that."

He finishes with a dry laugh and you don't know what's worse; his complete disrespect in describing your very real and very traumatic panic attack as something 'cute' or his incorrect assumption that you had a choice in this - that you could simply stop it from happening.

The grip on your throat is tighter now, your breathing becoming severely labored. His hand wraps around your throat and presses hard enough to make you struggle to breathe. You buck and push, running on pure instinct even though your efforts are restrained by his strength, the blood on his black robes spreading across your body like an artist’s brushstrokes in movement.

The notion that this man killed someone before coming to you is there once more, even more prominent now, pounding in your head like blows from a hammer.

“Relax, damn it, or I’ll make you.” He continues his unreasonable demand, squeezing his grip to press you against his chest until you feel every heated inch of him against your body, especially the disturbing way the thick line of his cock inevitably pushes and presses into your lower back with each sharp breath.

You want to scream at him and tell him that what he’s doing is the complete opposite of encouraging you to relax. But anxiety courses through your veins and your eyes close, spilling salty tears. You see grotesque shadows and demons you never thought you would see behind the darkness of your eyelids. It suffocates you, terrifies you, makes you tremble. You can’t move, you can’t escape, you can’t even open your eyes; you can only feel. Your heart is about to explode. You can’t hear anything. Your head hurts and your mind starts to shut down. That’s it, you’re falling again.

And then you feel your body shaking uncontrollably, something crawling under your skin like a lazy parasite. It’s not bad and that’s the first warning sign. Your temporarily inert mind, shut down for God knows how long, restarts with a slow trickle, your breathing becoming a little less hyperventilating and more...warm? However, you can’t force yourself to open your eyes yet, you can’t hear anything around you, you can’t even deduce what’s happening beyond the dark barrier of your closed eyelids. You feel strangely calmer, but filled to the brim with confused apprehension.

You shiver as the strange sensation comes on stronger, sticky molasses coursing through your veins, warming your belly to bring your mind back to reality.

Brought back....

When your eyes open, lethargic and sleepy, tears still blur your hazy vision until you can stare once more at the killer's ghostly mask.

“Welcome back, princess…” The tall man speaks and even hidden under the mask you know he’s smiling. His upper body is hunched over, wrapping your body in a sort of unwanted intimate cocoon. One of his arms is around your torso, keeping both of your arms firmly attached to your sides as if you were a Barbie doll, his other arm stretched down, beyond the visible limits of the mirror. You try to cast your eyes down to see where his hand is, a bad feeling in your chest, but your vision is fuzzy, swimming in dizziness and inconstancy. The threat of a second episode has drained the little strength that was left in your body.

You might even feel compelled to show gratitude for having escaped the oppressive spiral of a new crisis before it reached critical levels. Except something doesn’t feel right.

“W-what?” You ask in a thin voice, your head spinning with tiredness, your body kept upright only by the sink counter and the pressure the man exerts on your back. Feels wrong. You feel like you’re going to throw up at any moment. Your body is begging you to lie down and take a nap for an entire year. It’s a different kind of hysteria, you realize, like you’ve escaped one panic attack only to fall into another completely different one.

Heavy breaths rush from your mouth and your tongue feels sticky and dry as you try to swallow, squinting back into the mirror, trying to piece together the fragmented pieces of information in front of you to make sense of what’s happening.

He’s looking at you too. Even hidden beneath that mask, you feel his gaze burning into your reflection, drinking in the drunken confusion etched on your face, the fear — the shiver of unwanted pleasure that rips through your body like an invisible knife.

What’s happening?

You want to scream.

As you gaze up at him from beneath damp lashes, the burning sensation in your body seems to creep upon itself, gradually merging with the nerves in your belly as something warm and syrupy — needy — pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby. See how much relaxed you are now?” He purrs with lazy irony, savoring each syllable on his tongue like an addictive candy. “Of course you did, the baby just needed something different to focus that little head of her on.”

There’s a gentle but rhythmic swaying of the muscles along his arm, you notice with your eyes locked on the mirror, a disturbingly familiar movement — and a shiver of wet pleasure licks up your spine as you squint, a very instinctive, primal part of your brain finally breaking through the hazy fog to scream that it knows exactly where his hand is.

Your awareness of the world around you returns like a punch to the gut, painful and suffocating, as you feel the leather of his glove between your legs.

"N-no! No, please, I don't want to-" You stammer, tired and scared beyond belief, struggling to escape the man, but his grip around you is like a heavy chain, his arm still keeping yours locked tightly at your sides.

This man has somehow managed to rescue you from a traumatic encounter with your own demons, only to plunge you into a different kind of terror - one even more agonizing.

Your sobbed protests mean nothing in the face of the killer's sick desires, as he languidly slides two of his fingers in a V around your clit, up and down. A shiver runs through you, your thighs instinctively clenching around his hand, a reaction that in turn elicits an amused chuckle from the man.

You shake and beg louder as he continues to rub your pussy, his hand writhing inside the tiny shorts you wear under your costume skirt, ignoring your breathy sobs and whimpers as if you were just a cute, whiny puppy. You shiver, your inner walls clenching around nothing with each lick of his fingers around your clit, reacting against your will to his teasing touches.

A haze of fear and pleasure takes over your mind as you shake your head, struggling to breathe through your nose to keep from passing out. It all feels too much and yet not enough, your hands twitching nonstop where they’re held, your body shaking from head to toe. Your blood runs thick as you stare at him in the mirror, begging in a way. Trying to say anything, since your voice doesn’t even seem to work with the overwhelming wave of feelings coursing through you. Your lips just part, nothing but a wordless plea.

“Oh, poor girl, don’t struggle so much…just relax, I’ll take such good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything but staying there and being soft and pretty for me. Let me think of everything else.” He sings condescendingly, the elongated tip of the ghostly mask’s chin appearing in your line of vision as he rests his jaw on your shoulder, the material of the hood brushing against the side of your flushed face.

His scent is enveloping you like a chokehold now; rich, clotted blood, running red and still warm on his clothing — which is now permanently stained on your costume as well, to your horror. But beneath all that disturbing scent of wet iron, there are also notes of crackling, mossy sandalwood and something fresh, citrusy like lemons or bergamots.

If it weren’t for the blood trying so hard to overwhelm everything else, his scent would be pleasant, your clouded mind realizes, seductive even.

The sight before you is breathtaking, to say the least - and not in a pleasant way.

A pathetic, broken little girl is crying, her cheeks red and streaked with tears, her eyes drunk and her brows furrowed in anguish. On her body she wears a foolish Sailor Mars costume that barely covers her body, a stupid thing she didn't even want to wear in the first place, the fabric of the red skirt draped in front of her thighs swaying suggestively, right where the hand of the man behind her remains hidden. The man in question, a vicious killer highly wanted by the police, covers her almost completely with his tall frame and black robes - a stark contrast to the girl's almost childish outfit. The white mask on his face rests on her shoulder, his long arm caging her small body close to his, touching every part he can reach as he squeezes and caresses her as if he would die without it. It's almost romantic, in theory, but horrifying and frightening when you know what's really happening.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, refusing to look down and confirm what your nerves and body already know all too well is happening. Fear grips your throat so tightly that you shake like a leaf, tears streaming from your eyes as you feel his first finger delve inside you.

It should hurt. The rough material of the glove in direct contact with such an entirely sensitive part of your body should be uncomfortable, at the very least. But it isn’t. There’s something aiding your endeavor, your hindbrain adds as his finger sinks in all the way to the first knuckle with just a little pressure from his wrist. There’s something sticky and thick there along with his finger, messing with your folds with humiliating sounds — spit, probably.

“Please…stop—” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly you swear constellations explode in the darkness of your eyelids.

“You know,” he begins, ignoring your foolish plea, impatient as he pushes his finger the rest of the way into your trembling, clenching walls until you squeak out a sob, body tensing like a bow beneath his. “There’s a look on people’s faces that I meet. A hysterical, helpless look when they realize that this is the end for them. No matter how much they’ve resisted and fought, they all get that look when the time comes. It’s not exactly a look of begging for mercy. No, they’re usually past that point at this moment.” His chuckle is nothing short of disturbing near your ear, the arm around your waist rising so that he can grab a thick fistful of your hair between his fingers and squeeze until you cry out loudly at the sharp pain and open your eyes, obeying his silent demand to face him once more through the mirror.

“No, it’s not a plea for mercy, sweetie. It’s just a anguished conformity, you know? A part of them even wants to hold out longer, out of instinct I guess, but deep down they know it’s useless. They just know it’s over for them. And that’s when that look appears.”

Your breath hitches visibly as he slides a second finger alongside the first.

“It’s the same look you have now. That look of pure agony and submission on your face, all because you just know you can’t escape me...mmm,” He’s closer than ever, rubbing the mask on the side of your face, and all you can think is that he’s right. As much as your body tells you to run, you know there’s no way you can outrun him, he’s unfortunately more capable than you in every way that matters right now.

He presses himself even closer to your body, his voice slurred in your ear.

“You make me so fucking horny, baby.”

He’s not slow, much less gentle when he moves his fingers inside you. He fucks you with them seriously from the first few seconds, curling them each time he sinks back into your heat, your walls clenching around him, warring to adjust to the unexpected assault. Your cries of pain are interrupted by small involuntary moans and gasps every time he presses too deep inside you, finding a spot that makes you dizzy, held only by his painful grip on your hair. You bite your lip, struggling to keep the noises inside.

He makes a grunting sound, tongue clicking disapprovingly beneath his mask.

“None of that, princess. Let me hear those beautiful sounds. They’re there because of me, I cultivated them...they’re all mine.” Your head falls back on his shoulder as he suddenly moves his hand down your clavicle, long fingers pushing aside the fluffy purple lace of your costume to grip one of your breasts tightly. “You’re all mine.” Even over the fabric of your clothes, his grip on your breast is possessive, and you wish your arms would fight back when he starts dragging his palm across your nipple, prickling it until it becomes a sensitive little peak. But all you can do is lift your hands to rest them on the counter, your head still thrown back against his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, his thumb now rubbing against the nub of your nipple with small flicks that send a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. “I knew you’d be perfect. So pathetic to me, baby. You feel so good…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, a muffled sob escaping your lips as he pushes your body forward, making you arch into the counter, his larger body pressed against your back, his hands still glued to their respective places. He curls his fingers into your pussy, a small moan leaving you, and begins to pound against your back. He keeps you bent over as he thrusts his clothed cock between your ass cheeks, each rough thrust pushing another inch of your skirt up your hips.

“Spread your legs for me,” he pants next to your ear. When you tense and don’t comply immediately, the hand on your breast squeezes so hard it actually hurts. “Are you going to make me repeat myself, princess? Every second you make me wait, I get more impatient. Are you sure you want to see me impatient?”

You quickly part your legs, the action causing his fingers to dig deeper between your swollen walls with each hard thrust, wet sounds sounding too loud in the cramped bathroom. His hips move against your back in rough motions, grinding up and down, causing heat to spread throughout your body until your head is spinning, broken sounds leaving your lips. The gummy walls of your pussy contract around his fingers and he growls as he ravages your body like it belongs to him.

You feel good and horrible.

Blood on fire, nerves on fire, you breathe as a way to steady yourself in this moment of maddening agony. You are uncomfortable in every way possible in the given situation, and oh how it fills the void in your soul with something...alive.

Here, at the mercy of this killer's cruel hands, you feel alive for the first time in what feels like forever. It's horrible and unwelcome and scary as hell, but it's also absolutely electrifying.

How fucked up is your mind anyway?

The man continues to grind into your ass with every heated inch of his cock, the movement of his fingers in your pussy quickening, the heel of his gloved hand rubbing relentlessly against your clit in this position. The hand on your breast doesn't stop teasing your nipple, poking and pinching. With every noise he pulls from you, his movement becomes faster, hips matching the rhythm of his fingers in your intimacy. As if you were egging him on. You whimper, squeezing him so hard you could tell you were trying to keep him out, but the action only serves to heighten the sickening pleasure coiling in your stomach.

“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting his fingers in and out, in and out, watching in the mirror as your face contorts with pleasure. “So good. Feeling so good to me. You squeeze my fingers so hard, princess. Fuck. That’s my good fucking girl, yeah?”

Admittedly someone with a blatant emotional inability to accept any kind of compliment — especially one from a fucking serial killer who’s currently keeping you impaled on his fingers while grinding his cock into your ass and making you cry like he’s getting paid to — you slump your shoulders and pant, staring wide-eyed at the man, your rapid breathing fogging the glass of the mirror. His words sink into your bones, stoking the rising heat in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around his fingers again. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing his masked face against your burning cheek.

“Do you like that, you filthy slut? Do you like when I tell you how good you feel? Hell, you’re fucking squeezing me. Your pretty little pussy wants me so bad.”

Your eyelashes flutter and your breathing becomes more ragged; fear, pleasure, and pain combine into one intense experience, and you realize with horror that you’re approaching orgasm. It’s humiliating, but it doesn’t stop you from tentatively moving your own hips against his palm, seeking more friction on your little clit as heated tears roll down your cheeks.

‘No, no, no, please.’ You whimper to yourself, eyes nearly rolling into the back of the head as you arch your ass into his hips in involuntary response to the inescapable, frenzied sensation coursing through your body.

“The poor baby’s gonna cum.” He chuckles, though his own voice is breathy, wild. “Yeah, gonna make a fucking mess of that pussy and get it all nice and wet for my cock, right?” He growls wickedly between his chuckles, pushing your body forward with each hard drag of his cock into your ass, grinding the leather of his glove into your clit as he repeatedly hits the same sensitive spot in your cunt.

You can’t take it anymore, your clenched jaw slackening as you begin to give in to the pleasure. The overwhelming wave of your coming orgasm is visible on the horizon and you can’t do anything but stare at it head on, waiting helplessly to be absolutely swept away by it.

"Ah ah, fuck!" You cry out between parted lips, viciously squeezing the edge of the counter between your fingers, losing control over your body, unable to stop yourself from moaning lewdly in time with the forced climax.

With one last flick of his fingers and a pinch to your nipple, you have no choice but to stare blankly into the mirror as you shatter into a thousand pathetic pieces with a strangled scream. The trembling of your inner thighs is quickly followed by your toes curling inside the red boots of the costume as you cum hard around the masked killer's fingers.

Your pussy quivers violently as he shakes with laughter against your body, with a dose of sincere joy that you would find almost childish if it weren't for the obscene way he is still thrusting his cock into your back. He continues to finger fuck you throughout your orgasm, leaving you gasping and writhing in shocks of pleasure, your eyes wide and wet in the mirror.

“Please stop, that’s enough-” You gasp, your legs locking from the overstimulation as he continues to work your clit mercilessly. “P-please, I’ll do anything, please just stop! Stop now -"

You're interrupted as a whirlwind of dizzying events ensues; one moment he's fingering your pussy to overstimulation with no intention of stopping - the next he's pulling his fingers from your quivering walls with such force that it elicits a shocked gasp from you. Your body is suddenly spun around and your back slams painfully into the mirror with an impact strong enough to crack the glass into several sharp ridges on your back, small shards getting stuck in the back of your costume. You have half a second to scream at the dangerous sensation before he's straightening you up on the counter, his body wedging between your parted legs before you can even react and close them.

You're still trying to figure out what happened; how he managed to just lift you into the air and slam you into the counter like you weighed nothing. How he was so quick to do it and, most importantly, what motivated him to do it. But all is forgotten when he grabs your neck between his fingers, roughly pulling your face closer to his until you're face to face with that ghostly mask.

But there's no fake face in the world that can hide the anger bubbling through the man's pores. A feeling so obvious, intense and abrupt that it makes you shiver and try to pull away reflexively, but his grip won't let you go anywhere. His already undeniably imposing figure straightens to its full height, intimidating and dangerous, a ominous and dark aura that encircles your body like a spool of doom.

"Stop? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me when to stop? Do you know who decides when we stop, you bitch? Me! That fucking cunt belongs to me. It's mine as fuck and you're not going to tell me when I should or shouldn't touch it. Because your whole body, your mind, your fucking soul, is mine. Mine."

He curses and bites acidly right in front of your face and fear hits you all at once, absolutely terrifying: the way he’s panting under his mask and hissing with barely contained rage, the way your name leaves his lips in a heated growl. A direct threat from a mindless animal. It’s all clear — so, so clear.

He’s dangerous and unstable and horrible and you can’t escape him.

Your hands start to tug at his wrist, pushing him away, already sensing what’s coming - and it really comes. Ignoring your futile attempt to push him away, the hand on your throat tightens. His fingers press, cutting off the air, squeezing and hurting your flesh. Your windpipe is tightly caged between his palm and thumb and he shows no hesitation as he presses hard, suffocating you with a cruel grip.

Now, unlike his outburst of anger a few seconds ago, with your life literally being measured in his hands, he becomes the cold and indifferent embodiment of his alias, watching your fight as if it were nothing new.

It isn't.

The world around you begins to spin as you feel dizzy, your head swimming and spinning as your heart beats uselessly against the finger over your carotid artery, numb lips and throat working ever more slowly beneath his hand. Your struggle is over, as meaningless as it was to begin with.

You surrender to this ghost, dropping his hands from his wrist and letting your body go limp beneath him.

The monster senses your surrender, humming contently at your soft submission, even though you are barely conscious enough to notice. The grip on your throat loosens and you instinctively tilt your head away from his grasp, gasping for breath in desperate noises, coughing and spitting as tears spill over in response to the throbbing sting in the circumference of your throat. You feel a large hand stroke your hair as you struggle to catch your breath; and the almost patronizing touch, as horrible and unwelcome as it is, grounds you for a moment, helping you gradually transform your rapid, labored breathing into deep sighs.

"Don't forget what I'm going to say now and maybe we won't have to go through this again, princess:" He whisper at you with serious voice. "You're mine. For better or worse. You're mine."

The hand in your hair moves forward, tangling in the strands, massaging your skull, and it's probably just the hazy haze of suffocation that keeps you from noticing his next move, but it's the feel of a gentle, wet kiss on the bruised line his fingers have left on your skin that makes you conscious once more. He holds your head firmly by the hair, preventing you from moving to get a better look, but it's immediately clear that he's pushed the mask up enough to expose his lips, which continue to slide along the curve of your neck and jaw.

Your ears are throbbing with the pounding of your heart as you stare over the killer’s shoulder at the wall across the bathroom with wide eyes – the man blowing puffs of pure wet heat across your skin to leave goosebumps in his wake. His mouth is undesirably soft and delicate on your bruised skin (pleasant really, you’d say, if you weren’t, well…in the situation you’re in), his other hand coming up so he can rub his thumb across your lips, slowly parting them until he pokes your teeth with the tip of his glove.

“Open that pretty mouth and show me you know it, sweet little slut.” He whispers the degradation with a noticeably lessened dose of hatred than before – low and breathy, his mouth on your cheek, his thumb pulling away to run his index and middle fingers across your parted lips.

His breath bathes your skin in wet heat, the refreshing scent of some mint gum he chewed recently still there. (He was chewing a damn piece of gum while he murdered someone, your mind completes in full hysterics. Brutally piercing some poor student's insides with the sharp blade of that knife while he carelessly rolls the soft gum between his teeth. He's sick, sick, sick.)

"Suck them clean." He orders, cutting through the murky waters of your wandering mind as pushes two fingers onto the flat of your tongue, forcing you to accept the invasion.

It's on autopilot that you register the strong, smoky taste of leather mixed with the familiar taste of your arousal, which still glistens with the fresh wetness of your orgasm on the surface of his glove. You squeeze your eyes shut, gagging more at the sheer depravity of the act than the intrusion itself.

"That's it, princess. So beautiful like this, taking my fingers like a good girl..." he pulls his face away to look at yours, smiling at your fearful gaze; you close the lips around his fingers, sucking and licking slowly at the soft leather of the glove as you clean your own taste from the material as if you meant it - even as the tears keep falling. All you can see in the purple lighting of the bathroom is the lower half of his face and even that is partial, the white mask resting on his nose shadowing what little skin is visible. Despite that, it is evident how his smile stretches, wide and mischievous - pearly teeth slightly crooked at the front, canines sharp and shiny, like those of a cunning predator that has caught up with its prey.

His grip on your hair tightens to keep you still, his fingers coming to life as he thrusts slowly, out and in and out and in, into the cozy warmth of your mouth. You choke around him, saliva pooling between teeth and flesh as he pushes your tongue down, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy — each slow stroke pushing deeper, until you feel the tips of both his fingers sliding down your throat.

“God, I want to feel so bad that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock,” he sighs, his gaze locked on yours, fascinated by your gasps and sobs, his smile slowly dying so he can bite his lip as he hums dreamily, “you’re going to be so good to me, I just know it.”

Your wet gaze is half-lidded, mouth slack and full, only giving in to the forced intrusion when you feel him gather the strands of your hair into a messy ponytail in his other hand to pull and push your head along his now-still fingers - the explicit and purposeful parallel of the depraved act with another very unique one does not go unnoticed.

He's guiding the rhythm of your head as if he is dictating how you suck his cock.

It is humiliating; a byproduct of male dominance that is offensive and filthy in its most brutal form. You hate every damn second of this silent abuse. But your pussy seems to have a mind of its own, because with each forced thrust against the saliva-soaked leather of the glove, it clenches a little tighter around nothing, demanding attention.

You whimper at the betrayal of your own body, mouth stuffed and saliva beginning to drip down your lips and chin.

When he withdraws his fingers from between your lips, it is with calculated slowness, prolonging the elasticity of a thick thread of saliva that remains joining the digits in the glove to your loose tongue. He grunts a satisfied sound at the debauched sight, lowering his face to stretch out his own tongue and break the sticky bond after a few seconds of contemplation, licking the saliva accumulated on your chin upwards with a greedy drag of the wet and hot muscle, lighting flames of embarrassment on your cheeks.

You shudder at the grip on your hair as he pulls your head back at the same time as roughly sinks his teeth into the soft plush of your lower lip. Your little hands immediately spread themselves on his chest to try to push him away, but this and your cry of pain only serve to draw an amused laugh from him. It is obviously of his own free will that he mercifully gives in to your plea after a few seconds of torture. He sucks the sensitive flesh into his lips, licking and soothing the bite with a gentle, wet suction.

Mistakenly, your body decides to relax against his hands, welcoming the gentle but cunning care that is his tongue caressing the small, bloody cut he left on your lip. He eases your pain, even if it is because of him that you feel it in the first place.

It is natural for the contact to evolve, after all, his tongue is right there; sliding across your lower lip, his lips brushing yours provocatively. It is really predictable what would happen next, but it still pulls a dazed gasp from your throat.

His fingers hold your head firmly by the ponytail and his mouth covers yours completely, like a wet, warm cocoon that you cannot escape. The groan that sounds from his throat at the feel of your lips on his is one of deep satisfaction, a breathy appreciation that rumbled as he curls his body over yours, locks your legs around his waist, and moves his mouth over yours.

It’s nothing like any kiss you’ve ever experienced in the past. You’re not even sure if it could even be called a kiss.

There are perhaps no words for it other than hunger and need as he barely touches his mouth to yours before his lips are forcing yours apart so the wet muscle of his tongue can slide between your teeth. He’s rough and intense, kissing you like he’s kicking your soul out of your body. It’s all a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves you with your hands trembling in the collar of his robe, your eyes half-lidded and your cheeks flushed as you struggle not to choke on the wild rhythm of the pseudo-kiss. Every inch of the contact feels equally forced and premeditated, an unaltered conclusion that has you subtly pushing your hips forward against him as the sheer surprise and discomfort of the act subsides into something deeper. Darker. You can barely breathe in the tiny, moist inches that open between your lips, making small choking sounds in his mouth - stunned, outraged, humiliated, bursting into flames-

The pointed chin of the mask is digging painfully into your skin at this angle and all you can do is try to tilt your head to the side to avoid hurting yourself, since the man doesn't seem to have the slightest interest in your comfort. But not even this is enough to contain the chilling flame that grows between your legs with each hot breath that leaves the killer's nostrils on your cheek, his greedy tongue licking your teeth and his lips drinking your saliva as if it were the most delicious wine.

When he breaks the kiss it's like breathing after a long time underwater, your other senses dulled and directed only at him like a funnel.

"What in the bloody hell was that? Getting a guy all heated and bothered with a kiss," He grins between a breathy laugh, barely separating his lips from yours, rubbing the tips of your noses together in a comical imitation of affection as you both breathe heavily, "you really are something special, aren't you little girl?"

As you gasp for air, feeling your cheeks darken several shades at the unwanted compliment, the man caresses your face in a disturbingly affectionate manner, as if he's rewarding you for letting him kiss your mouth like that, even though it's clear he's not done yet. Pulling away from you just a few inches, you twitch and yelp as he roughly grabs you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the counter, making you subconsciously lean your back. A second later, he rips the tiny shorts you're wearing down, skimming over the curve of your ass and thighs, grabbing the flesh there greedily as he simply rips the thing off your body.

It takes a few seconds for the realization that there are no more barriers in place to keep the killer at bay to sink in — not that it ever did stop him before anyway. But knowing that beneath your red pleated skirt there’s no covering to offer even a modicum of safety (even if misguided) is nerve-racking in a way that makes your blood roar through your veins, and, illogically, not in a bad way.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, wet, breathless lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he bends down slightly to unbuckle his belt. The clink of metal is nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the loud music downstairs. “That’s what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you look up with those big, shy eyes — I want you to look at me, I need that look to be mine. And you don’t understand, do you? You drive me so fucking crazy, girl.” You barely put up a fight when he takes a thigh in each hand and wraps them around his waist before taking his cock in his palm and stroking it a little. It takes everything in you not to look down, teeth sinking into the soft, swollen surface of your lower lip as you hear the wet squelch that the contact between his gloved fingers and his cock makes with each lewd tug.

There should be more resistance in you, but all that’s left at this point is exhaustion and the painful slap of reality that comes with accepting the fact that you’re not rejecting this as much as you used to. There’s a war going on between your body and your mind. Where, of course, you know how sick this man is and how dangerous it would be to give in, there’s also the certainty that he brings out something undesirable in you — that intoxicating, dark sensation of feeling good about being so violently desired by someone. It’s not something you’re proud of, of course. But there’s no denying the way your body wants to succumb to it, to give itself completely to this cruel man you don’t even know but who is obviously obsessed with you. It’s something you can’t begin to comprehend, much less accept, but it comes rushing back to you anyway.

Your poor therapist might have a thing or two to say about such urges.

He rubs the bulbous crown of his cock against your sensitive, shamefully touch-starved clit and you shiver as the heat and dew of his pre-cum spreads through you at the contact. A warm, newborn droplet trickles over your bud of nerves, bathing it in tingling as he steadily nudges the tip along your wet folds. His thumb joins in the teasing, swirling with a few hard rubs followed by a softer touch, too deliberate to be anything but expert, pushing against the hood and pulling it back, exposing your nub to him even more. From his expose lips he makes a deep sound as he feels you getting wetter, more slippery. He circles your clit relentlessly and it’s him who moans louder between the two of you, even though it’s you who’s eyes are rolling back in pleasure.

He recovers quickly, though. Hearing and seeing how loud the sounds of your wetness ring out in the small bathroom, he breathes a laugh so mocking and icy that you feel yourself immediately wither against the mirror behind you, your face burning with the blush of a new wave of humiliation. The killer ignores you, of course, using one hand to lift your thigh up and to the side, doing the same with the other, adjusting both of your legs so that your feet rest almost flat along the edge of the counter - exposing you as if your modesty and dignity mattered nothing at all.

And it doesn't. Not to him.

"So wet." He teases, annoyingly making a point of giving voice to what you've both already realized. His hand slides over the curve of your thigh possessively, pushing the draped fabric of your red skirt with it so that it bunches at your hips. He groans as watches his length freely slide through the slickness between your legs, giving a shallow pump forward. The gloved thumb presses with just the right amount of force, rubbing in a circular motion that makes your toes curl inside the boots and your throat tighten at the noise you suppress. That is, until the soft, wet tip catches against your opening and he pushes inside without further ado.

You gasp loudly at the sharp pressure, reflexively slapping the hands against his chest to push him away, but soon both his arms are around your body, preventing you from going any further, pinning you against him with his strong hands and his cock.

“Aaaah!” You cry out, and he immediately brushes his lips against your ear, leaving a sharp bite on the sensitive flesh, enjoying the struggle evident on your face. Your pussy hasn’t been used properly in a long time, and this man certainly doesn’t lack in the size department.

“Shhhh,” he hums, sounding too pleased for it to even remotely be interpreted as an attempt at comfort. “You can handle it, baby,” he whispers in your ear, one hand relaxing its iron grip on your body to cup your cheek, “I know you can.”

It’s not like he’s giving you any options other than to handle it. And yet, over the sting of the stretch and the ache of being taken without denying it, your insides burn with dark desire. It’s like being fully satisfied with something you didn’t even know you needed.

“That’s it?” he asks as you throw your head back in the mirror, eyes closed and teeth digging into your bottom lip. “Does it feel good to you like this? Baby likes a little pain, yeah?”

You blush, unable to think about it too much without feeling like you could go straight to the hospice.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you for an answer. Instead, firmly breaching your tremble hole, he thrusts and thrusts and gasps heated and wetly into your ear, pressing deeper until he’s halfway in. And then he stops. The fingers of one hand close loosely on the bruised skin of your throat and you freeze, fearing for a moment that he’s going to choke you once more — this time while impaling you on his thick cock. But as the seconds stretch by without such a thing happening, you begin to notice something else. Those fingers; cruel, bloody fingers, responsible for the deaths of many people, are unsteady on your flesh.

He’s trembling.

The elongated digits are gripping your flesh with no real pressure, just a nice, soft collar around your throat, but the way they’re trembling is noticeable even through the barrier of the glove.

You open your eyes to a slit, knowing you can’t see him properly with the way his mouth remains pressed against your ear, breathing heavily and heatedly. And there’s no logical explanation as to why such an action catches you so off guard. But feeling this killer, this horrible, terrifying man who is obviously incapable of a basic level of respect for human life, gasp and tremble at being inside you, makes you gasp in response. Your insides clench involuntarily and more moisture coats the heavy shaft in your pussy, making it easier for him to pass through.

Then, slowly, he moves his other palm up to squeeze your breast over the fabric of your costume before he begins to pump the rest of his length inside you.

“Mmm…that’s it,” he murmurs, “f-fuck, you feel so good, so good.”

Again, you say nothing, burying your embarrassing moans and your tears as best you can — both from pleasure and humiliation. The man is so disturbingly warm curled up against you, his body broad and tall and so firm, dark clothing heavy but soft over his defined stomach that flexes against you with each thrust - the mask poking your flesh every now and then as his breath hitches in your ear. You want to cry out in fear as much as you want to scream in pleasure.

It’s a bitter kind of betrayal the way your body seems to want to decide the game for you; your quivering pussy giving in, against all logic and reason, to accept the forced intrusion, allowing the rest of his cock to pass inside your silky walls. You lose the battle almost immediately after that, gasping at the feel of every inch of his thick member firmly seated inside you, breathless at what he’s daring to do to you. Worse than if he had broken into the bathroom to murder you, you’d say. Because here, he’s not just violently attacking you and taking your right to life, without you being able to fight back. Here he’s making you submit to him; making you want to surrender to the overwhelming sensations that he brutally rips from your body - like a priest exorcising a poor possessed soul. He humiliated you in the worst possible way and he knows it.

And you find yourself less and less concerned about it.

You tilt your head to the side - and now there is no more internal restraint to prevent your moans.

“Please…aaah…”

“That’s it, princess,” he chuckles, as if he senses you’re giving in.

The time he stays still inside you doesn’t last long, just the few seconds long enough for you to feel the heat and enlargement of his cock, the thick veins pulsing as he bounces between your walls. It’s as if the pain has pierced you beyond anything else, pierced you like a sharp bolt of lightning that has fried your nerves until it’s left behind nothing but a sense of…overwhelming fullness. You’re completely boneless, trapped between his strong body and the mirror, your hands clenched loosely in the dark fabric of his robe. It’s a sensory experience that quickly becomes too much, but not enough.

When he pulls his hips back you experience a confused moment of panic, frustrated as you feel him pull away from you to leave your pussy achingly empty. There’s no time to question the insanity of your thoughts though.

His fingers are still shaking as he pulls away from you, releasing your throat to tangle them deep into the roots of your hair as a scream is forced like a punch from your lungs when, in a single strong thrust, he is fully sheathed within your quivering insides once more.

Between the iron grip on your hair and his hand gripping your breast like a vise, all you can do is grip his robe tighter as he ravages you. His teeth are where your neck meets your shoulder with a sharp bite, pulling away to thrust inside you in another violent thrust, your hole stretched and more vulnerable than ever. Your frantic brain is making you all too aware of every little sensation racking your body. The way his thick cock opens you, how each thrust makes your smaller body tremble, leaving you breathless as you dig your nails into the soft fabric of his robe to try and hold on through the punishing rhythm of his hips. When this night is over, and assuming you’re still alive, you know you’ll be bruised and sore everywhere, from your hips and ass to your breasts and throat. In your mind and in your soul. Right now, you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this. If you’d ever want to.

"S-stop..." You don't know why the words are coming out of your mouth; not only would they be useless to the man, but they also carry no real force behind them. You don't even know if you really want him to stop. It feels more like an instinctive reaction than what your brain deems to be the right thing to do. "I - I'm going to scream."

He laughs, recognizing your empty threat for what it is, but your stomach still twists when he grips your hair to pull your face towards his.

"Oh, you promise? Please do it, little girl."

Out of spite, you close your mouth, but that only seems to incite him. With an amused chuckle and one last pinch to your nipple, he releases your breast to grab both of your thighs. His hands are large on your flesh while his fingers bruise the soft skin even more.

"Such a stubborn little thing. We can't have any of that, can we, sweetie?"

His hands curl under your ass and, after a greedy squeeze, he’s lifting you up, not letting his cock slip out of your pussy for even half a moment before he slams you against the wall. Your spine arches and your bones rattle from the nothing short of violent impact, but he doesn’t care, writhing and pulsing inside you, undeniably stimulated by your pain - and oh god, this definitely shouldn’t feel as fucking good as it does.

It barely takes a second before he’s holding you steady and still by your thighs before he starts ramming his wet cock in and out of you again, like a machine, so hard that each thrust of his hips makes your back hit the wall.

In this position you’re forced to wrap your arms behind his neck for safety, feeling his hands close on the inner curve below your knee to spread your legs even wider, his body so intimately pressed against yours that it’s almost unsettling. Especially after so long without any human contact like this. You feel, to say the least, overwhelmed by such a sudden onslaught of intimacy.

You tense when he thrusts in a particularly dirty way, grinning like hell when you hiccup with a moan. He repeats the movement out of pure tease, his mask askew but turned toward you, the mocking line of his lips right next to yours.

“Mine,” he whispers, “My princess, my little pet, my cute little toy.”

His thrusts become not only hard but fast as well, and you can hear each time his body hits yours with a wet slap, each withdrawal slick and sticky.

“Please, w-why are you doing this? Why me?” It’s all you can manage to ask, your head growing increasingly confused, your pussy growing wetter.

He slows his movements to a blessedly slower grind, humming dramatically as he pretends to ponder your question.

“Why you?”

In an abrupt movement that you wouldn't have expected in a million years, he lets go of one of your thighs and abruptly rips the mask off his face, with such ease that you initially don't understand what it means. But then, with finality and violence, the weight of reality falls upon you.

He took off the mask.

He let you see his face.

The face of a murderer wanted by the police.

You were already dead. Yes, if such a fate was uncertain before, it certainly isn't anymore.

The shock of the revelation is so absolute that it takes a few seconds for you to actually focus on his face. But slowly, each individual feature seems to stick to your mush brain.

First you are greeted with that shock of long platinum blonde hair, tied in a loose bun, a few strands stuck to the sweaty skin of his forehead and the sides of his face.

The hair alone would be enough for you to easily recognize him.

But then your gaze falls to those eyes.

Eye, actually. A single, functional one, a stormy blue — enigmatic and dark as the turbulent waters of the farthest reaches of the ocean. The other, or where the other should be, is occupied by some kind of ocular prosthesis of a blue hue that could not be less like his good eye — a vivid, electric blue, like a rare, brilliant sapphire stone.

It is the first time you have seen him like this, so exposed. Always hidden by a pair of sunglasses or, failing that, a surgical eye patch. The pale skin of the man’s face would be flawless, were it not for the long, jagged scar that cuts across his cheekbone to above the line of his damaged eye.

The purple hues of the bathroom highlight all his sharp angles and an elegant appearance that is characteristic of the aristocratic genes of someone so well born.

Yes, you know this man.

Aemond Targaryen.

A college guy. Normal, as far as you can tell. Or as normal as someone privileged and born with a silver spoon in their mouth could be. Yes, he was introverted, arrogant even with his silent and mysterious attitude, as if everyone was beneath him. The few times he was pushed to enter a conversation or any other social interaction (most often by his own brother) his comments were imbued with a polite acidity that is totally unique to someone with class, or with discreet but effective jabs that carried a humor considered, at least, questionable.

Aemond constantly balanced on the fine line between cool elegance and petulant irreverence, which generated controversial opinions about him among the students. To you, he was intriguing. Someone you quietly admired, offering polite greetings and a sincere smile when your paths crossed.

Yes, you knew him - as did the entire student body knows him. The Targaryens were obscenely wealthy, widely recognized for carrying an exorbitant legacy not only of family polemics, but also of successful generations, all in the field of technology and communication.

And yes, Aemond Targaryen was someone seriously conflicted, with his taciturn and enigmatic aura.

But a serial killer? That would be impossible.

And yet he was here, smelling of leather and sandalwood - as well as blood and death, wet crimson stains on his dark robes, forcing you to the most terrifying and controversial act of your entire life.

The dawning horror of the notion that the killer on the loose could be someone you know, someone who was present in your daily life, who attended the same classes as you and yet, who you never even dreamed of suspecting, seems to want to suffocate you momentarily.

“I see you around campus. You know, some wise ones tend to avoid me whenever possible, and then there are those pathetic rats who try to get close out of some specific interest in what my clown family can offer. But you? You’re always kind. Even with your mysterious and solitary attitude, you’re still so stupidly kind to me. It’s ridiculous, princess, but also so cute.” He’s pleased by the utter shock on your face, grinning evilly as he shoots his hand out and wraps both forearms around the inside of your knees, his cock thrusting deeper into your pussy, leaning in menacingly until his teeth are grazing your ear.

“You’re all I can think about, baby. You’ve invaded my mind, my body, my life. You’ve fucking ruined me.” He speaks directly into your ear, a harsh whisper that makes you gasp and shiver despite the crushing weight of the discovery still fresh in your mind.

“It’s only fair that I ruin you too, right?”

You glow at the intimacy of his words, incandescent with the blush spreading across your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone.

“You...oh, fuck...” Your accusatory words to him die on your tongue as one particular thrust hits a spot inside you that has you curling the toes in response. Little gasps escape your lips as he hits the same spot over and over, your eyes filled with revulsion and desire beginning to soften with an inevitable flutter of the lashes.

“That’s right, just take it, baby.” He sighs with a smile, kissing your jaw as you tilt your head back. His voice is like molasses; soft but rough around the edges — sweet but dark with the huskiness of his lust. It’s getting harder for you to control this feeling now. You feel your legs tighten, instinctively trying to wrap yourself around his waist tighter. A hand rising from his broad shoulder to tangle in the platinum strands of hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting an approving grunt from the man. He watches you with awe and a hooded gaze as you give in to that feeling of helplessness once again.

“You feel so warm and wet, dripping all over that pretty pussy, drooling on my cock like that…you’ve been just as desperate as I have, umm? So lonely…you’ll never be lonely again, princess,” he promises hotly, groping his way up your thighs until he grabs your ass, thrusting slowly, deeply, brushing against your cervix each time.

“I’m going to fuck your ass like that someday.” He says casually with a sly smile as his fingertips slide along the crack of your ass, thrusting his cock into your pussy harder to show you what he means, making your breath shallow and your eyes widen. “I think I’ll do that next time indeed. Fill every tight little hole in your body. Mark every inch of your skin as mine.”

“Oh, God -” You feel tears forming in your eyes and streaming down your cheeks as you squeeze them shut, shaking as he teases you with wicked words, his hands coming up to grip either side of your waist. “Stop, please.”

“Oh no, baby, I’m not stopping. Not now and not ever. I’m going to claim that body in every damn way I can. With my cock, my fingers, my tongue.” You moan and pull away from him, your cheeks red and wet, shaking your head in a mumbled protest that’s too weak to be taken seriously. There’s more pleasure on your face than fear. He chuckles. “Do you like that? Do you like the idea of my tongue in that sweet pussy?”

Before you can think to deny it, his mouth crashes down on yours, rough and brutal, hungry. There’s blood on your tongue, you notice, the cut reopened in his greed, the taste ferrous and acrid in your mouth as his tongue slides inside — his, maybe, or yours, or both, you don’t know.

As quickly as it begins, it ends. Aemond pulls back enough to brush his lips against yours, sharing quick, wet breaths.

“Oh yes, you do. You love knowing that I want to lick that pussy until you come, once, twice, three times — until you squeal and beg me to stop. But I won’t. I’ll make you come as many times as I want, as many times as your body can take. And even then, even if you pass out from exhaustion, I’ll fuck you. Like a beautiful little sex doll.”

Amidst the sensual humiliation of his wanton words, you feel your back scraping against the wall; up and down, over and over. The grip of your fingers in his hair tightens and he growls in his throat, palming your ass to move it with more fervor. He holds his own body still, using only the strength of his arms hooked in the crook of your knees and his hands on your waist to move you up and down his cock.

His face, though it still manages to hold that cold, wicked smirk, is smudged with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of the nose, the rest of his pale skin glistens slightly with sweat, and his good eye is dark with desire — the pupil so wide it almost completely overpowers the blue of his iris. And he’s beautiful like that; even with the prosthetic eye and the frightening scar. Beautiful and ethereal, completely belying his sick personality and unforgivable sins.

Through parted lips he gasps with effort and it takes a moment, but when he pushes you up again, your face completely implodes into flames as you realize he’s using you to masturbate. He’s doing exactly what he said he would, using you like a sex doll, a flashlight clenched around his cock.

His thrusting becomes faster and rougher as he grips your waist tighter between his broad palms, dragging your pussy down his cock with short strokes. Your own breaths shorten, becoming ragged sobs each time the fabric of his robe rubs against your sensitive clit. When he’s basically grinding your pussy against him, undulating your hips in a hurried back and forth, he leans down to press the forehead to yours. His heavy, cold gaze stays locked on yours through each drag.

“That’s it. That’s it. Look at me. You’re so tight, so good. Keep looking at me. Good girl.” He punctuates each word with breathless slowness. Each guided movement of your hips is intentionally placed — rubbing your walls against his thick cock while simultaneously stimulating your clit against the mound of fabric of his tunic in a way he knows will send you over the edge.

Despite the order, your eyes grow heavy and fluttery, beginning to roll back as the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tense in preparation for the inevitable climax. That scary and wonderful cliff that taunts you in a messy way, approaching faster than you can understand.

A hard slap on your cheek brings you back.

“What did I just say, princess?” he growls, his voice rough with the effort of holding back his own desires. And your cheek stings where he’s hit you, glowing an even deeper shade of red, but you barely give it half a second’s attention — not when he’s looking at you like this; all breathless, sweaty lines and smoldering gaze.

“Keep your fucking eyes on me.” He releases your jaw with a warning jerk, sliding his hand down through your wet mess to find your swollen clit and circle the bud with his thumb, his other hand still tight around your waist. His body grinds into yours, flattening you against his lean muscles and the wall, slamming his hips into yours without pause.

You take a deep, shaky breath.

Your boots cross behind his back, skirt swinging at his waist with each thrust. And yet you do your best to hold Aemond’s obsessive gaze – unable to even name the intensity of the emotion swirling within you. The muscles in your thighs now tremble visibly, clenching tightly around his body in your impending release.

“Aemond – I need, oh, I can't…” You whisper, barely realizing what comes out of your mouth, a broken moan escaping along with the jumbled words, your entire body twitching under the expert assault of his thumb on your clit and his quick, relentless thrusts. You were close. So close. Balancing precariously right on the edge. And he knew it too.

“That’s it, say my fucking name as you cum for me. Come on, do it now little girl.”

It happens quickly after that, relentlessly, your eyes trying to close without your permission, but you are obedient and keep them half-lidded as you stare at Aemond, a choked cry finally escaping your throat.

“Aemond!”

With a determined growl, sweat dripping down his temples, he thrusts into you harder and harder until the tight coil snaps. Shockwaves of electric pleasure overwhelm you, forcing all the air from your lungs in a messy gasp. You shake as you come, clenching the fist against your attacker’s chest, nails digging into the roots of his silver hair, trying to ignore the stinging taste of shame as you find purchase in his body.

“Look at me. Look at me, baby.” He pushes his forehead against yours, sending you a sly, proud smile as your eyes flutter and water with the effort of keeping them open through the climax. His pace quickens with the excitement of seeing your drunken gaze and flushed face.

His own release washes over him like the purest rush of insanity; brows furrowed as if he’s in pain, lips parted in a hoarse groan that raises every little hair on your body. His warm cum fills you, bubbling at the tight rims of the ring of muscle where his cock stretches you. He stays buried inside as his balls empty, his head finally tilting back and breaking intense eye contact as his lips release another long, satisfied groan.

When it’s all over, he slowly leans down to touch your foreheads once more, and you feel an overwhelming, incoherent wave of satisfaction when notice the muscles in his arms and fingers trembling where they touch your skin.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs between labored breaths. “All mine.”

He babbles possessively, rolling his hips into you to prolong the intimacy, even as you feel him softening discreetly within your walls.

“I’ll burn the world for you, I’ll do anything to keep your eyes on me like this. I’ll kill as many as it takes to have you by my side.” His voice, husky and haunting, makes you shiver with horror — with heat.

You don’t think he needs your involvement in the story to fulfill the last part of his dark promise. Not with the previous list of confirmed murders or the blood that stains his clothes tonight. That stains your costume now too. But his words still send a swarm of butterflies dancing in your stomach and, not for the first time, you find yourself questioning the integrity of your mental health.

He’s smiling at your flushed, uncomfortable features, swollen lips brushing against yours playfully as he catches the breath to say something else that will surely upset you deeply. Before he can, however, his broad body freezes against yours, whatever he was about to say abruptly dying on his tongue.

Like a tense and intriguing suspense, the two of you are slowly bathed in the garish red and blue lights that filter through the small bathroom window, overshadowing the soft purple lighting from before.

The police.

Just as the realization sets in, the sound of sirens is heard; loud and distinctive. And it is then, and only then, that you notice that there are no more sounds of music coming from downstairs.

When had it stopped?

Relief is the first thing you feel. Hope and security flicker in your chest until a new wave of tears blurs your vision. But the feeling quickly withers before another realization. The police, along with your college friends, were minutes away from finding out where and who you had been all this time. They would find Aemond, it was true. They would finally arrest the killer known as Ghostface. But they would also find you. You, abused, raped and humiliated.

God, could they deduce just by looking at you that, at some point during this violation, you had started to want this?

Your jaw is gripped by his firm fingers, making your wide, wet eyes focus on the man in front of you. He looks at you with such intensity, serious and analytical, and in that moment you are sure that he knows exactly what you are thinking.

“I know where every single one of your friends lives, what every single one of them does during the day — every damn minute of their activities is recorded for me,” he whispers slowly, sinking each word into your overworked brain to make sure you understand. “The same goes for your family members. I know where they live, who they are, and what they do. Dare to open your pretty little mouth to anyone about me and you’ll get one of their heads every time you open your dorm room door in the morning. I’ll even do the favor of gift wrapping it for you, baby.”

Your stomach lurches with sudden nausea, all the color draining from your face at the threat you know he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if need be.

“I truly hope you won’t betray my trust, love. Like I said before, I don’t want to kill you.” He smooths his knuckles down your tear-stained cheek, softening his tone to something softer and gentler — yet equally terrifying. “But I’ll do it to someone you care about without a second thought. So don’t test me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he seals his lips on yours. Just a light, wet touch, more an intimate exchange of heated breaths than a kiss. With an approving grunt when you sigh and surrender to his touch, he pulls away.

Your shaky, weak legs give way as he leaves your body, and you slide down the wall in a confused, weeping heap until you’re sitting on the tiled bathroom floor.

Hovering above you, Aemond tucks his penis into the pants and fastens his belt, straightening the robes with a perfectly neutral expression and calm manner, as if at this very moment the cops aren’t searching the frat house for him. Long fingers casually grip the mask lying on the counter, giving you one last intense, appraising look, licking his lips slyly before covering his face.

That ghost mask is back then, cold and frightening, pulling the hood up over his head before bending down and holding the bloody kitchen knife in the palm of his hand. Black boots click on the tile floor as he turns back to you and heads for the door, casting a glance over his shoulder as he places hand on the doorknob.

“This won’t be the last time, princess. I’ll come back for you.” His voice is dark and muffled by the mask, sounding more like a threat to your life than a lover’s promise, especially now that he’s back in his ghostly, cruel persona. “Until then, try not to miss me too much, and of course, be on your best behavior.”

He leaves as disturbingly as he came, with a dark swish of his cloak and an amused chuckle, closing the door with a teasing gentleness — as if he’s trying not to scare you. You might even buy his act, if it weren't for all the psychological terror he's inflicted on you so far.

And then you find yourself alone in the bathroom once again, with nothing but your own shame and accusatory thoughts.

And that's exactly how the cops find you a few minutes later. Sitting on the tile floor, pale as death, your Sailor Mars costume stained with blood and throat marked from the cruel grip of your attacker's fingers. Your cheek still stings from the slap he gave you.

You think you can hide the finger marks on your thighs by deliberately tucking the legs in, taking the opportunity to keep the messy puddle of cum out of sight of the lawmen. But one of them still wraps his jacket around you in a gesture of solidarity as he leads you out, reciting kind words that, despite their intention, do nothing to actually calm you.

“Oh, thank God!”

You stagger back at the sudden hug Mako gives you as you exit the house, crossing the area marked off by yellow police tape. The officer next to you clucks his tongue in disapproval, but steps aside to offer the two of you some privacy.

“Someone called the police when they found the bodies on the next street. It all happened so fast. The party was going on and then everything turned into absolute chaos and I couldn’t find you anywhere!” She babbles quickly as pulls away from the hug, looking you up and down with her puffy, red eyes, her hands shaking where they are — clenched tightly on the arms of the police jacket you’re wearing, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. “W-when they said that you could be upstairs with him…I-I thought…fuck…I really thought—”

“I know. But I’m here now. And I’m fine.” You cut her off, wiping away your own tears as you try to give her a very unconvincing smile. Predictably, she doesn’t buy your lie, but doesn’t press it either.

“They couldn’t catch him, pumpkin…” she says slowly after a moment of silence, her face contorted in pain for you. “By the time they got upstairs, he’d already escaped. I'm sorry."

You want to tell her that you know that, you were there when he fled before could be caught. Before you can, however, the officer from before is back - this time accompanied by another, a tall, tired-looking man with a gray beard. The sheriff, you assume.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions, miss." The older man grunts, looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else but here.

"She does, actually. Can't you see how she looks?!" Mako is quick to respond, leaning forward to position herself in front of you like a protective barrier. The officers look at her like she's a little girl throwing a tantrum, nothing but tired indifference on their faces.

"It's okay, Mako. I got it." You try to calm the situation, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently guide her to the side. "I'd rather do it now, actually. I just want to put this all behind me as soon as possible."

It's impossible to put this behind, but you don't say that part.

Mako holds your gaze for a few seconds, keeping such a watchful, worried glint in every expression on your face that, for a minute, you fear she might know exactly everything that happened just by that look. When she sighs and steps aside in reluctant surrender, you almost sigh along with her.

"Okay. But I won't go far, I'll be waiting for you right there."

You mumble an 'mkay' and she reluctantly walks away, not before casting a sharp glance at the two officers standing in the same position near you - who promptly ignore her silent attempt at a threat. When she finally walks away, you sigh, staring at the badge on the older man's chest for a few seconds as you prepare to craft a narrative of the facts that doesn't reveal anything about the killer's identity.

"Alright. What would you like to know, Sheriff Myers?"

Fortunately, the police in your town have never been the most diligent or perceptive, and while they may ask a few important questions here and there, they generally remain naturally ignorant to some confusing gaps in your version of events. You are careful to avoid saying anything about the sexual assault you suffered, opting to tell them only about the physical violence that they have inevitably noticed by now; the marks on your neck, wrists and the red slap on your cheek.

They accept your half-truths so easily that you would be offended if that wasn't exactly the goal. In the end, all that matters to them is the answer to one question:

"Did you get a look at his face? Skin color, hair, eyes... anything that might help us identify this fucker once and for all?"

And in that moment you think of Mako, her cheerful smile and irreverent attitude. You think of your parents, so safe and oblivious in your hometown. You think of the faces of every your family member, friend and colleague who could suffer an agonizing death at the hands of the killer if you dared to answer the wrong way.

"N-no, sir. I'm sorry, but no, I didn't see anything. He was completely covered the whole time, with gloves and a mask." You huddle deeper into the thick jacket over your shoulders, your arms wrapped around yourself.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, clearly disappointed at once again running in circles, but he doesn't press you on it. And after a few other less important questions, they both say goodbye with a standard guarantee of protection that you don't trust for a second.

They've barely moved away from you when your phone vibrates in the pocket with the warning of a new notification. After glancing over your shoulder in alarm to see if anyone was watching, you feel the heart race before you even reach for it, fingers already shaking with nervous anticipation, knowing exactly who the notification is from. With a shaky click of your thumb on the now mostly cracked and destroyed screen, the thing lights up for you:

Notification Center

2:23am - Unknown number

"Well done, little girl. You made me proud (and a little horny, I must admit) with all those pathetic little lies to the authorities. Keep being a good girl and everyone you care about will be safe. Scout's word.

We'll meet again sooner than you think.

A.T."

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #hotd #hotd season 2 #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #scream #ghostface x reader #ghostface x you #ghostface #content warning #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader

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ghostaholics · 2 years ago

Text

𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn!reader (aside from a single idiom whose origin uses masculine language/pronouns - every man for himself) ➸ SUMMARY: Against all odds, the Lieutenant accidentally falls asleep on your shoulder. Unfortunately, there are witnesses to the precarious situation (just your luck that it would be Gaz and Soap). ➸ WORD COUNT: 2k

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄: don't poke the bear.

Danger in your line of work typically consists of trying to walk away from a mission while still being left completely intact (i.e. the goal is to make it out alive, in one piece). You’ve survived a great number of ordeals: cornered into a shootout with a dwindling supply of ammo, tiptoed your way through a field of pressure-sensitive IEDs, dove towards probable death (with an awfully high probability of splattering onto hot, concrete hell like a bug on a windshield) because your helo was sent tail spinning courtesy of a perfectly-aimed RPG – and really, the list goes on.

It's been child’s play, in the grand scheme of things. An extensive catalogue of life-or-death scenarios accounts for your entire military career. And sure, this might be a bit of a stretch, but you'd wager that none of those instances thus far have been as high-stakes as the current predicament you’ve found yourself in.

Jesus-fucking-Christ. Why’d Ghost have to fall asleep on you?

𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: avoid sitting next to him on the plane ride home. You've had to learn it the hard way.

And the kicker is that this whole thing could’ve been avoided; it didn’t have to be your problem. You could’ve sentenced any one of the other soldiers to your seat. Every man for himself, right? Get off scot-free, have a normal trip back to base with plenty of legroom so that you’re not cramped. Theoretically, it would've been beautiful – a passenger's paradise, the closest you could get to a first-class ticket.

But no.

Instead, play the Good Samaritan; extend your hand out with an act of benevolence. What’s the harm, right? So, you'd spared the poor guy, said you wouldn't mind switching places with him because he'd looked as white as a damn sheet at the idea of being crammed beside this behemoth of a lieutenant who's infamously every FNG's living nightmare.

Yeah, well hindsight is 20/20. Had you known what was going to happen, you would've had no reservations about throwing him under the bus. Sayonara, mate.

Law of the jungle, plain and simple.

To make matters worse, he is, in fact, exhibiting terrible flight etiquette. His head (which is dead weight and feels about as pleasant as a fucking bowling ball, mind you) has taken up every inch of real estate on your shoulder and is practically tucked into the curve of your neck; you’ll need to take a trip to the chiropractor’s after this – several, probably. The edge of his skull mask is digging into you. And, the cherry on top: get this – he’s man-spreading, so his left leg's trespassing into your own territory and brushing against your thigh. Utter lack of regard for personal space.

Incredible.

You’d still rather die than wake him up, though. You're not sure what'll happen if you do, but that's a risk you're not willing to take.

All things considered, an achy shoulder is a much better alternative than incurring the wrath of one angry Lieutenant. He's more subdued in this kind of context. To be completely honest, if you weren't already well-acquainted with him, you'd find it endearing.

From here, it's easy to see the simple rise and fall of his chest, steady and even. Slow inhale in, slow exhale out. He's at peace, a rhythmic lull that matches your own breathing. You can't quite put your finger on the exact moment he fell asleep. (He's got a habit of shutting his eyes and folding his arms over his chest when he isn't in the mood to converse with the other soldiers onboard. But God willing, he would never voluntarily loll his head onto your shoulder.) For what it's worth, he deserves the rest – never been one to do it this soundly as countless missions have taught you that he's usually a light sleeper. You remember him roughly prodding the toe of his boot at Soap's arm once when the Scot was conked out and his snores were a bit loud for Ghost's taste.

Rather odd then, that the Lieutenant even managed to allow himself to doze off like this. It’s too loud, too unsteady – the droning of the plane engine doesn't exactly make for good white noise and the turbulence outside is jostling the cabin around. Moreover, this puts him in a position of vulnerability, and he’s not the type to let his guard down so easily.

But somehow he did it with you beside him.

You try not to think about the implications of that.

𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄, 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄.

Because, Soap's just woken up from his nap, the first among the entire company of soldiers in the cabin still sleeping, excluding yourself. His seat's parallel to yours, straight across the walkway within direct line of sight, so he’s got an unobstructed view of you and Ghost. Soap sends a questioning glance in your direction, eyebrow quirked. A look that says, The hell's going on?

The level of your voice is down; it's at a conservative decibel to avoid rousing the others. Yet you convey your distress with the same amount of passion as if you were stuck in the middle of a losing firefight. "MacTavish, help."

Soap works with bombs for a living. Surely, he's capable of defusing situations too.

Alright the man’s a demolitions expert, but that’s semantics.

He blinks like he's trying to make sense of the situation. Though, it's pretty obvious what the problem is here. You're not sure why he’s got to take a moment and contemplate it. You need a solution, now. And he's moving at a snail's pace.

For a second, you think he might sympathize with your plight.

But then his mouth morphs into a shit-eating grin and when he nudges Gaz awake, you know right then and there that you're absolutely fucked.

More witnesses.

Great.

Because that’s just what you need, isn’t it?

Gaz drags a hand down his face. He pans over to his right to figure out why he’s been jolted awake so suddenly, and sees Soap who’s inexplicably, nauseatingly jovial before his eyes land on you.

Much like Soap’s original reaction, Gaz can’t help but offer a quizzical expression. The confusion is evident. His brows are drawn together because he knows that the L.t. wouldn't fall asleep on your shoulder.

Soap's shifting, sliding his hand into his pocket before pulling out his phone. He messes with it – a few taps here, a few swipes there. And then before you're registering what's happening, he's aiming it straight at you, like one of those mums getting a snapshot of their kids in matching jumpers during the holidays.

"Say cheese."

An indignant gasp leaves your mouth. "If you so much as—

"Soap, no. Don't do that." Gaz says from beside him, plucking the phone out of his hands. He tsks him with a click of his tongue. Stern disapproval in spades. The meaning is clear: it’s a big thumbs down from the Brit. He’s not endorsing this type of behavior. “Gone mad now, have you?” he asks in admonishment.

You release a sigh of relief. Finally, some moral support. He's reliable. Your faith in him is unshakable. Always could count on Gaz to get you out of—

"Have to shoot with a wide angle, see? Or else it'll look wonky," he corrects, flipping the phone horizontally before handing it back to Soap.

"Aye, thanks mate.”

Gaz's smile isn't as excessive as Soap's but the smirk gracing his face tells you he's relishing in your misery all the same.

Fucking traitor.

"Knobheads—"

They’d risk their own hides to save you from certain death. You've seen it in Cairo, Valencia, and Seoul. Good men. Good hearts in the right place as well. However, they're also the type to embarrass you at every opportunity – public humiliation being somewhere on that roster as well. And for that, you want to strangle them.

"Rude,” Soap comments pointedly.

"Bite me, MacTavish."

"Just wake him up if it's bothering you," Gaz supplies unhelpfully.

"If you were in my shoes, would you do it?"

"'Course, not," he snorts. "I don’t have a death wish.”

“Well, I also prefer my head on my shoulders, thank you very much," you whisper furiously, nearly hissing at him.

And Soap is admiring his handiwork, when he coos, “Aw, the two o' you make quite the pair." He briefly twists the screen so that you can catch a glimpse of it, and even from this distance, you can confirm that he's captured the shot. Annoyingly well, to add insult to injury. Angle? Spot-on. Lighting? Brilliant. It's interesting, has character. Black and white photography. He's managed to make a stunning composition and your upper lip is curling up into a sneer of disgust at his artistic eye. How infuriating.

"I'll send this to the Cap. He’ll get a kick outta it."

"Sod off."

"He'll appreciate bein' included."

Gaz matches the energy with an equally gleeful smile, now delighted by the idea. “Hey, and the L.t. he looks—”

“—cute," Soap has the audacity to finish for him.

What.

There are many words that you’d use to describe Ghost.

Cutthroat, maybe. Imposing. Glacial. Taciturn. A stringent set of ideals that makes him the perfect soldier: disciplined, honed, fierce. Intimidating, if he's not fighting on your side – someone you'd much rather have on your team than against, unless you fancied death. He can be a stone-cold terror on occasion. The man’s been penned as a walking horror story by those in the military. Given his iron-hearted demeanor, you'd be hard-pressed to disagree with that statement; there's not much room to call his steel-encased resolve into question.

So, yeah. Above all else, he's certainly not cute.

Your eyes narrow at them. "Congratulations, the both of you have officially made the top of my shitlist."

Soap, indifferent to your crisis, asks, "Want a copy for your wallpaper?"

There's another heated remark waiting on the tip of your tongue, because there's no way in hell that you would and you're ready to tell him off, about to give him an earful.

But somebody else beats you to it.

“Wipe that picture, or I’ll wring your bloody necks.”

Ice surges through your veins. Goosebumps break out across your skin. Because that voice belongs to one person. Oh, Christ. Never in a million years would you want to be on the receiving end of it.

There's anxiety warping in your chest. You're scared stiff, paralyzed with fear in a way that implores you to remain stock-still. The coarse fabric of your trousers bunches underneath your palms as you try not to freak out. This isn't your fault. None of it is.

And here's the worst part: Ghost hasn't lifted his head from your shoulder yet.

But Soap's unfazed. He blinks a couple of times, seems like he's weighing his options – as if there's something else he could choose besides following his lieutenant's command – yeah, right. He wises up, settling for a simple answer in the end. "Alright, Ghost." His smile makes a reappearance, sweet and well-meaning. Troublemaker. "Any chance you'd like a copy before I do away with it?"

"What kind of fuckin' question is that, Johnny?" he grumbles. "Obviously."

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄:

"I take it you don't think I'm cute then. Have I got that right?"

"I'm sorry... mind repeating that again, sir?"

"You didn't have anything to say about Soap's comment."

"I have a feeling that whatever I answer will get my arse handed to me, L.t."

He's smiling in response – like sunshine trapped behind clouds. Despite it being obscured by the mask, you can see his eyes crinkling at the corners, which makes the black charcoal that's lining them begin to crease a bit. "Permission to speak freely, Sergeant. You have the floor."

Your mouth parts in surprise. Well, then. Maybe you stand corrected. And so, you appraise him momentarily, giving it some serious thought. There's more to Ghost than you give him credit for. He's terse and rough around the edges, but respected for a reason. Admirable. Someone you think highly of and has deserved your approval. The mask undeniably provides an air of intrigue. “I suppose you can be,” you start off, gradually warming up to him being more approachable. “When you’re not terrorizing the new recruits, that is.”

#i got lazy again #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod fic #cod mw x reader #cod mw 2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty fic #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley fluff

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wheneclipsefalls · 5 months ago

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Tawtute Sickness (A Precious Drabble)

Pairing: Adult Ao'nung x Hyperfeminine Human Reader

This one shot is from the Precious series. It can be read alone but reading the Precious origin story gives a better experience and context.

Summary: There is still so much that Ao'nung does not understand about Sky People so with your cycle running off track, he is in for quite a surprise.

Warnings: MDNI, explicit talk of menstruation, talk of blood, hormones, hurt/comfort, misunderstanding, dominant Ao'nung, interspecies relationship, aged up Ao'nung, crying, self doubt, insecurity, protective Ao'nung, swearing, PMS, sexual themes, etc.

A/N: This is just a random little fun something I thought of when I was on my period. Nothing like a silly fantasy to help one cope:)

Adult Ao'nung pic by @cinetrix

Another cramp rolls through you mercilessly. With a groan you stuff a handful of stolen popcorn into your mouth. Surrounded by a small parade of stuffed animals atop your bed and drowning in the charm that is Mr. Darcy, there is no better place to take refuge. Your period has sprung into action earlier than expected but you’re proud of how things have been handled.

It had taken copious amounts of bribery to convince Norm to deliver an excuse to Ao’nung as to why you can’t see him for a bit. Although double his age and even in possession of an Avatar body, Norm has always crumpled slightly under Ao’nung’s presence. Even as his visits have become more frequent at the outpost. The sight makes you giggle, no matter how hypocritical that is considering you too were anxious in his company for the first few weeks here.

Despite the time that has passed since feelings were shared between the two of you, there is still a level of intimidation and intensity that comes with Ao’nung’s visits. He is never shy when it comes to sharing his opinions. Half the time it is hard to tell what will come out of the Metkayina male’s mouth next. Although, there are ways to identify the mischief that dances in his ocean blue eyes before.

And neither is he bashful when it comes to sharing his particularly ravenous intentions with you. You would not be able to count on both hands the amount of times you’ve tried to swat his hands away while the two of you are in public. Not that it deters him. Even in the extreme heights of embarrassment you can’t resist the wonders that he bestows upon your body. Always leaving your heart pounding at your rib cage and red face tucking under his chin afterwards.

So in a way, you can’t blame Norm for never growing accustomed to Ao’nung’s company.

Regardless, the alibi has been sent and you’ve foraged for the proper snacks and feminine supplies to get your through. Now all that’s left to do is tuck into your room like a locked away princess in a tower and survive the next five days. Everything is going according to plan despite the sudden arrival of ‘Aunt Flow’. And in a few days you will be back snuggled in the impressively bulky arms of a certain Metkayina male.

With a sigh you snuggle deeper into the plush surface. Despite the risk of stains you’ve allowed yourself the luxury of wearing one of your favorite pajama sets. It’s a dusted pink shade of silk that reminds you of the vintage film Sleeping Beauty. With the soft trim of purple lace along the sleeve and shorts hem, you feel like a delicate princess waiting to be rescued. Perhaps a foolish and even childish way to cope but it’s easier to get through the pain when you blur the harsh lines of reality into that of day dreams.

However, it seems reality will not be kept out for long.

Or at least, Ao’nung won’t be.

You hear his pounding footsteps before he even reaches your hallway, the faint echo of Norm’s protests doing nothing to stop that determined rhythm. Norm scatters away once Ao’nung has pushed your door open, with a little too much force that makes you cringe. It’s an under evaluation of his strength luckily and not rooted in any real malice. Not when his eyes now narrow at you with a playful reprimand as his tail swings.

“What have I said about avoiding me, precious?” He clicks his tongue, hands atop his hips as you scramble further under the pillows and stuffies.

You feel foolish for thinking this plan would work but now that Ao’nung is here you are ready to do whatever it takes to conceal your embarrassing condition.

“Not to.” You cake the tone over with sweet innocence and an even more tooth rotting smile. As always it’s done with a certain level of hesitancy, your nerves getting the better of you when his bulking frame is taking over your doorway. Still, you’ve learned there are special ways to soften Ao’nung’s composure.

He takes a few strides into your room, effectively prompting you to scoot back further towards the headboard.

“Hm, so then why is my precious sevin tucking away from me? I’m starting to think you crave some discipline, paskalin.” That sharp curve of a devilish smirk looks stunning along his turquoise lips. And like the true traitor she is, your pussy flutters at the sight.

It’s not fair for him to waltz in here with bedroom eyes and chest still adorned with a hunting harness and weapons. Not fair when your body is literally punishing you for not being pregnant and Ao’nung offers himself up on a silver platter for your nature’s carnal desires. And especially not fair when pieces of those curling strands have fallen from his bun and lay across his collarbones to leave drops of salt water.

You are in no state to be making plans. And definitely not finding ways to coerce the stubborn prince away from something he wants.

“I’m just not feeling well, Ao’nung. Didn’t want to make you sick.”

Ao’nung scoffs at the idea, borderline offended that you would even consider that a possibility. With your delicate state it seems laughable to him that you would be capable of passing on any sort of sickness to him.

“Such a fragile thing.” He steps forward with the roll of his eyes. “Do not worry, I will-”

His sentence cuts off as sharp as the jagged rocks on the westside. Now at the foot of your bed, his nostrils flare visibly. Your stomach tangles in despair, already anticipating where this is going.

“You’re bleeding.” He states, dark tone barely giving you a chance to register his words before he is rushing to your side. Ao’nung crawls onto the bed without a passing concern for the screeching of the bed frame under his weight. Within seconds his large frame is towering over your own smaller body until you are wedged into the corner.

“No it’s nothing really. Well I mean I am bleeding but not in the way you think…or well it’s…” The rambling doesn’t reach his ears, ocean eyes searching over every inch of you to find the injury. Trepidation settles at the looming embarrassment that threatens to follow as you desperately squeeze your thighs together.

Fighting against Ao’nung massive hands that clutch your shoulder and hips to turn you is useless but you can’t resist trying. And then his eyes snap downwards and with it your last shred of hope signed away. A look of utter horror contorts over his face as he stares down at the thin shorts just barely covering your panties.

A beat of silence ensues.

Face now the shade and temperature of a raging bonfire you struggle to think of a response through the fog of humiliation.

“How…” The sound is barely choked out from his lungs. It’s a rare sight to see Ao’nung speechless, every ounce of playful banter wiped clean. And if the circumstances were any different, as in not having that dread painted across his face at the reveal of your bleeding vagina, then you would be tempted to enjoy seeing the mighty male so caught off guard.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your plush hips. It’s clear that his head is struggling to come back online and process what devastating news he has uncovered.

“Well you see-” Your voice unfortunately seems to snap him out of whatever daze he has been in, his body moving into action before you can even finish your sentence.

“I will take you to my mother.” Perhaps the most terrifying sentence Ao’nung could say as he starts trying to pull you into his arms. Embarrassment bleeds into panic. A sense of anxiety bounces between the two of you as he rushes to scoop you up and bring you to the healer’s tent and you grasp at anything to keep from being met with the most intimidating woman on the planet in this condition.

“No wait! Ao’nung it’s fine. I’m fine.” It’s not much use when he already has your wiggling figure dragged to the end of the bed with just one hand around your ankle. It traps you underneath his body in one swoop.

“You are bleeding.” Ao’nung reiterates, sharp canines coming to show with a slight hiss. “Mawey tawtute, she will know what to do.” He nods firmly, but there's a crack of hesitance in his voice. As if the reassurance is really there for himself than anyone else. You’ve never seen Ao’nung so serious before, nor this panicked.

Your pleas for release mean nothing as he quickly gathers you into his arms. Panic and humiliation work in tandem to wrestle you into a state of utter panic. And working more on instinct than real thinking you do the one thing that will grant you freedom.

You grab a fistful of curly hair and yank. Hard.

Dropped back onto your plushy bed as Ao’nung lets out a pained hiss you scramble for the one place you might be able to hide. It’s painfully obvious and stereotypical but your closet is the first and only place you can think to escape the handsome male. The door bangs shut, encasing you in the darkness surrounded by frilly dresses and tickling lace.

You grasp the handle with all the determination your exhausted body can muster. Ronal is a wonderful healer and exquisite leader but quite literally the last person on the planet you would want to witness your embarrassing, very stupidly human, condition. It’s likely that similar to her son she too would not know about human menstruation.

It’s gross. You feel gross. Your entire body aches and as Ao’nung starts to yank on the other handle tears are already welling up in your eyes. From what emotion exactly you haven’t the faintest clue but the weak reaction brings a pit of annoyance into the mix too. Because of course all it takes is your concerned boyfriend who is just trying to help, to put you into another crying fest. This would be the third one this morning.

It seems that whatever god created humans was far less kind than Eywa who at least had the decency to keep women from suffering monthly in the name of procreation. And with that thought in mind, anger comes to intertwine as well.

“Ao’nung stop! I’m not injured!” A rough shout that is anger more directed at your current situation than hands that now swing the door open.

The Metkayina male however is more than peeved now too. He isn’t about to take no for an answer as he hooks a thick arm around your midsection to pull you out.

“Stop struggling.” He growls.

You're halfway to the doorway of the bedroom and Ao’nung is anything but deterred by your babbling about how it is normal, just a tawtute thing. So your mouth makes a decision before your brain can approve it.

“It’s because I’m not pregnant!” A shout loud enough to echo down the outside hallway and freeze the Metkayina prince in place.

What a stupid thing to say. A terrible terrible mistake, you decide as you wiggle out of his grasp to glance up at his face. Now having rendered the male speechless twice in five minutes you feel slightly guilty. And humiliated. Along with disgusting, angry, tired. In fact you may as well feel every emotion under the sun with the way your chest squeezes painfully.

“I’m not hurt. I’m not in need of healing. It’s called menstruation. Yet another wonderful thing about being a human woman. Where my stupid vagina decides to bleed every month because there is no fucking baby in me!” Your screeches make Ao’nung’s ears pin back, your chest heaving with the effort as tears rocket down your cheeks. You can’t find it within yourself to care that this is the harshest language Ao’nung has ever heard from you. Not when sobs are already crawling up your throat and tears blurr the view of the towering male before you.

The same male that is beautiful beyond belief. The same that has somehow found some interest in you. And now the same that has yet another gross reason to rethink being with a human.

“So no I’m not hurt but I am…am…” Trembling lips crumble into a pout. Ao’nung’s tail curves. “I am miserable. Cramping. Tired. So fucking sad because this is the seventh time I’ve watched Pride and Prejudice because I can’t find the other earlier remake of it. And angry because I’ve already ruined a pair of pink panties. The ones with the clouds…that…that took me hours to make and…and I’m so disgusting!” Ao’nung’s eyes are blown wide enough to push his hairless brows into his hairline. “There’s blood everywhere! And I fucking hate it! And…and..my sleeve got caught on the doorknob earlier-”

Strong arms gently pull you until your cheek meets the warm skin of his abs. That simple action is enough to break the dam barricading your emotions. Now in a full meltdown, you paint his swirled skin with your tears and the racketing sobs fill the room sporadically. It feels nice to have something to hold onto, small fingers squeezing his hips as you break down.

Minutes. Hours. Years. There is no recalling how long the two of you spend in that position as you unleash every torturing feeling from your chest. What you do know is that those large hands drawing up and down your back eventually soothe those sobs into small hiccups and then finally into short sniffles.

“You’re not hurt.” Ao’nung checks again, calmly breaking the silence.

“M’not hurt.” You mumble against his skin, soon thereafter mourning the loss of contact when Ao’nung carefully shifts you backwards. Disappointment does not linger for long, however, when a set of turquoise thumbs brush away the tears falling over your cheeks.

Although his expression appears to be nothing related to anger, it’s difficult to decipher what exactly the Metkayina prince is thinking. A part of you wishes to not even venture to guess but that train of thought has already left the station. Another wave of embarrassment floods as you imagine just how ridiculous you must look at this moment. Eyes blotching and red as you cry over a simple natural process that is nothing in comparison to that of which the Na’vi go through to maintain everyday village life. Hiding away from your boyfriend in a sea of stuffed animals and stuffing yourself with popcorn as your way of throwing a pity party all while Ao’nung is still dressed in his hunting gear.

No doubt he has been up since dawn. Fulfilling both physically and socially draining duties to keep the clan running smoothly, in preparation for his time of reign. Ao’nung is everything you are not. You knew it within the first few minutes of meeting him. Perhaps he is not always the most patient or humble, but he is brave. And tough. Oh so mighty and resilient in taking on whatever Eywa throws his way.

How much worse do you appear when coming from that perspective? Still dripping in salt water and spear leaning against the doorframe, what compels him to want to spend time with a whiny thing like you?

“Stop crying.” Large hands bracket the sides of your head as he works to keep up with the dropping tears.

And you wish you could.

You wish you could be more like the mighty warrior in front of you. Years have proven you to be nothing more than a small child that can not let go of her toys. Drowning in day dreams as your silly way to cope.

That truth spins despair back into full swing. You feel even more guilty when Ao’nung pulls you back into his embrace, because who are you to warrant such affection? It’s clear that he deserves someone so much more and yet you selfishly accept the feel of his strong arms encircling you because it makes you feel safe. Because it allows air to properly enter your lungs again at a normal speed.

When Ao’nung takes a knee to match your eye level, you twist to veer away from those crystal-like eyes. The Na’vi doesn’t give you much of a chance as he manhandles you back into place,his tongue clicking in disapproval, so he can look you over properly.

“My poor tawtute.” He coos at you, as if addressing a lost juvenile creature without its mother. “Mawey, oeyӓ paskalin.” [Calm, my dear] And before your brain can register the sweet nectar of his words, larger lips are pressing against your own. The light flutter of your heart is recurrent as he patiently works to deepen the kiss. It’s different from those that fill your passionate nights of lovemaking. Ao’nung patiently pulls you into that bliss until you are melting against him.

Heavy eyes stall in opening once Ao’nung has pulled away.

“Bring your mask.” Ao’nung intstructs abruptly.

“What?”

He has already risen to full height, a large hand resting along your spine to urge you towards the door. Unbothered by your confusion, he takes a well needed sip of air from his own dangling mask. When he does catch a glimpse of your expression he pauses before a smirk tugs at his lips and his tail bats playfully.

“And your bunny of course.” He eyes the discarded toy with lips pulling back just enough to reveal sharp canines. “You will feel better once you are home.”

And suddenly you are no longer confused. It should have been obvious, this most recent topic of argument between the two of you. No matter how fascinated Ao’nung is by your well decorated room he stops at nothing to coerce you to abide in his marui. He has been caught more than a few times even openly smuggling things from your room in the scheme of planting it in his home like bait for his prey.

“Ao’nung no. I can’t come over tonight. Not like this.”

Those hairless brows knit together as he sweeps over your frame once more. It’s clear he finds no flaw in your condition that would prevent you from letting him steal you away to his home.

“And besides I have everything I need right here.” You scramble back over to your bed and begin explaining the little nest you have created for yourself. “Pillows for the perfect position, stuffed animals, snacks, and in another twenty minutes Mr. Darcy is going to confess his undying love for Elizabeth.” It’s clear that the last indication is lost on him as he follows your point towards the small tv.

It’s not his first time observing the thin rectangle that plays moving pictures but it still manages to catch his confused attention each time. His lips curl back and faces squints with an utter look of disgust. The fact that the characters speak in Sky People language never helps to spark an interest for him.

“I’m fine right here, Nung. I promise.” Your soft smile when you perch to sit atop the covers is only met with a scowl. The difficulty in explaining this to Ao’nung is yet another reason you had originally planned to hide away alone until this nightmare had blown over. “Go back to your duties. I’ll be happy here.”

And that is the tipping point for Ao’nung. What is meant to come off as reassurance instead has his hairless brows pinching together and large hands settling over his curved hips.

“You’re staying here for mester darsee.” It’s difficult to take his misplaced anger seriously when he struggles to pronounce the few English words.

“No, Ao’nung that is not-”

“Fine. I will stay.” His massive body is already climbing onto your poor bed before you have another chance to protest. He continues to mutter under his breath. It’s a messy sprawl of annoyed curses and something about you not needing a Mr. Darcy. The giant Na’vi pouts even as he pulls you close to curl his body around yours.

It’s wrong to keep the future Olo’eyktan to yourself like this but watching him sulk like a giant cat is too amusing to pass up. And then there is the comfort that comes with having Ao’nung wrapped around you like a dragon protecting his hoard, so you decide to be selfish.

His curls tickle the back of your neck and a large hand spans over your abdomen. As he rubs soothing circles into your lower stomach you swear the heat and motion alone is better than the battery powered heating pack. The cramps don’t evaporate away but they settle into something more bearable, especially when your favorite scene finally comes onto the screen and you snuggle closer to your ridiculous lover.

Slowly throughout the movie Ao’nung’s hand come to explore south into territory that would have Mrs. Bennett passing into an early grave. That confident exploration is a stark contrast to the simple touches exchanged between your favorite characters, but it holds the same passion. The same tension that has your thighs clamping together in defense against his devious fingers.

You can feel the way his lips curve into a smirk against your ear. Period hormones are your sworn enemy as you are caught between fighting him off in sheer embarrassment and finally letting his hand slip underneath the band of your pretty shorts.

“Don’t worry, oeyӓ tawtute. Next month I will do better.”

The sudden comments has you taken aback. .

“Do better at what?”

“Giving you my baby.” He casually states, unbothered by the way you freeze and struggle to take in oxygen. “This Sky Demon sickness won’t come for you when you are filled with my seed.”

And like a silent promise, his thumb swipes over your lower stomach just as his fingers breach the band of your panties.

I hope you enjoyed this little musing. I can't wait to carry out some of the other plans I have for these two. If you enjoyed it too please please let me know. I can't tell you enough how much hearing your feedback and comments means to me (anonymous or not).

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animasola86 · 5 months ago

Text

🐻 A HUG TO REMEMBER

m!shapeshifter x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 7.1k

After a night full of unusual adventures and ordeals, you find yourself in the arms of your most memorable encounter, and you can't complain.

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Aftercare! Vaginal sex! Creampies! Cockwarming! Fluff? (READ ON AO3!)

This is part 6 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 It's the continuation of the continuation of OPTION 3 - can be read individually for the smut portion, but if you want to follow the plot, I'd advise reading the previous two parts or at least the first part, preferably all of them. This is the conclusion of the story after all!

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your way to get some fresh air, you first run into a werewolf, who knots and breeds you, then into two vampires, who spitroast you, and after all that... here we are...

“Hey. Hey, can you hear me?”

A deep voice rings in your ears, a low thrum in the void around you, muffled as if through various layers of cloth or from behind a thick door. A rasping inhale lets you stir, and slowly your body feels like your own again. Your limbs are tingling, your throat hurts, and something deep within you as well, there's an overall soreness all around, but when your eyes flutter open, you're just glad to be alive.

The sight in front of you still scares you, and you let out a hoarse whimper. A large man leans over you, tall and bulky, bulging muscles under a plaid shirt, strong legs, black hair, slightly curled and thick, a full beard, dark eyes staring down at you from under heavy eyebrows. You shy away, flinching, breathing harder.

“Hey, shh, it's all good. You're safe now,” he tells you with that low voice that vibrates through your body, and you frown, blinking at him in confusion, unable to relax as you stare at him. “Aww, don't tell me you've already forgotten about me?”

He flashes you a soft smile, exposing white teeth, and none of them seem abnormally large or pointy. You sigh and close your eyes again, trying to focus on your breathing, too weak to worry about anything at this point. Suddenly you're being lifted, held by strong arms, pressed to a warm chest, and you can't help it, you lean into it, savoring the protective gesture. The man carries you away, no idea where to, doesn't matter anyway.

“They got you good, hm?” He keeps talking to you, even though you can't find the strength to reply. “Should have stayed with me, little one.”

Slowly, you blink your eyes open and stare at him, furrowing your brows, really looking at him. Why does he feel so familiar? Slowly you move your hand up and brush your fingertips against his beard, the rough texture bringing up fuzzy memories of... fur? He gives you another smile, his eyes boring into yours. Your lips part as you try to sound out a question, but the pain in your throat is too strong to get any words out.

“Yes, little Red, I am your big bad wolf,” he replies nevertheless, seemingly reading your mind. Your eyes widen. It is him. The werewolf who knotted you. This is his human form? “But don't worry too much about it now. Let's get you cleaned up first, yeah?”

A sudden rush of warmth fills your cheeks and you look away, noticing not only the ripped shirt you borrowed from him but the large amounts of dried cum and blood on your exposed skin. The state those vampires have left you in is horrible. Vampires... for fuck's sake. You wanted to tick all of what happened tonight off as a dream, a nightmare maybe even, but the evidence that it may have actually happened after all is disturbing and hard to ignore. Sighing soundlessly, you rest your head against his shoulder as it starts to spin painfully. This is all too much.

He shifts you on his arms, hugging you closer as he keeps walking. There's a faint glow around you, and you realize that the morning must be close. You survived the night, huh? You're still not too sure about it.

You end up back in his cabin, though luckily not in the primitive basement but in an actual bedroom. He puts you down gently, makes you sit on the edge of the bed as he carefully peels the remnants of his ruined shirt off your body. You just watch him when he leaves the room for a moment before returning with a bowl of water and a washcloth, and when he starts cleaning you up, you close your eyes and let him, his large hands surprisingly soft and gentle as they work.

Eventually he pushes you onto your back, and again, you let him, relaxing into the soft sheets, as he starts wiping between your legs. You shiver when he brushes against your still sensitive clit. He gives you a few rubs, but then moves on, presses the cloth to your thigh, which causes you to wince when a sharp pain jolts through you.

“Can't believe they both fed off you,” you hear him mumble, his low voice a deep rumble in the air. “Insatiable bastards.” His hand moves back to your mound, his thick fingers teasing along your slit. “And they even cleaned you out, hm? Damn, all that effort for naught...”

You slowly open your eyes, meeting his dark gaze. There's a strange tension in your stomach. He keeps rubbing your labia, slowly pressing between them. His eyes are almost black now and as intense as you remember them, even though they've looked at you out of a very different face.

“I guess I have to keep you here a little longer,” he whispers, slowly leaning over you, one hand still at your cunt, the other braced beside your shoulder as he hovers above you. Your hands move up, brushing against his hard stomach. “To make sure you're fine, of course,” he adds, smirking down at you.

You bite your lip, watching him, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt. You have no idea why you feel the sudden urge to pull him closer, wrap your legs around his waist and let him ravage you all over again, human form or not. This whole night has been quite the (sex) adventure, and somehow you don't want it to end. You don't want to go back to your boring life where everything is as expected, planned and sterile.

You'd rather stay with this savage man, who, considering your other encounters, has been the most memorable, and you can't wait for the moon to rise again. For now, you are also quite content with the hairy man above you. His deep laugh full of surprise echoes through the room as you grip the collar of his shirt and pull him down, smacking your mouth against his. He's quick to kiss you back, deep and passionately, your tongues meeting in a wild dance, as he leans his wide body onto yours carefully.

“Damn, Red, you developed quite the hunger, didn't you?” he mouths between kisses, his warm breath fanning over your lips. You can only nod, your cheeks burning up in slight embarrassment, but you still buck your hips up against his groin invitingly. “I'm not complaining,” he adds, playfully nibbling on your bottom lip as he responds with a roll of his pelvis.

Continuing to kiss him with a need that's new to yourself too, you let your hands wander over his broad chest before you fumble with the buttons of his shirt. You groan in slight impatience as your shaking hands can't quite finish the job. He leans back then, looking at you, then simply rips the shirt and shrugs it off nonchalantly, exposing a wide toned chest with just the right amount of dark chest hair.

Your fingers rub through it, it's not abnormally much, just enough to cover his big pecs before it thins out into a thick trail vanishing into his jeans. You follow it, palms sliding over hard muscles before your fingers curl into his belt, holding his dark gaze as you lick your swollen lips. His smirk is playful but has a dark edge to it. Instead of letting you continue on your quest to get him as naked as you are, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head, holding your wrists together with one large hand while his other hand closes around your jaw as he leans closer once more.

“You really want this, huh?” he growls quietly.

You nod frantically, not even hesitating anymore. There's a tiny bit of protest in your mind when it reminds you of the state of your sore body, but you really couldn't care less right now. You want to feel good again, and you remember, even though the details are hazy, that this man (albeit in his other form) has made you feel how you've never felt before.

He inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent, before he crashes his lips to yours again, quickly slipping his tongue into your mouth. His beard rubs along your soft skin, adding to the growing desire nestling deep within you. You struggle in his hold, really needing to touch him, grab his shoulders, sink your fingers into his thick hair, feel the strength of his body, but for now all you have is his eager mouth.

Once your head is spinning and your lungs burning, he slowly moves his deep kisses down your face, along your jaw, his warm hand rubbing over your sore throat before he turns your head to the side, exposing your neck to him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your heart thundering in anticipation. But there are no teeth on your skin, just wet lips and a warm tongue, as he starts sucking on your pulse, lapping at the bruises he works into you.

“Tonight,” he huffs against you, “I'm gonna mark you properly. I'll make you mine, little one, all mine. So no one will ever lay a hand on you again.”

You gasp breathlessly, still unable to get any words through your hurting throat, but he seems to understand your non-verbal agreement as he presses his lips to your neck before leaning back, looking down at you, his dark eyes wandering over your flushed face. You look back out of hooded eyes with your lips parted and quivering. It's a strangely comforting thought to have this man, this werewolf, claim you. You feel protected, safe, and even if you can't properly think about the reality of it just yet, you can't find it in you to deny him.

“Y-yours,” you manage to croak out, and a wide smile breaks on his bearded face.

He lets go of your wrists and pulls you into the embrace of his strong arms, and you immediately snake your hands around his neck and into his hair, sighing contently as you feel the thick locks between your fingers and his mouth once again on yours.

For the longest time you're just lying together, cuddled up on his bed, hands holding and exploring, tongues wrestling, his heavy body pushing you into the mattress, and you wouldn't have it any other way. You're moaning against his lips as he starts growling low in his throat, his lower body rubbing against yours with increasing need. You can feel the heat of his hard cock through his jeans, and in an attempt to show him you're ready, you lift your legs and wrap them around his waist, pressing your equally hot center right against his bulge.

A snarl comes from his mouth as he leans back abruptly, braced on his arms, chest heaving, muscles dancing, before he jumps back fully, quickly fumbling with his belt and pants before he is finally completely naked, his erection bouncing against his lower stomach as he starts crawling back over you. You try to get a better look at it, but he's claiming your mouth for another kiss, though from what you've seen he may just be as big as his wolf counterpart, minus the bulbous knot, unfortunately.

But you're sure you'll experience that again very soon. The moon couldn't rise fast enough.

You expect him to immediately claim your hungrily clenching cunt, but instead of shoving his cock into you, you feel his thick fingers rubbing between your wet folds, coaxing quiet mewls out of your hurting throat. He keeps kissing you as he starts properly fingering you, pushing his long digits as deep as they would go. It's a lazy rhythm but it's enough to build up that sizzling heat inside you, and the tension builds and builds, until you cry out soundlessly against his mouth, stiffening beneath him, body arching, thighs twitching as you come hard around his fingers.

He inhales your breathless moans, plunging his tongue deeper while slowly massaging your fluttering walls, letting you down easy. You groan quietly in protest when he pulls his fingers out, the sudden emptiness almost painful. A chuckle escapes him as he presses his lips against your warm cheek and leans back, looking down. You follow his gaze and watch how he grabs his throbbing cock in his big hand, its tip as angry and red looking as you remember his wolfish dick. It's not as monstrous though, but still thick and veiny and long, and your head spins just from imagining it inside you.

You don't have to imagine it for long though when he then brings the precum leaking crown to your folds, swiping it through them to gather your slick, before he presses against your entrance, carefully, oh so careful you wish he'd be a bit rougher, and slowly your cunt opens up to him, and inch by inch, his cock disappears inside you. You arch your head back as you feel the stretch, your lips parted for a soundless moan.

He shifts on top of you, lowers himself between your wide spread legs, brings his forearms on either side of your shoulders, his hands cradling your head as he leans down again to shower your flushed face with soft kisses while he rolls his hips against you, so gentle you barely feel how he forces his cock past your resistance until he eventually bottoms out. Somehow it's a comfort to feel this full, filled and stretched, claimed.

Your hands dig into his hair, holding him tightly as you move your tongue around his, inhaling his low growls and groans as you grind your pelvis against him. His first thrust makes you see stars. It's a sudden jolt of pain, a deep little stab, and you flinch, gasping. He leans back and watches you, his eyes so dark and intense you can only stare back. He thrusts again, taking in your reaction, and when you flinch once more, he soothes his hands over your head.

“Does it hurt?” he asks gravelly, his voice vibrating through you, adding to the building heat inside you.

“No,” you croak out. There's discomfort, in your throat, in your ass, but your cunt feels right with his cock moving within it, a perfect fit, a thing meant to be. Your hands move to his face, rubbing over his bearded cheeks. “Keep going,” you manage to whisper past the ache. “Please...”

His lips curl up into a smirk before he leans down to kiss yours softly, then suddenly sits up fully, braced on his strong arms, resting on his haunches. He grabs your thighs and drapes them over his, and you automatically wrap your legs around his body and cross your feet, holding onto him as he starts snapping his hips against you, his large hands now on your waist, thumbs pressing onto your fluttering stomach.

He falls into a slow but steady rhythm, pushing deep and simultaneously pulling you into his thrusts, and all you can do is fall back into the softness of the bed and let it happen, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as you moan and mewl, your eyes rolling back in growing pleasure. He's much more careful than he was in his wolf form, really looks out for you, but still uses all of his body to stimulate yours.

You feel hot and cold all over, goosebumps rippling over your skin, deep shivers crashing through you, that heat building up deep within, ready to explode into a ravaging wildfire. Wet squelching sounds mix with the loud slapping of skin against skin, add to that your breathless gasps and his low grunts and groans, and you feel your head spinning in the best kind of vertigo.

When he eventually picks up the pace, you are immediately propelled up into new spheres of bliss, your eyes flying open as he grips your waist harder, moves his hips faster, his cock pistoning in and out with force and fervor. Your walls clench around him, your whole body shuddering under the assault. Hoarse moans escape you, lips parted wide, lungs burning, that tension in your stomach bordering on painful.

You come with a shrill squeak, almost soundless, ripping through your sore throat, but all you feel is burning pleasure, all-consuming, taking over every nerve and muscle, and he keeps fucking you through it with hard and deep thrusts, forcing through your tightening walls as they clamp around him with a force that makes you dizzy. He grunts loudly, shifting on top of you until his entire body rests on yours, pushing you into the bed, a comforting weight that keeps you grounded as you float away on that tidal wave of pleasure.

His hips smack into yours, even faster, more urgent and frantic, his groans getting louder as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, his beard tickling your fluttering pulse. You gasp beneath him, your trembling arms snaking around his body until you sink your fingernails into his back, holding on for dear life as he fucks you with reckless abandon.

It's all a blur now, a whirlwind of noises and sensations, little jolts of pain and overwhelming slaps of bliss, you can't breathe, you can't move, you can just take it, and you take it with growing need, absorbing every pummeling thrust, every deep plunge, every poke at your cervix, every drag along your walls, every rub against your clit. His breath is hot against your neck, his heavy body embracing you whole, eager to swallow you up, make you his. And you're here for it. For him.

Your noises grow louder, forcing out of your body, whines and wails, moans and mewls, your voice coming back slowly before you'll lose it all over again. He's hammering into you now, making you both bounce on the bed, a feral rutting that is all too familiar to you. You cling to him, arms wrapped around his neck, feeling the rough texture of his beard and the soft curls of his hair, and in your daze you see the wolf above you, his long snout, those sharp teeth, the long panting tongue, and you hear the low growls and snarls, the animalistic need to breed his mate, and it's that image that makes you come again, hard, uncontrollable twitches making your whole body convulse beneath him as you let out the loudest moan yet.

He slows then, labored breaths in your ear, hot against your skin, before you feel him shuddering as well, his big body trembling on top of yours, and his last thrust is particularly deep, a hard punch into your cervix that forces another explosion of pain and pleasure through you, and with a long groan he comes inside you, his cock throbbing, his balls drawn up tight between your folds, twitching with every spurt of hot cum he leaves deep inside of you.

You hold onto him, hands soothing over his broad back, as he fills you up, and because there's no knot to keep it in, his warm seed soon presses past your connection, seeping out of you in lazy globs that feel warm and soothing against your puckered hole. You slowly relax beneath him, coming down gently from all those highs, and his deep sigh vibrates through you as he does the same, putting his entire weight on you.

Your lips press against the top of his head, the scent of his hair, a mixture of pine and grass and earth, fills your nostrils. You close your eyes, a soft smile creeping onto your features as you feel his beard rubbing against your neck, a low hum escaping him in response. For a moment you just lie like this, both boneless and exhausted, his cock still giving the occasional twitch as another spurt of his seed pumps into you while your cunt clenches lazily around him, and you could fall asleep like that, overwhelmed by a strange kind of comfort you've never experienced before.

You could certainly get used to this...

Before you can drift off, he suddenly moves, his muscles working as he pulls his arms around you and rolls you both onto your sides. You already miss his weight on you, his enveloping warmth, but he quickly pulls you into him, pressed to his wide chest, and you nuzzle into his hoarse chest hair, inhaling deeply. He tilts his hips, and you feel his cock slipping free, followed by a surge of warm cum flowing out of your pulsing pussy.

He groans as he puts a hand between your legs and tries to hold it in, fingers eagerly pushing his seed back between your tight muscles, and before you know it, you are being rolled around until your back is to his groin, and he lifts your leg and replaces his fingers with his cock, still impressively hard as it slips back home, filling you out all over again. A soft moan escapes you as he drapes his large body around yours, holding you tightly against him, his beard rubbing against your cheek before you turn your head and meet his lips for a soft kiss.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice just a low thrum in the air.

“Yes,” you breathe against him, reaching out a hand to grab his face, pulling him even closer. “Never better...”

He smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss as he grinds his hips against your rear, though he doesn't move much, not intending to fuck you all over again, and he stops completely once his entire cock is fed deep into your cunt, just resting there, hot and heavy. His hand moves to your stomach, and yours joins soon after, fingers interlacing as you both feel the tightness of your belly and the slight bulge his cock and cum created. It's a pleasant fullness, a soft warmth both inside and out, a comfort you don't want to let go, ever.

Eventually you do slip away into unconsciousness, mid-kiss, with your lips brushing against his, before he wraps his arm tightly around you and nuzzles against your neck, your head lolling away as sleep grabs you tightly.

You wake up in almost the same position, with this large man wrapped around your smaller body, holding you tightly, his cock still very much buried inside you, but now he's sleeping, soft snores rumbling through him, deep inhales letting his toned chest rub against your back. You blink your eyes into focus and look around the room, bathed in bright sunlight that hurts your eyes, and you wonder how you got here, how a mysterious invitation to a (not at all) simple Halloween party brought you into the arms of a man who will turn into a monster as soon as the moon rises.

It still doesn't make sense, none of it, and maybe nothing of it happened after all? You did sleep with the man draped around you, that was real, but maybe that was it? The rest was just some alcohol-induced fever dream? Maybe. It would be easier to believe for sure, easier than whatever your mind tries to tell you may have happened. For now, you force the contradicting thoughts away and focus on the very real man snuggled up to you.

Lifting a hand, you rub it along his thick forearm, feeling those bulging veins under his tight skin and the hard muscles flexing slightly as you do so. A few seconds later, he stirs behind you, inhaling deeply.

“Awake already?” he rumbles into your ear, his hot breath fanning over your jaw.

“Sorry, didn't mean to wake you,” you whisper, lying as still as possible in his embrace.

“All good,” he replies with a groan as he grinds his hips into you.

Immediately you feel a burning pain crashing through you, your muscles tight around his cock, too tense to allow for much movement that doesn't hurt. He stops, his hand moving from your stomach down between your legs, fingertips brushing against your hooded clit, slowly waking up those resisting nerves.

You gasp softly, arching into him at the sensation. “Have I told you how wonderful you feel wrapped around my cock?” he breathes against you, sending shivers down your spine. “You do, such a perfect fit. Molded to me, haven't you?”

You hum in response, closing your eyes as you relax under his ministrations. Your muscles ease, allowing his cock to slide back and forth slightly, and before you know it, he's coaxing a gently building orgasm out of you that makes you keen in agonizing bliss as it crescendos into another one of those mind-blowing experiences that have you twitching uncontrollably. He quickens his thrusts, eager to follow you over the edge, and when he does, he grunts into your ear, holds you tightly against him, his hips jerking against your rear as he adds hot spurts of cum to your burning juices.

You sigh deeply when he stills, leaning into him, breathing hard from not doing much, and you realize you always want to wake up like this, in the arms of this man, fucked fully awake by his amazing cock. As soon as the post-orgasmic clarity settles in, you also realize that this will never become a reality. It can't. How should it? You barely know him, he's a werewolf, it was just a one-night-stand, he's a werewolf, you have to go back to the city soon.

Inhaling sharply, you stiffen in his hold, trying to ignore the soft kisses he plants on your neck and shoulder before he slowly moves back, detaches himself from you and your fluttering depths, and as soon as his cock slips free, a warm wave of cum seeps from between your thighs. You press them together, rolling up into the sheets when his warm body is gone. He stands from the bed, stretching, then walks wordlessly into the bathroom.

Maybe it's better this way. You shouldn't get too attached. He lives in a cabin in the woods, might be connected to the mysterious house you were invited to last night, and when you remember the drive here correctly, it did take you quite a while to get here. You can't do a long-distance relationship, it'll eat you up, you just know it. And he can't come visit you either, what if he turns into a monster and ravages half the city block?

Though he did seem to have his urges under control (more or less anyway) when you first encountered him, but still, the city is no place for a werewolf.

And what if this is just a fling for him anyway? What if you are the only one stressing about what happens next? But he did say he wanted to make you his, his mate, for nobody else to touch, wait, yes, he promised you he'd do that tonight, but... what if that was just some lust-induced dirty talk? It would mean you'd have to stay the whole day, wait for the moon to rise, and you can't do that.

You have a job to go back to, a boring life that waits to be continued. This party was already a big step out of your comfort zone, you can't just throw your life away for a hot guy, can you?

Groaning in frustration, you grab the pillow and bury your burning face in it, hoping to smother the thought carousel before it gets out of hand. Seriously. Since when are you such an overthinker?

A sudden noise makes you stiffen. He's back from the bathroom. But you can't look at him. You should leave. End it before it gets complicated.

“Do you want to shower next? It's still nice and toasty in there,” you hear his low voice, muffled through the pillow.

You grunt a reply, and without acknowledging his towering form in the room, you slip off the bed and into the bathroom. The shower, however steamy it is, clears your head, and when you reemerge, dried off with the provided towels, you wrap one around your body and slowly step back into the bedroom, bracing yourself for what may come next.

You find the man whose name you never learned sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in another plaid shirt and dirty jeans, and he's holding a stack of clothes, your blouse and skirt as you recognize, and the red cloak he was so fond of last night. You walk up to him and take the items, biting your lip as you nod at him. He watches you as you re-enter the bathroom to get dressed, which seems silly considering he's seen every inch of your body multiple times by now.

By the time you're dressed and ready to leave this all behind, your stomach is tense. “I...” you start as you meet him back in the bedroom, wringing your hands nervously.

He tilts his head, deep creases on his forehead. “Are you hungry?” he asks then, ripping you out of your dark thoughts.

You blink slowly, parting your lips only to press them together again. Then you just nod. He smiles at you, his whole face lighting up, the frown disappears while other creases appear in the corners of his eyes, dimples on his cheeks, almost hidden by his thick beard. He stands up and reaches for you, and you don't even hesitate when you put your small hand onto his large palm.

He leads you towards a small kitchen that opens into a cozy looking living room with a big couch and a fireplace. As you sit down on one of the bar stools lining the island, he rounds the counter and starts preparing breakfast. You focus on him, trying to ignore the ongoing debate in your head. In the end you and your overbearing mind come to the conclusion that you'll just enjoy the moments you still have with him, before you have to leave.

“Hey, um, you never told me your name,” you say a little shyly as you watch him crack some eggs into a sizzling pan.

“It's Bear,” he tells you, turning his head to meet your curious gaze. His dark eyes gleam in the sunlight flooding through the large window of the living room. They glow like amber.

“Bear?” you repeat, frowning with a smirk. “But... you're a werewolf. That's kinda ironic.”

He chuckles deeply. “Maybe, yeah. But you know, I wasn't born a werewolf, I was born a shapeshifter.”

Your eyebrows rise at that. “What?”

“I can shift into various animals. Usually a big black bear, sometimes a large wolf too. Or a fox if I feel playful.” His voice is so even, natural, he's either a great story teller and liar or... no, this can't be true.

“You're kidding me,” you whisper, leaning onto your elbow.

He winks at you. “Nope, I am a shapeshifter. It runs in my family.” He moves the pan over the burner for a moment before he pulls it off and turns fully to you. “You accepted that I am a werewolf, but this is baffling you?” he asks with a smirk. “These grounds have always been in the care of my ancestors, for a very long time. I'm just the latest groundskeeper.”

“So you belong to the house?” you ask quietly, trying to make sense of what he's told you.

“In a way. The house has a strange history, to be honest,” he says, inhaling deeply as he stops the meal prepping and crosses his strong arms in front of his chest. Leaning against the counter, he watches you, and you frown, urging him to continue. “Well, you see, it shouldn't be here,” he goes on ominously.

“What do you mean?”

“It was built on land that shouldn't be built on,” he clarifies. “I don't want to go into too much detail, but, well, people back in the day didn't care about traditions or customs, or warnings. They just did what they wanted, took what they desired. So the house was built, and my family was asked to leave the grounds. Of course that couldn't happen. Somehow we made the compromise that we could stay and care for the grounds and the forest, and they let us. But it wasn't a fair exchange, as were most things back then...”

You listen with growing interest, your eyes wandering over his tan skin and the deep sorrow in his eyes. He keeps talking, his voice low and almost melancholy.

“Some of us didn't like it, and... well, things got out of hand. There was a shaman who lived deep in the forest, and she didn't accept neither the new house nor our willingness to work for those people, so she threw around some curses...”

“Curses?” you echo, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yes, ancient magic made worse by strong emotions. Some say the shaman was fueled by the injustice of the situation, others think she may have had an affair with the house owner, or... well, maybe something else happened, something darker, nobody really knows. But her magic was so strong it is still up today.”

You stare at him, both fascinated and deeply unsettled by his story.

“For one, she cursed us groundskeepers with Lycanthropy, which, us being shapeshifters, shouldn't have been such a bad deal, but you see, I can control turning into animals, I cannot control turning into a werewolf under the full moon. It took me a long time to control myself while transformed as well. The creature you met yesterday was just a shadow of the monster I used to be.”

Your eyes widen, before you blink and frown. He takes a step closer, towering over you as if to trigger your fight or flight instinct. But you're eerily calm when you watch him. “I'm not afraid of you,” you whisper, reaching out a hand towards him. He smiles softly, a sad twinkle in his eyes as he puts his long fingers around yours, squeezing them gently.

“You're special, Little Red,” he whispers, eyeing you closely. “And probably the first to even find your way onto my grounds.” He sighs loudly when your frown deepens. “You see, the shaman also cursed the house. I can't even really explain it, just... well, it slips in and out of existence. It's always there, but it cannot be perceived all the time.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. That explains why you couldn't remember ever seeing it before. You nod to his words, and he continues.

“Sometimes, on special occasions, it reaches out into the world, trying to lure in lost souls. You came here for a party, right?” You nod again. “You see, the inhabitants of the house, staff included, they cannot leave. So they invite random people hoping that some will stay and join them. Nobody usually does. Most come here to party, enjoy a special night they will forget as soon as they step foot over the threshold.”

He tilts his head, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand as he stares down.

“Can you remember what happened in the house?” he asks, slowly looking up.

Your mind buzzes. “Faintly. I mean, hmm,” you make, pulling your eyebrows together as you try to think back to the party. There was a party, right? A Halloween party, yeah, colorful lights through the windows, the low thrum of the bass of the music. You see the invitation in your mind's eye, you assume there have been a lot of people in costumes, food and drinks, but... the more you try to think about details the less feedback you get. It's all fuzzy.

Well, not all of it. It's blurry but you see a mask looming over you, a stranger's voice in your ear, a cold knife against your skin. And after that (or before? You can't be sure) there's the sound of rushing water, then... nothing, just a thrum in your head, deafening silence almost. And it wasn't nothing, there was something, very invasive, you can almost feel it, all over your skin, and more than that... deep inside you. A shiver crashes through your body as you force away the strange sensation.

You look up at the tall man in front of you. “You can't, hm?” he growls quietly, and you nod, deciding it would be best not to share those particular memories with him. “You weren't meant to stay then. Lucky me,” he adds, his serious face morphing into a smile. You blush deeply at how intense his dark eyes look at you. “Instead you ran right into my arms.”

You look away with a shy chuckle. “Well, I did run away from you as well,” you whisper.

“You didn't know better,” he says, letting go of your hand to walk around the island until he's standing behind you, his large hands heavy on your shoulders. You turn your head slightly, trying to look at him out of the corner of your eye. He leans closer, rubs his beard against your cheek. “But you learned your lesson, didn't you?”

Somehow his words sound both enticing and flirting, but also a little threatening and menacing. You shiver. “I...”

“You won't run away from me again, right?” he whispers, his low voice just a thrum in the air, a vibration through your head. “I told you you are mine now. I won't let you go.”

You swallow, stiffening slightly. “But...”

“You were called here,” he continues, ignoring your feeble attempts of protesting. “The house invited you, beckoned you, but it couldn't hold you, you left, stepped into the maze, found me...” He inhales deeply, leaning his chin on your shoulder. “You found what you were looking for.”

You blink in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Like I said, the house calls upon the lost souls, those who wander through life. Some answer, either to find what they are looking for or to never leave again. Think, little one, were you a lost soul, trapped in a boring life with no way out? I believe you were, but no longer, hm?”

Slowly you break your stupor and turn around on the stool, fully facing him. He leans back a little, watching you closely. His words confuse you, but they poke into the dark corners of your mind, at the things you've hidden away. Your desires that could never come true. Like this. With him, this can't come true, right?

How can you throw away your old life because of some ancient hocus-pocus beckoning you to a place where you will find... what? All the answers? True love? Your soulmate or something? Or just a guy who can give you some much-needed cuddles and mind-blowing sex? Is that it? You never believed in the supernatural or paranormal. All this talk about curses and lost souls and werewolves – Hang on. You blink slowly.

You'd be pretty ignorant to disregard all the things that have happened. You saw his werewolf form, you know it intimately. And you were abducted by vampires, ravaged and bitten. They exist. And this man in front of you exists. Sure, you never saw him transform, but you believe him. He feels real and genuine.

And the way he looks right into your soul, picks up on those urges you keep fighting. You already told yourself that you want this, wake up in his arms, be with him, experience that knot again. It is all strange and unnatural, but then again... Maybe you were looking for something like this. You'd have never thought you'd end up with an actual shapeshifter, a werewolf, but does it matter in the end?

He is still a man, a big strong man with the right hardware, and as you feel the warmth creeping into your cheeks, scolding yourself for thinking such primal thoughts, you bite your lip, your eyes wandering over his hairy face. Slowly, you raise your hands and brush your fingertips against his beard, tracing the edges. He watches you, a twinkle in his brown eyes.

“I don't have a choice, right? Fate decided for me,” you say quietly. A deep dimple forms beneath your hand as he smiles at you.

“Indeed it did, little one,” he replies gravelly. “And no one should challenge fate.”

“Hmm,” you hum, cupping his face as you pull yourself closer to him. Before you can, however, meet his lips like you intended, you pause, a thought crashing through your head. “Hey, uh, you said you'd make me your mate. Does that mean I'll become a werewolf too?”

He blinks slowly before he barks a deep laugh. “Your mind works in fascinating ways, Red,” he muses, but then sighs and leans back, slipping from your hold. “No, you won't become like me. It's part of the curse. I'm destined to stay alone.”

“Wait, but I thought... we...”

His arms wrap around your shoulders and lift you up easily as he presses you to his wide chest. “Alone with my cursed fate, but I feel this doesn't count. You came to me, we found each other in the maze. It was your destiny that we met. You may just be the first to fight the pull of the house, it's a sign. And I'd be stupid to let you go ever again...”

You snake your hands under the strong grip of his literal bear hug, gripping at the back of his shirt. “I won't leave,” you mumble into his chest. “I want to stay... with you...”

He leans you back and grips your upper arms, looking down at you with warm eyes. “Good, I'm glad. I was already worried where I'd put your cage.”

You frown before you see his wink and blush deeply, giggling softly as you slap your hand against his chest in mock indignation. “Leave the kinky stuff for when we know each other a bit better?” you tease with a smirk.

He laughs, a deep rumble in the air, and pulls you into another hug. You wrap your arms around his waist and inhale deeply, sinking into his strength and all-consuming warmth.

You came here for a night of partying, drinking, eating, meeting people. To let loose. Have a little adventure. In the end you found so much more.

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

End notes: Thank you for joining me on this ride! I really appreciate the support! I'm happy you liked my little experiment!

It started as a means to get as many monster encounters as possible into one story, but it ended with actual plot, who would've thunk! And the best part, if you enjoyed it, there will be more!

I will expand on the story of Bear and Reader, giving them their own adventure, AND, because I initially intended to wrap this up differently, I will add some bonus chapters to tie up any loose ends of this story, hopefully.

The first bonus chapter THE HOUSE is out now!

A little research side note and disclaimer: I know this is just a silly little fantasy smut story, but I still tend to research quite a bit for my writing. I mentioned above that a shaman cursed Bear and the house, and I just want to make clear that, while I hint at certain dynamics and historical "facts" (really vaguely implying that Bear and his family are from an indigenous tribe and the house owners are some colonizers/settlers taking over their lands), I do not mean any offense by using this word or any other implications made. I looked for a better term, but couldn't find any in the time I had to edit this. In the end, I am just a smut writer and a European at that. I know I only grazed this topic and was mostly only inspired by it, but I am still sorry if I offended anyone with what I wrote or implied!

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

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mikkomacko · 1 month ago

Text

Him and I - Tender Heart

Nico Hischier x Reader, Mob Boss Nico

Warnings: None x

Previous Chapter

____________________________________________

The red spot on the white floors is tormenting.

It’s more of a coppery color now, old and rusty looking, and you wonder why no one has cleaned it up yet, even if it seems to be fading on its own. You can still see it clear as day though, blurred and fuzzy around the edges but bright and nauseating as it pooled on the floor.

The sight makes your head spin, stomach turning like it did that day you saw it fresh, seeping from the gunshot wound in Lena’s thigh. And there’s no adrenaline, no anger to keep you cool like last time when you fixed Lena up and kicked her to the curb.

No the house is just you and the boys now, the heavy foot fall of Alex, Jack and Luke echoing down from the upper level. They’re patrolling, guarding the weak spots like you told them too. That was where Timo got in to rescue you, a chink in the armor in the upper window that’s broken.

“You ok?”

It’s Timo, gun strapped across his chest and shoulders back as he stands beside you. You nod, eyes following Luke’s pacing figure.

“I saw you first,” you explain, nodding towards the balcony. “Barely, couldn’t really make out your face but I knew it was you.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, smiling just the slightest bit. “You have a certain walk. And your build. You’re a little bit bigger than Nico.”

“Ouch,” comes from behind you, Nico’s hand announcing his presence when it finds the small of your back. “That’s not good to hear.”

Timo snickers, and your own smile grows with amusement. Nico’s grinning when he leans over your shoulder to press a kiss into the apple of your cheek.

“Out of context,” you comment, “obviously you’re b-“

“Whoa don’t insult me to my face, I beg.” Timo interrupts, nudging you with the butt of his gun. He doesn’t look wounded when you turn to him, a bittersweet purse to his lips like he’s just happy you’re not having a breakdown in this place.

Your best friend slowly trails away, returning to his post of guarding your back as Nico instructed. Nico’s hand sweeps your hair over your shoulder, rough fingertips trailing along the gold chain on your neck. He takes your pendant and ring between his fingers, that knowing look in his eyes.

“Feeling ok?” It’s like he can see into you. Not through you, not just you, but everything you are. It’s not something you’ll ever get tired of, being seen and known so well.

“Mhm,” you assure, “just ready to go home, I guess.”

Nico’s face droops into a frown, his hand dropping your necklace in exchange for wrapping around your neck. He draws you into him, body thick and warm, and his lips find your forehead.

“I know baby,” he murmurs, “we’ll be back before ya know it.”

You press into his hold, the blood stained floor and the emptiness of his grandfathers old house forgotten now that he’s got you. “I miss Moose,” you complain, and Nico laughs softly “my poor baby. He doesn’t even know what time is, it’s probably felt so long.”

“Next time we travel you can bring him,” he cups the back of your head, thumb stroking your hair. “Lesson learned, I promise.”

Triumphantly, you smile up at him. Nico had insisted it’d be too hard to bring Moose on such a short trip, that the dog would survive a week without you and that’s it’s just mean to make him get on a plane again. After all, the last time he was on one was when he was being taken from his litter.

The guilt trip had worked and you’d left him at home. It however won’t work next time, no matter what Nico tries to pull. This time you’ve got the reminder of this trip from hell on your side.

“Break it up lovebirds, we’ve got company.”

Mercer is marching towards you from the front door, riffle hanging from his shoulder and combat boots thumping on the hardwood floor. A bulky black vest hangs from his fingertips. Before you can even ask he’s holding it out to you.

“Dawson, I don’t need tha-“

“Don’t care, put it on.”

The usual polite, Canadian tone of his gone completely. He’s serious, face hardened and closed off as he stares you down. Confused, you look to Nico.

“Merc, the vest is a bit much.”

“She bruised and beat up,” Dawson says, raising an eyebrow at Nico. “I’d rather her not add bullet holes to the list.”

Nico stares back, expressionless for a moment before he’s nudging you with a pat to your hip. “Put it on baby.”

They’re being dramatic, you think. Nico’s family wouldn’t openly try to kill you in front of him. But you supposed you’d rather be safe than sorry so you take the vest from a smirking Mercer, pulling it over your head and grumbling when your hair tangles in front of your face.

Nico is the one to brush it away, fingertips gentle as he smoothes it down and tucks the loose strands behind yours ears.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, a half smile on his lips. You roll your eyes at his flattery, adjusting the bulky vest and glaring at Mercer.

“You better hope I get shot at or I’m gonna kill you for shoving me in this thing.”

He doesn’t bat an eye at your threatening tone, scoffing and then jabbing a finger at Nico. “If someone so much as reaches for their hip, you better be protecting her head.”

It’s sweet, despite how serious he sounds. Like he’s genuinely concerned for your safety. He did witness Rino first hand though, and he saw the fallout with Nico after. How much it hurt you to have to tell Nico the truth. It hurt Mercer too, enough that he doesn’t trust them anymore.

“Dawson,” Nico calls, tone gentle. “I promise I’m always looking out for her, yeah? Especially her head, but all of her too.”

Comically, Mercer looks Nico up and down, eyes squinted with judgment and he lets out an unimpressed hum. “Yet to be seen,” he says casually, glancing at you. You have to bite back your laugh, entertained by Mercer scolding him.

Offended, Nico scoffs. Eyebrows pulled together in a frown, your fiancé glares at Mercer. “Just get to your fucking post.” Nico hisses, dismissing Mercer with a wave of his hand. The other boy looks to you, and not wanting to escalate Nico any further, you silently nod.

“What the fuck was that?” He grumbles under his breath, shaking his head in annoyance. You catch the strand of hair that slips in front of his eyes, pushing it back over his forehead.

“You always told him he doesn’t take stuff seriously enough,” you whisper, “maybe this is him trying.”

Before he can respond, the sound of the front door opening creaks throughout the empty house. Nico’s body stiffens, his frame immediately moving to stand in front of you and you fall back, reaching for the hem of his hoodie. Timo and Mercer form around you, a protective triangle.

Upstairs, the other three have gone silent, no doubt having moved into their spots as well. You don’t see when Nico’s family enters the large living room, but you hear their footfall, how it grows louder and clearer before suddenly halting.

“Nico,” Luca calls, confused. “What the hell is going on?”

The sound of his brother’s voice sends a dollop of ease down your spine. You weren’t exactly expecting Rino to still be around let alone show up here, but you wouldn’t put it past him.

You glance over to Timo, see the way his clenched shoulders ease just the slightest bit and you find yourself rising to your toes to peak over Nico’s shoulder.

“You tell me,” Nico answers coolly, shifting as he crosses his arms over his chest. His family is gathered in the entryway still, frozen and caught off guard by the presence of weapons. The unspoken standoff.

Nina’s gaze falls to you and you quickly cower behind Nico, mentally cursing yourself for being such a busy body.

“I don’t know,” Luca huffs, “I got notice in the middle of the night that father was missing, then a huge withdrawal from the business account, and you were silent until this morning. Then I get a cryptic text saying to come here and you’ve got a fucking gun pointed at me!”

Luca’s voice rises as his frustration grows with each spoken word, booming throughout the empty room and echoing off the pristine walls. Both Mercer and Timo squeeze in closer to you, as if expecting Luca to bite at any moment.

“I know father is gone,” Nico confirms, calm and collected. Like always. “And going off of that, I’m not surprised you’re suddenly missing funds. But the boys and the guns and me are here to find out what you really know.”

You can’t see it, but it feels like that last part is pointed more at his mother than the others. The urge to look over his shoulder again burns in your gut, but you stay put, knowing that the last time you forgot protocols you ended up in this exact room.

“You know about dad?”

It’s Nina, her voice small, unlike you’ve ever heard her in the brief time since you’ve met her. You can’t tell if she sounds more scared or sad, unable to read her from here. Nico has a lot in common with his siblings. His openness with you isn’t one of them.

“Nico,” Luca says quietly, hesitantly. “What did you do? Where’s father?”

Your fiancé doesn’t so much as flinch. He doesn’t say anything, unable and unwilling to take credit for your handiwork with Rino. From the outside, it looks like Nico is simply waiting, his silence urging them to start speaking. From your view, you know he’s trying to decide what to say, if he should reveal the truth and risk losing them.

That’s not something you’re going to let happen.

Releasing the hem of his hoodie, you step around Nico to be by his side. Your movement makes him shift, dropping his arms out to the side and it looks like he’s about to sling them around you, shield you again. Before he can, you take a hold of his hand in both of yours, meeting his concerned gaze with a subtle nod of your head.

Understanding seeps into his eyes, his whole body relaxing as he accepts the comfort of holding your hand. The gesture does nothing for the other boys though, and you feel as much as you hear them shift closer.

“He didn’t do anything,” you answer, still looking at Nico for a moment longer. His fingers squeeze just once, in thanks, and then you level his brother with a confident stare. “I did.”

Luca looks just as confused as before, helplessly running a hand through his hair in frustration. You feel a little guilty for the eldest son. It’s not his fault he got stuck with the task of running the business, of keeping his father in check and managing the money and legacy his grandfather left behind. Trying to keep Rino from ruining it.

But then again, he never took a second to think about what it all means. He never decided to change like Nico has. And you don’t feel bad for him about that.

Nina is watching you sadly, her eyes big and droopy like Nico’s get when his feelings are hurt. That kicked puppy look, growing even more down trodden when she notices the cut on your lip, the protective gear on your torso.

“Y/n,” she breathes, taking a step towards you with her arm out. “you don’t have to be afraid of u-“

In perfect sync Nico yanks you back by the hand, half stepping in front of you just as Timo and Mercer close in beside you, guns digging into their shoulders and aimed at Nina. The safety never clicks off, but the effect is the same.

“If anyone is this god damn family touches her again I swear to god,” Nico warns gruffly, as Nina quickly retreats.

“Neeky, what are you talking about?” She begs, holding her hands up to show Mercer and Timo she means no harm. “The rifles, the guards, what is going on?”

Still half behind Nico’s arm, you finally look to Katja. She’s already watching you, an inquisitive but knowing look on her face. She’s waiting for you to make the move, and you know why. She took a risk warning you that day in the car, went against her husband and her powerful family for the first time in her life. And until you’ve admitted that you done what needed to be done, that’s she’s safe now too, she won’t utter another word about it.

“The car ride,” you address her, “it took me a bit, but I got it. I-we know everything.”

A proud smirk tugs at the corners of her lips, brief and tiny but still noticeable. You note the way her shoulders seem to lift, chin tilting up in admiration.

“Rino wanted you out Luca,” you continue, “and he wanted Nico back and punished for leaving. The only way to do that was to get his influence back, his loyal subjects.

“And Lena was his top recruit.”

Nina is the first to react, her hands shooting up to cover her mouth in disbelief. It’s a positive sign at the least. It means she didn’t know before, she wasn’t in on it with Reno.

“He planned it all from the day we got here. The texts and everything were on Lena’s phone-“

“We checked her phone,” Luca cuts in, not very much in denial but more so lost. Like he can’t fathom that this would happen. It gives you a little more hope.

“You missed her deleted albums,” you say pointedly, shooting Luca a scolding glare. Head of a business and he’s not even smart enough to snoop right. “She was working with Rino to earn her place back in the business by getting rid of me and dragging Nico home.”

Luca looks at you, eyebrow lifted in a fascinated way. It’s the same way he looked at you when you went against Nico and showed up here with the boys. “What did you do?”

“Mercer put a gun to the back of his head and I told him if he ever came near Nico or my family again we’d kill him.”

“And he ran,” Mercer adds gruffly, venom dripping from his tongue. “Like a fucking coward he took off.”

Briefly, you wonder why some people would even both having kids if they didn’t really want to love them. It’s clear from Luca and Nina’s downtrodden gazes that they’re not surprised. Whatever Rino has done in the past, it’s made it clear that his kids expect nothing great from him.

“We don’t know where he went or what he’ll do. I just know it’ll never involve Nico again.” You look to Katja again, a warm feeling swelling in your chest when you find her watching you with wet eyes. “And it won’t involve you either, as long as you don’t want it to.”

Nina and Luca whip around to stare at their mother, jaws dropped. “You knew?” Nina demands, meanly.

“I know everything Rino does.” She admits, devoid of her usual tone of privilege. “I’ve just never had the means to stop him.”

Nico’s other hand finds the back of your neck, fingers strong as he squeezes. You melt into his touch, a heavy breath falling from your lips. Katja nods at you.

“Until now, at least.”

“A little too fucking late!” Comes from upstairs, Jack you think might’ve said it but from here, him and Luke sound awfully similar.

You can’t help it. You laugh, small and quietly but enough to make Timo snicker too from the other side of Nico.

“Alright,” Nico sighs, amused. “We gotta stop you before they start a riot or something up there.”

His hand finds your neck again, heavy and sturdy, and you look up at him. His other fingers find your necklace, drawing the pendant out and laying it across the vest, the gold glinting on the black. For just a brief moment you two share a silent exchange, unsure of what you’re really looking to him for, but then his fingers are holding your chin high and confident, and he tilts his head just slightly, and you know. You did good, you made him proud, you did exactly what you were supposed to do here.

Timid, you give him a small smile and the moment is over though it’s not fleeting. Even after he releases your chin, and any fondness that had been in his eyes before fades as he turns to his family, you can still feel it.

“Nico I promise I didn’t know,” Luca says earnestly, “about Lena or any of it. You know how father is, I was so stuck on the business that I didn’t even notice him stirring things up.”

Stiffly, Nico nods and his gaze falls to Nina. “You really thought I knew Nico?”

“You came all the way from France for something,” he responds, accusingly. “And you didn’t think to tell me about running into Lena.”

Nina makes an affronted face, like her brother’s words have just broken her heart in two. “I did that for you,” she swears, “I came home because I wanted to see you. And everything with Lena, I thought it was harmless. You and y/n were so happy that night. It was a side of you I have never seen before and I thought telling you about Lena would scare you into not asking her to be your prinzessin.”

Lena harmless. You could almost laugh. She may have been helpless but that seemed to make her even more harmful. Though you supposed if Nico had asked you about her that night in the bar you would’ve thought the same thing. Just a jealous ex.

“I would never hurt you, Nico. I’d never hurt y/n either,” pleading eyes fall on you, their expression so like Nico it makes your heart jump. “I love you guys.”

Nico takes a deep breath, his shoulders shift with it and you settle your hand on the curve of his spine, hoping the touch is calming. After a beat he looks over his shoulder to Timo, waving them off. The air in the room seems to shift now that the weapons are hanging neutrally by the boys’ sides.

The collective sighs of relief from the three of them have you biting back a laugh, hiding your smile in Nico’s side. The hand on your neck slides down to grab at the straps of the bulky vest.

“Let’s get this off,” he suggests, lightly tugging on it. Eager and happy to get rid of the stupid thing, you step back and help him maneuver the Kevlar off. “Mercer take this back, yeah?”

Dawson takes it from him, eyeing Nico’s family as he moves around them to head towards the car. Nico takes a hold of your face, and you reach up to help him smooth your hair back down-

“Oh my god,” Nina’s gasp makes you freeze, both you and Nico wide eyed as you turn to her. “The ring, Nico oh my god.”

At her words Luca and Katja notice too, their gazes falling to your left hand and Nico easily catches your palm in his. The mention of it makes you smile, heat crawling up your neck and you practically drag Nico over to his family.

He’s still holding your hand as you stretch it out to Nina, the light catching the diamond on your finger and twinkling elegantly.

“Oh it’s beautiful,” Nina murmurs, blinking up at you. “Can I…” she motions to hug you. Nico only hesitates a moment before letting you go and you engulf Nina in a hug.

Katja manages to get Nico into one, a bit awkward looking when you glance over at him but he’s speaking quietly with her, and you wonder if it’s about the other ring. The last thing you want is her to be offended that he didn’t use it. Wait, where is that ring?

“Congrats,” Luca tells you, a nervous smile on his lips. You hug him too, thinking of how he had helped you the last time you were in this house. You’re glad that wasn’t just a ploy for him.

“Thank you,” you murmur thoughtfully, and he knows it’s for more than you’re actually saying. He squeezes you again briefly before letting you go, you swapping places with Nico.

“It is a beautiful ring,” Katja says, approaching you slowly. “I should’ve known he’d come prepared.”

Shocked, you blink at her. “You knew?”

A coy smile takes over her face. “Like I said, I know my son. He wouldn’t come home for no reason, unfortunately. And while he may like to rewrite rules, the prinzessin rules are tradition.”

“He needs approval.” You realize, a bit confused. Nico’s never followed any of their rules before. Of course the traditions of the Devs are mirrored of the ones here, but you can’t imagine him asking his mother permission.

“In his case no,” she explains, then cautiously reaches out for your hand. You let her take it between both of hers, squeezing slightly just like Nico does. “Nico has never needed or wanted permission from us for anything. But he wanted a chance for us to meet you first.”

“He cares what you guys think,” you tell her, “even if it doesn’t seem like it. And he talks about you all a lot.”

Katja smiles, grateful and emotional. “Thank you,” she whispers thickly, “for everything. For saving him, making him better than I ever could’ve.”

“He did that all himself,” you admit. “I might’ve been inspiration but Nico never needed to be fixed by anyone. He’s too stubborn.”

She laughs. “And thank you for trusting me, saving me.”

You can’t help it. You shake your hand out of hers, throwing your arms around her shoulders and hugging her. Katja squeezes you back, her hands cautious and gentle on your back but she still feels warm, relaxed. Somewhere in your head, you think she feels motherly. Not quite like Timo’s mother, but similar enough.

“If you ever need anything,” you begin but she shushes you.

“I know.”

Finally, you take a deep breath, closing your eyes and basking in the feeling of doing something right. You kept Nico safe from Rino, and he gets to keep the rest of his family.

Parting from Katja, you meet back up with Nico who tucks you under his arm protectively, kissing the top of your head.

“What do you have planned for the rest of the day?” Luca asks, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his jeans. Mercer comes back sans bulletproof vest, still watching Luca through narrowed eyes.

You give him a warning look. “Finish packing, probably nap for a bit. We were up early, uh and then we’ve got our flight home.”

Nina’s face falls at the mention of your departure tonight, frowning with those big moony eyes.

“You’ll still come see us, won’t you?” She asks, hopeful.

You and Nico exchange a look. It’s not that you haven’t enjoyed Switzerland. There was a lot of fun but there was also a lot of bad, and sometime the bad sticks longer than the good. You’re not saying you won’t come back ever, but for now you want to be home with Nico and Moose.

Nico sucks in a breath, shrugging as he turns to his sister. “Yeah, but not for a while.” He says, and Nina has barely had anytime to slump in defeat before you continue.

“But we’ve got lots of room in Jersey, and a wedding to plan soon, so…”

Nico squeezes your bicep. “So you’re always welcome to come visit.” It’s sweet how they all seem light up with happiness at the invite.

They may need a little work still, but that doesn’t mean they’re not family.

~~~~

Nico wonders a lot of things.

He wonders how people come up with plot lines for books, how they can concoct entire universes in their heads and execute effortlessly. Like that lady that wrote The Hunger Games. Where did that idea come from and how did it come out so well (he’s never read the book but you’ve told him about them).

He wonders how Bluetooth connection works. How did someone figure out that if you put a stupid little signal in one device and another signal in another device, they can talk to each other? It kind of works like magic but not really because magic isn’t real. Whose brain decided it would be cool to make this stuff interface with each other?

He wonders how vinyls work and why it makes music sound different. The little groves aren’t just spirals carved into the disc? How does a song get engraved? He wants to put two different ones under a microscope and see what the fuck is the difference on them that makes them play different songs.

What he wonders the most though, is how he managed to make you love him. He doesn’t question it often, tries not to test his luck but sometimes he can’t help it. In those moments where you’re looking at him like he’s the reason for life. When your eyes are big and full of awe, gazing into him as if you’re looking at heaven itself (if heaven is real). When you move in sync with him, fit under his arm like he’s the center of your gravity.

How did that happen? How did he become someone so deserving of being the center of your world?

“You’ve got a million thoughts behind those eyes.”

Nico smiles, a smug little curl of his lips and shrugs. You raise a single eyebrow, curiously looking up at him through your eyelashes before focusing back on the task at hand.

“Am I gonna get to know them any time soon?” You hold up the black Kith hoodie he loves, the one that’s got that cute dog embroidered on it, squinting as you picture what it would look like on him with the dark sweats you put to the side for him earlier.

“Think you already know them,” he teases, and you subtly shake your head before tossing the hoodie to the bed. “Know everything don’t you?”

“This marriage thing is gonna work out great,” you say dreamily, “you already know the most important rule.”

Nico laughs, holding still as best he can as you hold up a quarter zip to his torso. It’s red and fleece, incredibly warm and soft if he recalls correctly. It’s not something he wears often but it’s the perfect shade of devils red and you always touch his biceps and chest when he wears it, feeling how fluffy it is.

He already knows it’s the one you’re going to choose by the way your eyes light up, a pleased smirk on your face. So he’s not at all surprised when you take it off the hanger, folding it to go alongside his sweats with a cute little, “perfect!”

“Are you gonna dress me everyday now?”

Snaking his arms around your waist, he presses his face into the crook of your neck. “Maybe,” you laugh, “especially if I’m gonna be the one holding you on the plane tonight when you’re crying.”

“I don’t cry,” he argues, nibbling on the soft skin and you jump, startled by his blunt teeth nipping at you. “I whine, s’different.” Nico’s arms keep you still, held tight to the front of him as you squirm away from his teasing nips.

“Tomato, tomato,” you rebuttal, “either way I’m the one holding your fidgeting butt still.”

That makes him laugh, tossing his head back and you, pleased with his reaction, giggle alongside him. It wasn’t that funny a joke, but maybe he’s just that happy. He loves you that much.

“I appreciate it.” He compliments, kissing the back of your head. His hands fall to rest on your hips, fingertips lingering as you move away from him to finish collecting the things you need to pack.

Nico sits on the edge of the bed, heart full. His eyes follow you around the room, stars practically twinkling in his pupils. You’re so beautiful, so wonderful, so amazingly perfect for him.

“I can do that, ya know?” He calls, amused but grateful that you’re taking over the tedious task for him.

Approaching the suitcases laid out beside him, you tuck the stack of shirts into the little crevices and corners of the case. Funnily, Nico notices that he no longer has his own suitcase. No, you’ve just mixed all your stuff in with his and his with yours. There’s no apparent rhyme or reason either.

“I know,” you utter, “maybe sometimes I just like doing things for you.”

Nico’s heart swells, erratically vibrating under his skin and he feels the urge to tackle to you to the bed, lay himself on top of you and just squeeze you until you pop. Instead he chuckles.

“Maybe sometimes?” He asks casually, “not all the time?”

“No,” you giggle, a hand on your hip as you smile at him. Then something curious settles over your features, confusion in your gaze. “What happened to the other ring?”

He pauses, gaze flittering to the ensuite bathroom before settling back on you. It was long enough for you to catch though, your eyes shifting up to look at the open door and then you're taking off. Scrambling away from his grabbing hands with a giggle, Nico chases after you with a lighthearted "wait!"

You're already in the bathroom though, tearing through the drawers and shifting around whatever left over junk he abandoned in there years ago. "Nico, where?" You beg, still pawing around.

Sighing, he shifts onto his knees and pulls open the cabinet door beneath his sink. You crowd behind him, shifting impatiently as he shoves boxes of cleaning supplies and extra shampoos to the side. Behind the drain pipe, his finger brush against the velvet box and he grabs it. Then, with a blank look on his face, he holds it up to you.

"Ooh," you squeal, taking it and flipping the top open. Knees cracking, he returns to his full height, nudging the cabinet shut with his foot. Propped up against the counter, Nico watches you with bated breath as you examine the ring from his mother.

He's not stupid. It's obvious you think the ring is beautiful, that it impressed you the first moment you saw it out on the front steps. Maybe he was a little worried you'd be upset he didn't give you that ring, but it's obvious now that he made the right choice. Your eyes shift over to your left hand and something seems to sparkle in them, as if the diamond and pearls themselves live inside your irises. Yeah, his mother's ring is beautiful, but you love the one on your finger.

"Right choice?" He asks anyway, still a bit hesitant.

You bite your lip, nodding happily. "Perfect choice," you assure. Gently, you close the box and hold it out to him.

“S’yours,” Nico shoos it away, not interested in taking it back from you.

“Katja gave it to you,” you tell him, shaking your hand as if that knock enough sense into him to take it back. What are you going to do with two rings?

“For you,” he presses, “it’s yours baby. You get to decide what to do with it.”

It’s a lot of pressure. This family heirloom that he never thought he’d get, a token of acceptance from his mother and he doesn’t even want it. He wants you to have it.

The thing is, you don’t really want it either. You don’t need his mother’s acceptance or the tradition of this business. You and Nico are not a part of it. You have your own family and life and traditions you want to set up, ones that have real meaning behind them. You have a ring that was given out of love, not out of contract or obligation.

It means nothing to you.

But you’d imagine it doesn’t mean nothing to his siblings, the ones still here and trying to redefine the organization their father built. Maybe the ring should be redefined, given a new purpose.

Maybe it’s time the ring goes to a Hischier daughter. Someone who will know what to do with it. And will know what it has meant for the women before her.

“Ok,” you murmur, reminding yourself to leave it on the outside pocket of your carry on. “Thank you, Nico.”

He takes a hold of your hips in his large hands, guiding you to stand between his thighs. You go pliantly, melting into his broad chest with a soft sound of contentment.

“Thank you,” he whispers, tone heavy with what he’s not willing to say right now. You get it all the same, and the feeling of pride from earlier swarms up in your chest again. You did good, you won, you did it all for Nico. And sure you’ll have to still keep an ear to the ground for Rino, but Nico is safe and happy.

You press a kiss to his chest through his shirt. “I’m tired, Schao.”

He runs a hand up your back, nose pressing into your forehead sweetly. “Let’s go nap baby.” He pats at the outside of your thigh, moving to guide you back to the room. “We’ve had a busy day.”

Starting the day with an early morning proposal and then the chat with his family, and now a long trip home. It has been a busy day.

You wiggle out of your jeans, kicking them towards your suitcase to be packed later before climbing into the bed that’s still unmade. Nico kicks off his own jeans, working his shirt over his head and you’re reminded of how he’d celebrated your engagement in these very sheets just this morning.

Blushing, you watch as Nico slips under his side of the blankets. Like two magnet ends, you slide into his side, laying your cheek on his bicep and throwing your leg over his middle. Smiling, his free hand drops under the blankets to hold the meatiest part of your thigh, the pads of his fingers lovingly rubbing little circles into your skin.

“We’ll be home soon,” you whisper, excited. He makes an agreeable humming noise and you peak up to find his eyes already closed, dark eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.

Laying your left hand over his heart, you admire the pretty diamond for a bit longer. Feeling his heart beat, listening to his breath even out, entranced by the pretty pearls until your eyes slip shut on their own accord.

~~~~

Nico is having a dream.

Or something like a dream, he thinks. He’s been here a million times, knows the exact shade of the walls and the thread count of the bed sheets and the smell of the candle on the nightstand. It is his favorite place after all; The bedroom he shares with you at home.

For a moment he thinks it’s a memory. There’s something about the air in the room, it feels so familiar and certain. Like he already knows what’s gonna happen and he’s just patiently waiting for it. He shuffles in the bed, blinking through the dark air as he realizes you’re awake too and quietly speaking.

Nico thinks you’re speaking to him, sits up higher on the pillows and moves to fully look at you. But you’re not looking at him. Instead, you’re turned away from him, sitting up with the bedding bunched around your hips. His shirt is draped over your shoulders and hangs loosely around your neck, the collar stretched out from the countless times he yanked and pulled it to kiss down the column of your throat and collarbones.

His mind tells him to reach out, to brush his fingers over the back of your neck to get your attention. His hands stay still though, muscles not making any effort to comply with his brain. Helpless, Nico watches your shoulders and back move as you speak quietly, the words unintelligible to him.

Moving on its own accord, Nico’s body sits up on the mattress and tucks into the curve of your back, his chin pressing into your shoulder blade. The sight in front of him makes his heart skip, confusion turning to panic, and he’s so grateful that your hand reaches back to rest on his thigh, as if comforting him.

A dream, it has to be a dream. Because it’d be impossible of him to have the memory of a child standing at your bedside in the middle of the night.

It’s a boy, maybe eight or nine years old. It’s funny, Nico thinks, how dark the room is but the features of the boy are crystal clear. Dark brown eyes, red rimmed and full of tears, innocently framed by equally dark eyelashes. It’s startling to see, to be looking at the same eyes he sees in the mirror.

Nico’s breath catches in his chest. He’s looking at himself he think, examining the boys dark and messy hair. Why is he looking at himself?

Except he’s not, he realizes a beat later. The soft shape of the boys face, the fullness of his mouth, the roundness of his nose. They’re features he’d recognize anywhere because they’re yours.

This boy, a perfect blend of you and him, isn’t a younger, dream version of himself. It’s a child he shares with you, it’s your son.

He doesn’t blink an eye at Nico’s sudden presence over your shoulder, his gaze desperately locked on you and if his eyes weren’t enough to prove this kid is Nico’s too, that simple action certainly is.

A teddy bear is clutched in the boys hands, little fingers tangled around the neck of the stuffed animal. Deja vu stirs Nico’s brain, memories of him as a child holding his bear the same way suddenly surfacing. Maybe that kid is supposed to be Nico when he was younger because the more he notices, the more he realizes he’s lived this night before.

The boy is hiccuping, fighting back blubbery cries and squeezing at that teddy bear as he retells the nightmare he woke up from. A once dream of him out in the yard, running and giggling through a game of tag with ‘the family’. It’s fun and he’s so excited to be with everyone.

Until suddenly it’s not fun and he doesn’t want anyone there. They’ve all turned into monsters, twisted faces of the people he loves, their eyes now black and menacing, chasing him with a dangerous desperation. It feels like they want to kill him.

The boy doesn’t say that, but Nico knows. It’s the same nightmare he used to have as a child. Luca and Nina, chasing him with evil eyes and death grips. His parents, following behind with the same look, not pursuing really but not helping either. It was the dream that plagued him for years, forced him from his bed and into his parent’s room until he was old enough to realize he was better off soothing himself back to sleep.

The air in the room has gone cold, Nico’s own breath shuddering against the skin of your shoulder and he wants to move, needs to move. He needs to reach around you, reach for the crying boy because Nico knows what comes next.

It’s the part where his mother blinks back at him, tired and annoyed, mumbling dismissively that it was a dream and he’s too old to be doing this. He has his own bed and room, he knows how to put himself back to bed. Time to grow up and get over it, or if really necessary, wake the nanny next time. His father has work tomorrow and can’t be disturbed. Nico knows that, he’s reminded and then sent back out of the room with his teddy bear squeezed so tightly in his hands he thinks the seams might rip.

He still can’t move however, can’t get his body to cooperate with the signals he’s screaming at it. Someone needs to get to the boy, needs to pick him up and hug him, needs to wipe those tears off his puffy cheeks and tell him that would never happen, that his family loves him and he’s got nothing to be scared of.

To his horror, Nico blinks and realizes it would be you. You’d be his mother in this dream, dismissing the boy with a cold shoulder before making sure he himself hasn’t been bother by the intrusion. The same as his mother used to do for his father. Even worse, Nico realizes he’s his father in this stupid dream, this stupid nightmare.

You pull away from Nico and his heart seizes, his own eyes stinging with tears as he waits for you to dismiss the crying child. He’s a marble statue on the bed, watching you reach for the blankets with bated breath.

He expects you to pull them back over your shoulder and lay down. Except you don’t, your hands pushing them further down your thighs and you’re getting up from the bed.

Like its instinct, the boys stretches his little arms out to you and you lean down to meet him halfway. Wrapping him up in your arms, you lift him onto your hip and the boy curls into you, hugging his bear tightly and laying his head on your chest. You hold him protectively, a hand soothing the hair on the nape of his neck and rocking him steadily until his cries are just sniffles into the fabric of your shirt. It’s then that Nico can finally move again, the invisible hold on his limbs easing to nothing.

“He’s ok,” he hears himself saying, “he’s ok now.”

Like you’re seeing him for the first time, not noticing until now that Nico is in the dream, you turn to him. Your eyes shine, tired but warm and with a loving smile you approach the bed. Nico reaches out, eager now that he can get his body to cooperate and gestures for you to get back in bed. Softly, you lay the boy down in bed, his head on your pillow and wet eyes blinking at Nico.

“Daddy?” He asks and Nico can’t breathe, can’t speak. His mouth opens, unsure of what to even say but nothing comes out anyway. It feels like his vocal cords have been taken, silenced.

But then you lay down too, settling into the mattress besides the young boy and Nico lets out a quiet breath. Nervously, Nico draws the teary eyed boy into his chest, hands tender and uncertain but the boy goes easily, snuggling into Nico’s hold like he’s been there a million times before. Laying back into the pillows, Nico watches you move closer, laying your head on his bicep and your hand comes up to play with the boys hair. You throw your leg over Nico’s, touch your foot to his calf and he melts into the bed.

It feels safe, being here. In his bed, his home with you. The weight of you and the son he shares with you on his chest. Knowing that he’s ok, Nico’s ok and the boy is too.

Nico wakes up with a start, the light of the setting sun harsh on his eyes and he has to blink rapidly to get the white spots to clear up. Heart thumping painfully loud in his chest and ears, he forces himself to take deep breaths.

He’s in his room, well the room you two now share, just not the one from his dream. This house and room have been left at the bare minimum, abandoned after he left to the United States. The cleaning crew comes every other week to keep it fresh and tidy, and the grounds crew every few weeks to care for the lawn. Nico’s never cared about this house. It was given to him by his grandfather, part of his inheritance. They all got a house within ten miles of grandfathers house. For security and safety reasons.

Nico almost sold it when he first got to Jersey. Thought of using the money to speed up the process of getting the Devs going, but he actually enjoyed living in the cramped apartment with Timo and Jonas and Jesper and the girls. It felt like a real home with a real family.

And his siblings would never forgive him if he got rid of the family gift from his grandfather.

Now, he’s glad he didn’t. It’s still not home to him, but he’s shared too many moments in this house with you already. He can’t imagine anyone else but you in the kitchen, drinking tea with him in the morning. Chasing you around the piles of snow outback in the middle of the night. The sheets have already begun to smell like you and him, a perfect mix of his cologne and your perfume, just like the sheets back in Jersey.

And as much as he hated his grandfather, the old kook was right about one thing. Being this close is safe. If anything were to happen to him, to the Devs, you’d have this home. A safe place for you and Moose and probably Alex too at the very least. Near his family, his mother who he can shockingly trust to make sure you’re taken care of.

Nico’s pulse and breath even out, and he drags a hand down his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. They still feel heavy and groggy, begging to return to sleep. He blinks, lets the image of the dream float fuzzily into his mind again.

A kid. Nico had a kid. Somewhere in his subconscious, he’s ok with that. The thought brings a lump to front of his throat, but not one big enough to choke on. Improvement, he thinks happily. He’s easing into this family thing, spurred by the image of you. You’ve always been so sweet with Nico, so patient of his faults and the time he needed to grow up and heal.

He can be patient too, he thinks. And kind, and loving, and protective, and providing. And present. Everything a good dad should be.

Tears sting at the back of his throat, blurring his vision and he sniffles quietly.

Nico doesn’t want to wake you, but the arm you’re using as a pillow is stinging with pins and needles, fingertips cold and numb. And even though you’re plastered to his side, he wants more.

Hesitant and a bit embarrassed, he rolls onto his side to face you, wincing as he attempts to wiggle his arm out from under you. The movement makes you stir, a sharp inhale of air cutting through the silent room and then your blinking your eyes open, coming face to face with Nico.

“Sorry,” he whispers, pathetically, his voice cracking. That stupid burning feeling in his throat grows and Nico’s not even sure what he wants, what’s going on. He can feel himself panicking again as you sit up a bit and free his arm. He’s about to start babbling his dream to you in defense for the tears but you don’t even give him a chance.

Sleepily, you move up the pillows and onto your side, still facing him. But your arm is pushing at his shoulder and he molds like putty in your hands. Nudging him to move onto his side, his back now facing you, Nico inhales shakily. He can feel you shuffling behind him, rustling the blankets like you’re searching for something and he opens his mouth to ask what you’re doing.

You shush him by throwing your arm around his chest and your leg over his hip, pulling yourself tight to his back. Soft and worn fabric tickles the skin of his chest and he cranes his neck down, blinking at the sight of his teddy bear. He’d grabbed it from his childhood bedroom for you in the hospital and ever since it’s slept by your head or in the crook of your elbow.

Nico takes the bear from your hand, laying it against his chest and bicep, and you curl your arm tighter around him, fingers pressing over his heart in a welcome weight. It’s a nice feeling, the pressure and warmth of your body wrapped around him like this, and he can kinda see why you like when he holds you like this.

He feels so…safe and shielded. He closes his eyes, ignores the wet feeling of a few tears slipping down his cheeks.

“S’ok,” you whisper quietly into his ear, your face pressed into the back of his neck. “I’ve got you Neeky, s’ok.”

He drifts back off again, faintly realizing that that’s the first time you’ve called him that.

~~~~

The jet looms off to the side of the runway, the windows glowing with the cabin light and bulbs on the wings blinking. The car rolls to a stop next to a familiar black SUV, Timo putting it in park and killing the engine. Through the tinted window you can make out the other three Hischiers leaning against the front of it, bundled up in their coats. Luca’s got his arm tucked around a small, huddling figure.

“Maja,” you tell Nico, pressing your finger to the glass and looking back at him with a smile. He follows your gesture, laughing softly.

“You like Maja huh?

“She’s sweet,” you answer, moving to release your seatbelt just as the other vehicle pulls up next to you. Mercer, eager to get home, practically leaps out of the drivers seat.

Timo is the first to get out, quickly dashing around the front of the car to open the passenger door for Amelia and you and Nico giggle quietly to yourself. You’ve never seen Timo so romantic before.

Pulling Nico’s beaning further over his ears and checking his zipper, you give him another little grin before opening the door. The air is cold and biting, stings your cheeks as you shuffle out and Nico follows, staying close to your back.

The other boys have all gotten out of the car too, lined up groggily by the back of your SUV and Timo leaves Amelia standing with you, moving towards the trunk.

“Timo,” Nico stops him, nodding to Amelia. “They’ve got it.”

Luke, Alex, and Mercer don’t even so much as grumble when Nico gestures for them to load the bags on the jet. Jack however, rolls his eyes, stomping his feet like a child as he joins them.

The Hischiers have come over to help now, not that Nico would ever let them so they all just stand in front of you, waiting and expectant.

“You have everything you need?” Nina asks you first, faux cheeriness in her voice and you know how upset she is to see her baby brother go.

Nico laughs under his breath, moving around you and pulling his sister into a hug. It’s enough of an answer for her, Nina greedily accepting the affection and snuggling into his hold.

“Come on you,” Maja calls, pulling herself out of her hiding spot under Luca’s arm. Simultaneously, they stretch out their arms to you and you laugh, moving to accept the double hug from them. Their puffer jackets make it a bit of a tight fit but you don’t mind, squeezing them as tight as you can.

“It was so nice to meet you, y/n.” Maja tells you, “you know if you ever need anything at all we’re here. Luca loves long flights.”

He makes a noise of complaint, something between a scoff and a snort, and you almost laugh imagining him just as restless on planes as Nico is.

“You and Nico both, huh?” You tease, pulling back to smile at him. He chuckles, snaking a cold hand up to ruffle your hair.

“You take care of him, ok kid?” He tells you, and even though it’s said softly, you can hear the underlying concern in his tone.

“Always,” you promise, then narrow your eyes at him in a stern frown. “You take care of Maja and Katja, ok kid?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not Nina?”

“Nah I think she can handle herself and her Frenchies.”

That makes both Luca and Maja laugh, him giving you one final squeeze before letting you go. “I will.” He assures, a fond look in his eyes as he awkwardly pats at the top of your head again. Maja presses a sisterly kiss to your cheek, grinning sadly as she returns to hiding under Luca’s arm.

Nico, now parted from his sister, moves to swap places with you, his hand briefly finding the small of your back. Nina is already crying when you get to her, cheeks red from the cold and glistening.

“Aww don’t do that.” You beg, bundling her up in a hug. She laughs wetly, pressing her face into your shoulder.

“I got the emotions for all three of us it seems,” she jokes, referencing the lack of tears coming from her brothers. You don’t tell her that Nico can actually be the world’s biggest softy. And you don’t think about waking up to him crying earlier, because if it were something he wanted you to be concerned about, he’d tell you.

It was him healing, you tell yourself, and then shake the memory away for now.

“A blessing and a curse,” you say, pulling back to hold her at arms length. She swipes at her cheeks, sniffling.

“Thank you for everything this trip,” she says earnestly. “You make him so happy, it’s like a brand new Nico. He hasn’t been like this since he was a baby.”

Your heart squeezes, a bittersweet feeling seeping into your veins. Sometimes it’s hard to picture Nico being a happy baby. He’s so neutral and solid now, confident but tense. Like he’s always waiting for something. But when you picture him singing in the car or wrestling Moose for toys and hanging out at the bar with the boys, you can see it.

Nico was born happy and bright, warm like the sun. Sometimes he hides it, but eventually he’ll show himself.

“You fixed him.” Nina shrugs, sniffling with fresh tears in her eyes again.

“That was all him,” you tell her, repeating your words to Katja from earlier “I may have been inspiration but he never really needed fixing. He just needed to know that we love him.”

The tears roll down her cheeks, a blubbering cry escaping her and you laugh, pulling her into another hug. After a moment of sniffling, she pulls back.

“I’m ok,” she says more to herself, laughing again. “I’m sorry he grew up like this, that we grew up like this.”

It’s not her fault, though you can’t really imagine having a baby brother and not protecting him. Maybe it’s just who you are though. Still, you wave off the apology. “It made him strong, it made you all strong.”

Releasing her, you dig in your pocket for the box you’d set aside earlier. Nina blinks rapidly, trying to dry her eyes and you hold it out to her.

“I think this belongs to you now.”

She gapes, recognizing the box immediately just as Nico had. “Y/n,” she gasps, “what? No that’s, she gave it to you and Nico-“

“Actually she gave it to Nico, and Nico gave it to me, and well I already have one so I figured it should go to someone who can make it mean something worthwhile.”

Nina shakes her head. “What about Luca? It’s meant for marriage?”

“I was told it stood more contractual obligation, but it should stand for love. It’s a wedding ring, after all. It should have ties to love.”

You press the box into her trembling hand. “Nico and I love you Nina. You’re the big sister I never had and well, this should dazzle on your finger while you woo every pretty French boy that struts by…”

She laughs wetly.

“And then maybe one day you’ll give it to your kids, kids you love, and they’ll give it to someone else they love.”

Her fingers wrap so tightly around the box her knuckles turn white. “I used to steal it from my mother’s jewelry box,” she says with awe. “After father got her an anniversary one and this one wasn’t worn anymore. I’d put it on my hand and imagine my grandmother had given it to me because it went so well with my eyes.”

Startling, you think it does. She’s got little flecks of green in them, more brown than anything else but they’re there. The same shade as the ring.

“It does,” you agree, letting her hug you again.

“I love you both too,” she murmurs, “and I’m gonna be a better sister, ok?”

Squeezing her, you nod. You don’t have a doubt that she won’t at least try, and that’s all you can really ask for. Maybe with Rino gone they’ll all find what they’ve been looking for.

Nina lets you go, tucking her hands into her coat pocket and sniffling through a smile. Nico finds his place next to you again, his hand falling to your lower back protectively and you subconsciously press closer into his side. Over her shoulder, the boys are carrying the last of the bags onto the jet.

Katja is fidgeting as she comes to say goodbye, anxiously picking at the strings of a gift bag in her gloved hand. It’s the most unkempt and normal looking you’ve ever seen her. It’s refreshing.

“My turn?” She says with a weak laugh.

She’s close enough for you to reach out and touch her, so you carefully cup your hands around the fist holding the gift bag.

“Thank you,” you say earnestly, “for warning us, for trusting me. I’m sorry it took me a bit to realize it.”

Katja shakes her head softly. “Don’t thank me. It was the right thing to do,” she looks at Nico, blinks sadly. “I should’ve done a lot of things differently and I should’ve done them a lot sooner,

“I’m sorry that I didn’t fight for my autonomy Nico, and I’m even more sorry that I didn’t fight for yours either.”

His body stiffens behind you, and you quickly let go of Katja’s hands in favor of slipping your arm around his waist and resting the other on his stomach, grounding him.

From here you can only see his side profile, stoic and intense in a way that’s strictly his resting face. But you can feel it in him, see it in his eyes that are always so telling. Something raw and tender.

“You fought for my girl,” he says quietly, “that’s apology enough mother.”

It’s not exactly forgiveness, but it is acceptance, and that’s good for now. You can’t expect Nico to let everything go after one apology. After all, he was just a kid, a young boy with a big heart who tried to please everyone, tried to make them love him, and in return he only got hurt.

That’ll probably stay with him for the rest of his life.

Katja smiles, a little amused as if she were expecting him to say that. Again, you think of Nico waking you earlier, how desperate and upset he looked, lost in whatever dream he had. You wonder if she ever saw him like that, ever held him and let him know he was safe. After all, his favorite thing in the world to tell you is that you’re safe with him. Maybe he picked it up from her.

You have a feeling, though that it might just be strictly a Nico thing.

“This is for you,” Katja clears her throat uncomfortably. “I figured you’d want it for the wedding maybe or to just have.”

She holds the bag out to Nico, his fingers trembling as he pulls the handles apart. You tip toe to look inside with him, chest aching painfully when you see the baby blue book printed with bears and rattles. It’s a baby book, you realize, and tucked against it are thin stacks of photographs and old, crumbled drawings, all placed in a protective plastic sleeve.

It’s his childhood all tucked into one gift bag. The good parts of it at least. Rino did all he could to silence Katja, to make her just a figure in the background but at the end of the day she’s still a mother and Nico is still her baby boy.

You were wrong about her being unfazed by Nico’s indifference to her. This whole time she’s been secretly holding on to any parts of him she could get her hands on, no matter how tiny.

Nico, a bit dazed, hands the bag to you. You accept it, letting it hang from your fingertips carefully while he stares back at his mother.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “I-I was always trying to get photos from Nina to show her and yeah.”

It’s clear he doesn’t know what to say, overwhelmed with the gift but still appreciative. Katja must know that too, because she nods at him.

Nico coughs, clearing his throat. “We should get going. Don’t want to get in too late.”

Katja doesn’t say anything, just looks at you knowingly before you and Nico turn to gather Timo. He’s still saying goodbye Amelia, large arms wrapped around her and his face hidden in her hair. You and Nico already said your goodbyes to her in the car, knowing her and Timo would want this time together.

Leaving them to their moment, you look up at the jet, find the younger boys already seated inside and watching you both through the windows. You laugh softly, bumping Nico and gesturing for him to look.

“Dramatic,” he mutters with a roll of his eyes.

The Hischiers all look to you, one last parting smile on their lips. “Let us know when you land,” Nina requests and you happily oblige.

Nico takes your hand, starts to lead you towards the jet but you pause, waving to them one more time. “We’ll see you guys soon, yeah?”

Nina and Luca laugh. “We’ll talk after the holidays!” She calls, because you’re still slowly trailing away with Nico.

“Maja?”

You can’t see her smile, but you can hear it. “I’ll be there!”

Hopeful, you look to the slowly shrinking outline of Katja. She smiles, in a pristine but motherly way. “Soon,” she agrees simply, and you accept the answer, letting Nico easily guide you up the steps and into the jet.

~~~~

Nico’s foot fell asleep 20 minutes ago, his toes prickling uncomfortably with needles but he doesn’t dare move. After two hours of him attempting to act normal on the flight, sitting as still as possible and forcing himself to breathe evenly so he’s not huffing out sighs every five minutes, he’d given up.

Timo, a bittersweet look on his face, had collapsed into his seat and shut his eyes before the jet door was even shut. Nico doesn’t know if he’s asleep or just pretending, but no one dares disturb a tender-hearted Timo.

Jack and Luke had pulled out their switches as soon as the jet reached cruising altitude, bickering with each other over Fortnite and some other tractor game in the seats across from Timo.

Alex and Mercer sat across from Nico and you, shifting through the goody bags you’d left at all their seats. A little wooden mind puzzle game had kept Mercer occupied for about an hour, while Alex consumed almost every snack in his bag before curling up under a blanket and going to sleep.

It was at that point that Nico decided he’d had enough of acting like flying isn’t the bane of his fucking existence. It’s uncomfortable, it takes forever, there’s no breaks, and food options suck.

“Baby,” he’d pouted, looking to you all snug under your blanket with his teddy bear. You were half asleep too, eyes heavy and low as you just watched him and he wondered if you were waiting for him to fall asleep first.

At his beckoning, you’d gotten up from your seat and slipped easily between his parted thighs, settling into his lap like you belonged there. Then you’d slid his laptop over from in front of your seat, putting the volume on low and pressing play on Casablanca. Nico thinks you maybe watched five minutes of it before you fell asleep on his shoulder, your hand tucked under the hem of his quarter zip to warm your cold fingers.

Nico hasn’t moved since, except to switch movies and then pull the blanket over your shoulders. Even though he really wants to slip his stupid shoes off and he should probably get feeling back to his foot. Instead he just holds you, enjoying the feeling of your back steadily rising and falling as you breathe.

Just over the screen of the laptop, broody brown eyes watch him, swollen and tired but refusing to shut. Nico was hoping the further away from Switzerland you got, the more relaxed Mercer would be. Instead he looks like he’s got cyanide between his teeth.

Nico gently cups his hand over your ear, not wanting to wake you. “Merc,” he calls quietly, “she’s fine now buddy. I swear.”

“I know,” he says, blinking lazily “but it was scary Nico. Her asking me to do that was scary and seeing him hit her…”

Dawson adjusts himself in his seat, making a face like just the memory of it makes him sick. “I remember her after Philly. And I remember you both disappearing. And I know she’s got you and you’ve got her, but maybe I’ve got both of you too, ya know?”

In all this time since Philly, Nico never thought what happened really changed the boys. Sure they were upset and protective over her, but that comes with the territory. He never imagined that it scared them or still haunted them to this day too. Enough so that even a cut to your lip could make Mercer get like this.

Nico’s proud. Mercer has always kind of skated by, goofed off and put in minimal effort. Most of the time it feels like the boy just gets by on luck. Yet he’s spent this whole trip being your guy, your second hand, your Robin basically. And he’s done it better than Nico could’ve asked him to.

“Yeah,” he agrees, quietly because he does understand. Mercer doesn’t want this to set them back, to become something you hide from.

“I’m sorry,” Mercer suddenly mumbles, frowning with this far away look in his eyes. “About Rino and your family. And I’m sorry we always called you grumpy and stuff. If my family were like that I don’t think I’d even be half as nice as you are.”

Nico chuckles. “Nice isn’t typically used to describe me Merc.”

“Well you are nice,” he insists, gaze returning to Nico now. “I mean, you took a bunch of us in and made us a family. Taught us how to grow up. I was big ol’ baby before I got here. Never had to do anything for myself. And Alex was gonna spend his life in prison. And she didn’t have anyone anymore.

“You gave us a good home, Boss.”

It’s a little too much to take in. Nico feels like his nerves have been stripped raw and exposed to the winter winds all day, relentless and invisible fingers picking at them like strings. First his family, now this. He’s not sure what else he can take.

He clears his throat, nodding stiffly in thanks and the faintest hint of a smie flashes on Mercer's face. "Get some rest Dawson, we're ok now." Finally, he closes his eyes, leaning back into his seat. Nico waits for the sounds of Dawson's breath to even out before he too closes his eyes.

Nico doesn’t want to come back to Switzerland for a long time, especially not without knowing where Rino ran off too. But he thinks of the gift bag from his mother, the engagement ring sitting prettily on your finger, the image of you engulfed in tearful hugs with Luca, Maja, and Nina, and he thinks maybe it wasn’t all so bad.

He’s coming home feeling more loved and accepted than he’s ever felt in his life. And it’s all thanks to you, his fiancée, his girl. His family, he thinks warmly, drifting off to join you in sleep.

#mob boss nico hischier #nico hischier #him and I #new jersey devils #nj devils #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier fanfic

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theereina · 5 months ago

Text

Let Me Talk

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Plus Size Fem Black!OC

Wordcount: +2.4K

Warnings: MDNI (18+) mature content, such as cursing, no smut, heavily dialogue-centered, anxiety mentioned, childhood trauma mentioned, angst, heartbreak, fluff, a smidge of dirty talk

A/N¹: This is a single one-shot with no planned sequels unless requested.🤨

A/N²: I'm open to critiques. I am a little 🤏🏽 sensitive about my writing. Please, don't be too harsh.🥺 Feel free to bring my attention to any typos. Divider by @theereina. Also, this work is not to be plagiarized or reposted (on any site other than here on Tumblr). I do NOT give consent for any form of republishing or rewriting.

Masterlist: 🔥🔥🔥

It had been four months since I had seen Terry. There was little to no contact besides short phone conversations and quick texts. I would be lying if I said I didn't miss him. It was the little things that made it hard to forget him. The way he always smelled of sandalwood and musk. The way he held my hand when I was anxious. The way his smile lit up a room. The way every shirt he owned molded to his body like a glove. Ugh, I gotta stop.

I wanted nothing more than for him to return home to me, but pride got in the way. Not only for him but for me, too. We were equally as stubborn and stuck in our ways, unyielding to the love we shared. Being right somehow mattered more to each of us— more than a good morning kiss, a massage after a long day, the vows of our marriage.

Letting pride hinder our judgment, I told Terry to leave and not come back. Truthfully, I didn't want him to, I was just angry and tired of fighting. So, when he left without a fight, it reminded me too much of my abandonment trauma. Watching him walk out that door tore me apart. I was once again a five-year-old girl watching her father leave for the last time, never to return. The power Terry held over me in that moment was only a fraction of the hurt I felt. It was like the world around me shattered. With him, Terry took both light and love while I fell further into darkness more and more each day.

In other words, Terry and I couldn't comprehend that we could both be right even with two different perspectives. The basis of the problem as trifling as it seemed was an ugly nuanced one. Unfortunately, Terry was raised by his parents while I had to survive mine. This understanding is what caused the biggest fight we had ever had. No matter how much I explained it, Terry couldn't understand why I did things the way I did.

For context, I have had no contact with my family since I left home after college. I didn't talk to my sisters, brother, stepfather, and definitely not my mother. Terry's nurturing and supportive upbringing made him less receptive to the dysfunction that came with mine. He couldn't fathom not speaking to his family, let alone his mother, for years. So, when he brought up the idea of me reconnecting with them, it was a shock. The first time he asked I reminded him that I had my reasons— he only knew some. The second time I admired his persistence but still declined the offer. However, after the fifth or sixth time, I was fed up. I wanted him to understand how much these people collectively hurt and drained me. After days of explaining and retelling the story, he responded with annoyance— calling me childish and bitter.

Damn right, I was! I had taken care of every single one of them for years. I had put my health on the back burner to ensure they were good. I had stretched myself thin to the point of almost being hospitalized for a mental breakdown. No one other than my mom came, but we all know her true reason for coming— to save face. Considering she never believed or accepted my mental health issues, she just complained the whole time I was in the waiting room. This is the type of stuff I dealt with from them. This lack of care, kindness, appreciation, and love is why I left as soon as I was financially stable enough.

Even after talking about this for days, the only thing I was left with was a heavy heart and teary eyes. The more Terry pressed; the more distant I became. I didn't want it to get this far or this bad, but he wouldn't let it go. His mind was already made up. To him, family is family, and we should forgive them no matter what. Unfortunately, that wasn't and would never be my reality.

Present Day

“Caramel cookie butter iced coffee and a regular hot coffee for… Fallon!” yelled the barista from behind the counter. “That's me,” I said, facing the small woman. “Here you go. Enjoy,” she said, smiling and pushing the drinks toward me. I checked the sticker on the regular coffee to see if they remembered the two sugars. I picked up both drinks and searched for an empty table in the back of the coffee shop. I knew this conversation would result in both of us or at least me ugly crying.

I slid into a booth in the far back corner of the shop, facing the door. I knew that if it became too overwhelming for me, seeing the door would provide a certain level of relief— an exit or escape if needed. Immediately upon sitting, I began to remember some of the memories I and Terry shared here. This quickly became our favorite spot. Plus, it was right down the street from our shared home. Terry would come here almost every Monday and Friday morning to pick up my current favorite drink order. He called it a treat to start the week and a reward for finishing.

This is also the place where we had our first conversation about marriage. I can almost remember Terry's face when I told him I never thought about being married— until I met him. I didn't believe anyone could love me, especially a man of Terry's caliber. I felt like damaged goods that would never be good enough for him or anyone else. So, I never planned for that milestone. Terry's presence in my life felt like a reassuring message from God that I was loved and deserved it— properly.

Oh, God! Not me already crying, and he hasn't even made it. I quickly used one of the napkins to dab my eyes. Taking deep breaths and relaxing my shoulders, I tried my hardest not to get lost in my thoughts. I knew that once I let myself be sucked into that abysmal cycle I would be trapped there before even a word was spoken between us.

I leaned back into the booth, watching the door. Terry wasn't late; I was just extremely early. I needed to prepare myself as much as possible before seeing him.

10 minutes later

ding ding

“Good morning! Welcome to the Coffee Cabin,” yelled the woman from behind the counter. “Hey, good morning,” said a familiar voice. I knew exactly who this was yet my heart refused to settle down. I didn't know how my mind and body would react to seeing him face-to-face for the first time in months. My hands were sweating profusely. How the fuck was I going to make it through this?

“Pumpkin?” Terry said, sitting across from me. “Uh,… Hi,” I said struggling to breathe. “Hey, mama. Look at me. Fallon!” Terry said, leaning over the table and lifting my chin. I looked up to see Terry glaring back at me. Those striking green eyes expressed his concern. His eyes spoke before his mouth could. There was no need to voice his worry.

“Terry, please,” I said, holding his hand. “Don't do that. Just tell me what's wrong,” he said pulling my hand to his lips. “This! What the hell are we doing right now? It's like we aren't even married. I don't…” I rambled. “Pumpkin,” Terry said, trying to stop me. “We aren't living…” I continued. “Pumpkin,” Terry said, gripping my hand. “I don't know what to do with myself half the time. It's…,” I said. “Pumpkin, enough! Stop!” he cried out. I could sense his frustration with my rambling. I hadn't stopped talking since he sat down. “Terry, I'm just trying…,” I said trying to continue. “No. Stop it! This isn't how this was supposed to go. Let…me…talk,” he grunted.

I pulled my hand away and placed it back into my lap. I dropped my head in embarrassment. I hadn't even made it one minute before making a fool of myself. “Listen, I love you. I know you are feeling anxious right now. We both have a lot to say, and that's okay. But before we can continue, I need you to relax, love. Okay?” he said, caressing my cheek. I shook my head, looking back up at him. “I'm sorry. This is hard,” I said. “I know, mama. I know,” he said, wiping away a single fallen tear.

“C’mere,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up from my seat. “Terry, I…!” I said, trying to pull away from him. “Nah, come to me, Pumpkin,” he said while wrapping his arms around me. It was as if life itself had started again. Terry's embrace broke me in the gentlest way possible. His body swallowed mine, providing me with the comfort I had been craving for months. I missed this man and everything about him.

“I'm sorry. I…,” I said, sniffling into Terry's chest. “Shhh, stop apologizing. I don't need you to apologize. I need you to let me— let me love you, let me take care of you, let me come home,” he said, tilting my chin up to meet his eyes. He leaned down and kissed me on the lips. I had never felt so much relief in my life. A single kiss had just washed away all the pain and guilt I had carried for these last four months.

“I don't know what to say. I had all these… these… speeches planned in my head. Just for me to remember nothing,” I said leaning further into Terry. “That's fine. Let me talk, you just listen. Turn your brain off for a minute and relax. Aight?” he said, releasing me from his hold. His hands held onto the sides of my face. He was awaiting an answer, but words were escaping me. Too many thoughts were fighting to claim power over my tongue.

“Turn it off, lil’ mama. Okay? Sit back down for me,” he said, gesturing towards my seat. His hand waved back towards the booth as I slid back in. Terry sat back down in front of me. He reached for my hands and pulled them towards him. It's insane how something as simple as Terry holding my hands made me feel lighter and calmer. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “There you go. Thank you, Pumpkin,” he said while stroking the back of my hands.

“Listen to me, okay? I should have never pressed you so hard about what was going on. Your boundaries were clear. I can see that now and wish I could have seen that then. These last four months have been absolute hell in the most silent way possible. I let my perspective overshadow yours when this was your experience— your reality, not mine. I won't sit here and lie to you like I'll ever understand how you feel. I won't. However, as your husband, it was my job to console you…. and… and care for you. I failed you at that moment. I don't deserve your immediate forgiveness, and I will do whatever you ask to receive it. I… uh… I left you to deal with all those emotions alone when it was my fault that you had to relive it in the first place. I was forcing you to see things my way because I thought I knew what was best for you based on my… my experience. You didn't deserve that. You deserved so much more than I gave you at that moment, and for that, I'm sorry. Sorry for how I handled the situation entirely. From this day forward, I promise to be a better man to you— a better husband. You deserve the world, mama. I love you more than life itself. Please, forgive me. Please,” he pleaded.

By this point, I was sobbing. I didn't need to say a word. I jumped up from my seat and ran around to Terry's side. There was nothing I wanted more than him— all of him. I sat in his lap and held his face in my hands. “Of course, I forgive you. I love you, too. I don't know what to say. Fuck… just… just kiss me already, papa,” I said, looking into Terry's eyes. They were the softest they had been in a while.

Terry’s urge was just as strong as mine as he pulled me in to kiss him on the lips. But, I needed more; so I used my tongue to part his lips. Terry's mouth opened, and I could feel his energy shift. The desire in him ignited like a flame. The yearning was mutually shared. His hands roamed wildly as teeth met tongue. Neither one of us cared that we were in public. Sharing breath and body, we became one again. With passion burning in our bellies, Terry pulled away first. I looked at him to be met with a pained gaze filled with a desperate hunger for something else.

“Pumpkin, I think we should leave. Um… the thoughts that are… uhh, shit… Woman the things I want to do to you have no business being viewed by the public eye,” he said, catching his breath. His chest rose and fell rapidly with every word. “Yeah?” I asked, stroking his ear and swallowing hard. My breathing was equally just as harsh.

Terry's gaze lingered over my body. “Yeah, we need to leave. Now!” he said, guiding me with his hands on my hips. “Did you drive or walk?” he asked, making me face him. “Walked,” I answered softly. “Okay. I drove. Unfortunately for you, you gettin’ in a car with me, and I can't promise to keep my hands to myself. Honestly, we probably not makin’ it home,” he said while leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Oh, fuck… Don't say stuff like that,” I said, clenching my thighs together. “You wanted honesty, mama. Hell, we should put that extended cab to good use for once,” Terry said, his lip curling up into the most sinful smirk. “You're nasty,” I said, hitting him in the chest. “Yea, and? You love it!” he said, pulling me into another kiss.

Part 2 => 🗣

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inbarfink · 2 years ago

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I have… so many little thoughts about Simon’s shift in the climax of ‘Prismo the Wishmaster’. He’s so ready to give up, to resign to Death By Interdimensional Beetle Cop. And the thing that pulls him out of it, gets him to see a purpose in his life again, is seeing Fionna cry.

And this moment is so important for Fionna and Cake because this is their first moment to really process the Implications and Consequences of their magical adventure. You know, it’s not just a dream you can wake up from - this is actually a matter of life and death and the fate of their entire world.

And it’s actually, also kinda the same from Simon’s perspective? Even if he was already told they are real and have been real all along a while ago - I think seeing Fionna break out in tears is really the moment where he processed her not as a manifestation of Ice King’s madness, not as yet another way the universe is kicking him when he’s down, not as a cruel joke at his expense. But really actually as people, who need his help.

And, I think about this, also in context with this moment?

Simon Petrikov is… a dad at heart. Simon’s first focus episode in F&C starts with a prologue of him and Marceline surviving in the wasteland. Showing that despite being under much more miserable circumstances

he still seemed to hold himself together far better than present-day Simon.

Because the need to protect Marcy and keep her happy was giving him purpose and a motivation to hold himself together.

And this desire to help and nurture and protect is clearly still deep within him. It’s just that now he feels incapable for doing so. In both body-

And spirit -

But now, suddenly, he is once again the Only Person Who Can Help this younger person in distress.

And I think that is a huge part of his motivation to keep on going right now. I mean, just look at how quickly he goes from dismissing Fionna and Cake - into basically declaring that he has to protect them. And fully willing to sacrifice his own identity and sanity to bring magic back to their world because he knows it’ll make Fionna and Cake happy. Because the moment he saw Fionna tear up, he basically decided to Adopt her.

And that’s, you know, technically a step forward - but it is a very very imperfect step.

Like, at the very least he’s not drinking his sorrows away while waiting for death out of pure despair and spite. At least he has a sense of purpose and a reason to open up for others again and bond. And we’ve seen how much this has been a great coping mechanism for pulling himself together through difficult times.

My guess is that after two episodes of only seeing Simon Petrikov at his lowest and very worst - Fionna and Cake are finally going to get an understanding of Simon’s actual positive qualities as his dad-instincts are going to bring them up to the surface again.

Buuuuuuuut….

You know, tying your sense of self-worth and motivation entirely to how well you can Dad is not particularly healthy in the long run either. And it’s going to cause problems both for Simon and for F&C.

Looking at it from what's best of Simon, for the sake of protecting Fionna and Cake and making them happy by bringing magic and wonder back into their world - Simon is willing to throw himself right into the suffering and trauma that he’s been fearing all this time and has been trying so hard to get away from. I mean, it’s also about how Simon has started to miss being Ice King in a weird twisted way and how he resigned himself to being miserable in general. It’s also about that, but the part that he actually says out loud is that he’s doing this to protect Fionna and Cake.

So that’s, you know, still very Not Good. Simon can’t hang his entire ability to properly function on there being Younger People who need his protection. He can't actually move forwards by trying to relive the Better Times of the Horrible Post-Apocalyptic Wasteland. That's not a sustainable coping mechanism. And it’s an incredibly unhealthy amount of self-sacrifice.

And on Fionna’s side… she never said she wanted Simon to protect her.

She might want a useful teammate or a helping hand, she might need a friend. But I don’t think she needs a Dad. Simon is surely old enough to be her father (even just counting his age biologically and not the fact he’s 1058 years old) but Fionna’s not a Literal Child like Marcy was. Fionna Campbell is a grown-ass woman in her early 30’s (Finn is 29 years old right now and there was always kinda the implication that Fionna was a bit older than him).

(And, heck, if she IS the daughter of a gender-flipped Minerva Campbell, she is probably not in the market for a new overprotective dad. She’s fully booked out on that.)

AND while Fionna does not possess full memories of her magical-adventuring-self, she clearly retains some of her fighting and athletic abilities.

Meanwhile Cake is clearly an adult in cat years and is just as much of an insanely powerful shapeshifter as Jake was.

So where does this middle-aged scrawny nerd get off, acting like it’s his job to sacrifice his mind in order to protect them?

And Fionna very much wants to be the hero, she wants to be at the center of the action. It is no coincidence that her own idealized version of Ice King/Simon is a Tuxedo Mask.

Someone who can give her a helping hand and words of encouragement when things get rough -

But still lets her be the main hero of the story.

And you know, right now Fionna and Cake have not fully processed the implications of Simon choosing to become Ice King… but once they see a bit of who Simon really is at his better moments. Yeah, they’re probably gonna have some objections to the idea that he should throw his entire identity away just for their own sake.

Back when Simon allowed the Crown to slowly consume him so he could protect Marcy, it felt like a noble sacrifice. It really seemed like he had no other options. But now he has the entire multiverse on his disposal and two serious badasses on his side. Simon has to learn to see the difference between a codependent senseless self-sacrifice and something that will actually help Fionna and Cake.

So if Simon is really going to lean too hard on his Dad aspect, it’s actually going to cause some really big problems down the line. For his own mental well-being, and for Fionna and Cake. It is in a way, a step in the right direction. And I think it’s going to lead to our main trio finally becoming closer and understanding each other - but unless Simon learns to temper himself, it’s going to cause some serious interpersonal conflicts.

At least this is my thoughts about these interactions right now. I know they’ve been really short but I think they’re really full of Meaning and Emotions. But really, we’ll just have to wait and see.

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corvidcrossbow · 9 months ago

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Since I made a post about Mother's Day w/ Daryl, I gotta make a Father's Day one too.

For obvious reasons, he didn't like Father's Day (me neither Daryl). It felt insulting to see people celebrating their dads, felt so forced and unfair, stupid even. How come other people got to have fathers who were there for them and cared for them while he didn't? What made him undeserving of that? (Mother's Day was already hard enough when he was young, sitting in class and nearly trembling from how hard he was straining himself to not cry while those around him made cards and talked about their plans for the weekend with their moms) So he tried to push the existence of the holiday out of his mind.

Fatherhood was never something he pictured. Even when the hypothetical idea of kids crossed his mind, he was sure it would never be plausible: he'd just follow footsteps and end up some doped up abusive deadbeat as well. Although he never pictured an apocalypse with the undead either, and that pushed the idea of fatherhood even further into a realm of impossibility.

So both those happening, and someone as perfect as you being directly involved in it, was leagues outside his imagination.

The first Father's Day after your child was born was rough. He enjoyed how the collapse of society made people lose track of the dates, too occupied with survival to care about minor things like this. But with the stability Alexandria provided, over time celebrations reintegrated into routines, this included, and he was not fond of the reminder.

He didn't mention the day at all leading up to it, or of, continuing his ignorance and hoping it'd slip your mind. He knew it wouldn't: you were too attentive and appreciative of him to miss any excuse to celebrate and congratulate him no matter the context.

But you threaded lightly, knowing it'd be touchy and let most the day pass by as any other would, just being extra sweet on him. You never wished him a ‘Happy Father's Day’, instead when you were going to bed that night thanking him for being a father, for everything he did for you and your daughter and how good he was at it.

He ended up just breaking down, falling apart in your hold and attempting to bury himself in you the same way he tried to bury so much else.

The next couple years were largely similar; little acknowledgement to the day, but extra acknowledgements to him. It was your daughter that started to make it more distinctive. A little older now, she saw the other kids in the community making little gifts and cards for their fathers the same way they did for mothers on the respective day. Even those who didn't have dads made them in memoriam.

So of course she did it too, she loved her daddy and did those things all the time anyway. Why not do it when it's even more special? She didn't even tell you about it, secretly assembling it all herself.

You shared Daryl's surprise when she presented her crafts, repeatedly saying the token phrase you'd held off from using. He was mostly frozen for a moment, trying to just see her and this singular day rather than previous decades of Father's Day's that came before, all negatively tinted and crossed out from his personal calendar.

He accepted it all, and her innocent recognition of the holiday's purpose. Though the urge flared up in some part of him, he couldn't shut her down. She meant well, and wasn't to blame for his rocky relationship with the day and his own father. He wouldn't create reason for her to despise the holiday too, and how could be cold to the human embodiment of sunshine while her toothy smile was beaming at him?

He put her to bed that evening, spending an extra while stroking her hair and admiring how peaceful she looked while sleeping. Despite the state of the world, she had the privilege to not only sleep, but feel safe while doing so. And he's what allowed that; gave her that.

She got to feel safe from all the horrors he'd seen: the walkers, blood, guts, violence, death, immorality, all the disturbing things about life that were amplified by the apocalypse.

But more importantly, she felt safe with him.

She got to excitedly jump on him while he was still asleep in the morning, roll around and shake him till he finally got up. She got to play with him in the dirt while out in the yard, or sit him down with jewelry and accessories surrounded by stuffed animals and toy dinnerware. She got to chase him around and bombard him with curious questions and learn everything she could from him.

She got to make messes and break things, make mistakes, and know he'd always help her clean or fix them.

She got to show her emotions and be a kid and cry, and know he would always hold and soothe her, wipe away her tears and do anything to make sure she was okay.

And she never knew a different response. She never knew the yelling or insults, the degradation, the mockery, the beatings and burnings and whippings. She got to fall asleep by her father's side, lulled to rest by his comforting voice, be in the most vulnerable state a person could be, and know that the last thing he would ever do was hurt her; the idea – the worry – of him hurting her did not exist in her mind.

Daryl'd crumbled to tears by the time he returned to you that night, collapsing into your arms the way he did every time the reality of being a parent hit him. He would never truly understand how he got to this point in life, how every unfathomable thing – good and bad – had genuinely occurred and this is what was real.

From the instant you found out you were pregnant, he'd promised you, promised himself, and promised his child he would always be the father he'd wanted, that he'd deserved, that his kid deserved and that every child deserves. He healed his own childhood by assuring his daughter'd have a good one, and that he'd be regarded as a good part of it.

She made Father's Day something that could actually be ‘happy’ for him.

The daddy issues hit a little too hard while writing this

I fr don't know where the last week of my life went I just remember watching Lost 🗿

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thejolteonmastertj · 13 days ago

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The plot bunnies be hopping

Y’know how Link’s uncle is brought back to life at the end of alttp—but doesn’t seem to be living with Legend in Linked Universe? 🤔

What if Legend’s refusal to carry on the family’s knighthood as the sole surviving heir of his generation is part of why he’s grown distant from his uncle? I’m not saying his uncle had to have tried to force it or been an outright asshole about it—but maybe there’s some sort of tension, guilt or some other sort of melancholy there.

Y’know something else conveniently similar that’s been living in my head rent-free since I first played botw? That one memory where we learn literally the only detail about Wild’s family we ever learn in-game: His father was a knight of the Royal Guard. Also of/c that Link followed in his footsteps. But like—the whole theme of that memory was, “but what if…”

Specifically, here’s Zelda’s dialogue in the memory:

youtube

Your path seems to mirror your father's. You've dedicated yourself to becoming a knight, as well. Your commitment to the training necessary to fulfill your goal is really quite admirable… I see now why you would be the chosen one…

What if... one day... You realized that you just weren't meant to be a fighter. Yet the only thing people ever said... was that you were born into a family of the royal guard, and so no matter what you thought, you had to become a knight. If that was the only thing that you were ever told... I wonder, then... would you have chosen a different path?

We don’t see any response from Link of/c, but… the implications, from the mere fact that he remembers this specific conversation at all—especially in the context of LU, where Wild has already admitted he has a hard time believing the prim & proper soldier in his memories was even ever him.

Which is not even to mention anything else on whether he’d choose to be a knight if given the choice now. We know Wild carries around Roam’s diary, so he’s almost certainly read Zelda’s as well & would therefore know that even the him from before wasn’t doing too hot under all the pressure…

So like, hoo boy, Wild would get it. Legend may or may not initially expect it, but I think Wild would 100% back up Legend’s choice to stay out of knighthood... after a bit more development of his own that seems to be incoming of course. 👀

Hell, Legend might even step in on Wild’s behalf first if things happen to escalate—which would be neat. A lot of things would be neat between these two tbh (Y’all know me I’m obsessed with them. 🤣)

They’re the only two Links with a father mentioned or even implied in-game, (well, them & Twilight perhaps, but that’s off-topic) & both of them got complicated & juicy relationships with their inherited knighthood. 👀 There’s convenient parallels & I just think they’re neat. 🤭

#Linked Universe #LU Legend #Hero Of Legend #LU Wild #Hero Of The Wild #LU Meta #TJ Overanalysis #My brain be doing zoomies #😂#LinkedUniverse #LU

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osmanthus-wine-addiction · 1 month ago

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The golden god and his golden trees

Something I've always found interesting about Zhongli is how, no matter if it's in official art or fanart, he's always depicted with ginkgo leaves. Turns out, it's not just a pretty coincidence. Don't get me wrong, I love how they designed his envisaged echo, but if they had given him Ningguang's echo with the fan shaped ginkgo leaves, I would think it'd fit perfectly too. There's more than just the vibrant golden color and it's elegant aesthetics that reminds me of Zhongli. First off, it's native to China, the country that Liyue is based off of, so there's no surprise in that. It's odd, not just because its nuts smell funny, but because this species has no surviving relatives. It's the only one in its lonely group of trees because it had simply outlived everything else in its order. The humble ginkgo tree is a living fossil that's remained unchanged for over 200 million years, literally the oldest tree on earth. This tree has seen the rise and fall of the dinosaurs and is somehow still miraculously with us, quietly witnessing human civilization's flourish. Its resilience is a quality that our golden god is known for. Ginkgo truly embodies the toughness and longevity of stone. It's hard not to imagine that human history is but a single ring engraved in its long history. Isn't that a romantic and chilling thought? With all humanity has been up to the past two hundred thousand years, I wonder how these trees see us. Are we as charming and memorable as Zhongli sees humanity? While Liyue is his pride and joy, it's a bit of a stretch to extend that to humanity in reality. The things we have put other species through can only be considered cruel. We have ended entire lineages and the only thing that prevents us from wiping out the ginkgos is its own innate talent of surviving anything and everything. Individual trees even managed to survive Hiroshima. If it could survive atomic bombs, it can pretty much survive anything. Also, it's adaptability to changing times is a feat in and of itself. Just like the character, ginkgo manages to charm its youngest admirers and integrate itself into humanity with ease, whether by its beautiful appearance, its mysterious history, or its unproven medicinal claims, one of which is curiously memory enhancement. There's simply something timeless and charming about this tree, just like Zhongli. Whoever wrote this character definitely took some inspiration. I've seen this pretty tree and its leaves depicted with other characters and in other contexts all the time because it's as popular and aesthetic as the red maple tree, but this is the first time someone truly embodied it to this extent. I usually write Zhongli fics, but this sort of demanded to be written (whatever this is lol) so I had to take a little break. Because I'm a certified-obsessed Zhongli simp, I fell into this rabbit hole, but I don't regret it one bit. He's a very complex and interesting character so even if I pick him apart, there's so much to write about.

#zhongli #genshin impact #genshin zhongli #zhongli trivia #musings of a zhongli simp #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #genshin impact zhongli #zhongli appreciation #character anaylsis

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sihtricfedaraaahvicius · 2 months ago

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The Decaying Lands: chapter 1.

Chapter 2.

note: inspired by the current Walking Dead re-watch I'm on. This was supposed to be a modern fic, but I decided to challenge myself in the new year so I made it a slowburn canon fic. I hope you all will love it as much as I loved writing this! I have decided to split this fic in two chapters.

full fic warnings: 18+, angst/fluff/suggestive. A zombie fic comes with zombie things, but nothing massively out of character from TLK. Mention of: blood, several character deaths, child/family death mentioned, animal death (mainly in hunting context, not detailed), loss of home by fire.

pairing: Sihtric x fem!reader (no use of Y/N)

summary: You met the love of your life after you had to flee from your village. But falling in love during a sickness outbreak came with its own struggles..

word count: 11k

Masterlist

Reblogs & comments are immensely appreciated.

In the beginning the sickness was just that; a sickness. A terrible illness that was spread in ways yet unknown. Perhaps it was spread by air, or by touch, or by animals, or maybe even by food. All that was known was that it spread vast and widely, starting with a mere cold which would progress into a horrible infection that made it hard to breathe. Those infected would die slowly and agonizing, suffocating to death while often surrounded by their loved ones, who were tortured equally by having to witness the ill slipping away from them slowly, with no way of stopping it or saving them.

The bodies of those deceased polluted the rivers they were thrown in and, where buried, unfertilized the earth they laid in. Fresh water and successful harvests became scarce as the seasons passed, which was first blamed on witchcraft, but soon the reality had to be faced. Families were dismantled as people died. And soon no one could be trusted anymore, when villages were raided by those still alive, in search of weapons and food, and also hoping to somehow find a cure. Each man fought for their own survival, at least, many did for some time. But soon people began to understand that there were ways to stay clear of the sickness, so people learned to adjust and life had been quite peaceful for a moment, apart from the occasional raids. And in truth, nothing could have prepared anyone for the real horror which eventually followed.

The horror when those who were deceased suddenly began to dig their way out of their graves and crawl out of the rivers they were thrown in, only to return to the homes they used to live in with their families…

You would never forget the sound of people screaming, and how the warmth of the fire had felt as it destroyed your village, only a few weeks ago. The revenants, those who had returned from the dead and were hungry for warm flesh, had overrun your small village which had been kept safe and peaceful for longer than you ever could've hoped for. But when a herd arrived early in the morning, and everyone had been foolish to let their guard down, for it had been so long since merely a single revenant had come along, they breached through the rather feeble wooden fence that had secured the village in a matter of seconds.

One of the villagers had lit a torch in a state of panic, thinking and hoping that by setting the revenants on fire, the village and its people could be saved. But it didn't work, instead it only made everything worse. Burning revenants stumbled into houses and barns, setting those on fire and everyone in it who was not yet rudely awoken by the havoc outside. You managed to flee your home before it caught fire, as it spread from roof to roof faster than the men could fetch water. You ran and left everything behind you still possessed after the first outbreak of the sickness, leaving everything you had held onto after the unspeakable things you had done. And you were one of several who managed to flee the village, unharmed physically, but gravely injured mentally.

Your mind had been scarred months ago already, when your parents and younger brother were amongst those who had risen from their graves just outside the village, and you had to fight off your living dead loved ones in order to stay alive yourself. You weren't sure if you would ever be able to recover from that. But you had to continue fighting to keep breathing back then, and that is what you had to do when your village burned down as well that one morning.

And it's what you had to do when you lost the group you had escaped your burning village with. Because after seeking safety in the forest, all you found was yourself alone.

You were hungry and tired, beyond exhausted and feeling as if you were one of those revenants yourself. For days you had strolled through the seemingly endless forest, occasionally fighting off a revenant while seeking shelter and food. Shelter was fairly easy, you discovered, as you had slept in several abandoned small sheds that were scattered throughout the woods, previously used to hold livestock safely gathered during travels of traders. But food was hard to come by. Most of the edible plants were already plucked or had simply died, and you had never been taught to properly kill an animal or how to make a fire in the wild.

You managed to fight off the revenants with a large tree branch that had been broken off, sharp enough to stab through their rotting flesh and the crumbling base of their skulls. When you first encountered the revenants, your dearly departed family members, you had no idea how they were to be killed. So you had simply stabbed them repeatedly with your seax until they stopped moving. As if facing undead relatives wasn't horrifying enough, it was trial and error at the time too figuring out what stopped them. Not much later you and several fellow villagers learned that decapitating them stopped them from walking, but it was only when their brains were impaled they would truly return to the dead for once and for all.

It was never easy to kill for you, yet you had done what you had to in order to survive and make it this far. But you were tired and hungry and weak, so when you found yourself suddenly surrounded by a group of revenants, you knew that trying to fight them off would be a futile attempt. They came at you slowly, but they came from every direction and you felt too dizzy and disoriented to make a move. You fell to your knees when they closed in on you, the stench of their rotting flesh and oozing wounds penetrated your nose and it made you gag, but you had nothing left in your stomach to throw up. You closed your eyes and prayed. You prayed like your parents had taught you, and you prayed for a quick and merciful death. You were a Saxon and supposedly a Christian, but you weren't sure what or who you prayed to anymore. You prayed to whoever would listen, but which God could be so cruel to allow these horrors to happen?

You braced yourself when the rotten stench got closer and the snarling became louder, but their sickening noises were suddenly drowned out by the sound of hooves approaching rapidly. You felt the earth beneath your hands vibrate to the galloping hooves, and when you looked up you saw a beautiful gray and white speckled horse close in as it neighed loudly, carrying a man on its back. The man drew an axe from his leather belt and swung the weapon as the horse crisscrossed in the circle of revenants. You watched how the man slayed the undead swiftly one by one, leaving behind a blood splattered mess as he chopped off the hands and jaws of those who went for his arms and legs. And he didn't stop until he made sure they were all sent back to their graves. And only then the man dismounted his beautiful horse, now painted red just like the man's dark armour, and he cautiously inspected you from a safe distance.

You looked at him and took in his appearance in return. His face was stern and slightly scarred, his facial hair dark and well kept, while his dark hair was braided and shaved on the sides so his neck tattoo was visible. He wore leather armour and carried multiple weapons, and overall he seemed to be in good health.

'Are you bit or scratched?' the man suddenly asked.

'What?' you stared at him, confused and still not sure if any of this was real or a hallucination caused by your lack of energy.

'Are you bit?' he asked again, 'or scratched? Do you have any wounds?'

'I'm,' you paused and looked down at your arms and legs, 'I am not wounded. Why are you asking me such foolish questions?'

'Not foolish, lady,' the man muttered and stepped closer, 'I need to know if you have been infected.'

'Infected? Wait, is that how it spreads?' you asked, shocked, 'through wounds?'

'It spreads through open wounds and blood contact. If you have open wounds that touch the after-walker's blood you get infected,' he explained, 'and if they scratch you, their blood mixes with yours too. And when they bite you, well,' he chuckled, 'that explains itself.'

'After-walkers?' you frowned, 'you mean those revenants?'

The man furrowed his brow as he looked at you.

'Revenants?'

'Yes, those who return from the dead.'

'We call those after-walkers.'

'We?'

'The people I'm with.'

You looked around the forest, seeing nothing but trees and only one man in front of you, the one who had saved you.

'I'm alone out here,' he said, 'my people are somewhere safe. My name is Sihtric, who are you?'

He stepped closer again once he deemed you not fatally injured, but you crawled backwards away from him with what little energy you had left.

'I saw they grabbed your arms and legs!' you half yelled, 'how do I know you are not infected?'

'Chainmail,' Sihtric said, with a smug smile on his face, 'I wear chainmail under my armour. My arms and torso are protected, as are my legs by the mail chausses. It's impossible for the after-walkers to scratch or bite through it. Now, tell me, are you alone out here?'

You hesitated to answer, suddenly feeling threatened when you realised an armed man was towering over you and you had nowhere to go. And clearly Sihtric saw the panic arise in your eyes when you tried to look for a possible escape route.

'I mean no harm,' he said, holding his hands up as a gesture of peace, 'you have my word. It's just been a very long time since I've come across someone still alive.'

You gave Sihtric the benefit of the doubt, knowing that even if he did mean any harm, you had no way out anyway, so it was best to just answer his questions. You then ran him through your story as fast as you could, about how your village had gone up in flames and about the group you lost. You told him you had survived for days on your own and that you were ready to give up, but that he had appeared just in time to save your life.

'What about you?' you asked.

Sihtric looked at you while he was clearly debating something with himself, but he then finally spoke.

'There's a fort nearby,' Sihtric said, his hand resting on his axe after he had attached it back to his leather belt, 'the place is secure and safe. I have a group of people back there. We have been staying there since almost the start of all this. We've lost good people and had our troubles too, don't think we had it easy. But we have been fairly safe. Most of us are warriors, but we have a few women too and a couple of villagers who mostly keep watch and have been taught how to fight and defend against the after-walkers. Every other day myself and others go out hunting for food, we usually don't go alone, but since it had been a while we encountered those,' he cocked his head towards the bodies, 'I've been feeling secure to hunt on my own, but I won't do that again anymore now for a while.'

You looked at Sihtric with only one question on your mind, knowing you had no other options anymore.

'Does your fort have space for one more?' you asked carefully, 'I've… got nowhere to go. I don't even know where I am,' you said and fought your tears, 'I've lost everyone and everything.'

Sihtric took another good look at you, taking in your weakened state and calculating if you were a potential threat, all while he contemplated on what to do with you.

'Listen, it's been a while since we took people in,' he then said, 'you are clearly weak and you won't survive another day out here,' he sighed and walked over to his horse, 'I can't promise anything, but if we leave now we'll reach Bebbanburg before sunset.'

Bebbanburg.

You woke up in bed, with a nauseating headache taunting you while your eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room you found yourself in. You looked around without moving, and saw the room had a high ceiling with dark wooden beams, and the walls were made of dark wood too. Multiple torches were mounted on the walls, all lit with fire, and a big chandelier with burning candles hung from the ceiling in the middle. It was warm and, despite how big the room seemed, rather cosy.

'You're safe,' a calm voice sounded, but still startled you, 'hey, no need to be frightened.'

The voice came closer along with slow and heavy footsteps, followed by the appearance of a handsome man with a kind smile on his scarred face.

'My name is Sigtryggr,' he said, 'you are in Bebbanburg. Sihtric brought you in, but you fainted as soon as you set foot inside these walls. You hit your head pretty hard there.'

'That explains the headache,' you groaned as you sat up in bed.

'I'm afraid so,' Sigtryggr chuckled and took a seat next to your bed, 'you shouldn't move too quickly yet. How are you feeling?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Do you remember anything from before you fainted? The arguing?'

'Arguing?'

Sigtryggr looked as if he had run his mouth, then took a deep breath before he spoke again.

'Sihtric and Uhtred,' he began, 'they argued. Uhtred is kind of the leader here. Bebbanburg belongs to him, he used to be a Lord. Myself and the others are just lucky to live and survive here. Uhtred wasn't sure if you should be given a place here, since he was afraid you might have been infected.'

'I was not wounded.'

'We know now,' Sigtryggr said, 'we had the women rinse you of the blood, because you had a lot splattered onto you. They cleaned you up while you were here, in bed, and they looked for wounds too. We had to make sure you were no threat, but because of your weak state we didn't have much time to discuss our options. We had to take you in or leave you outside the walls. Sihtric fought for your place here and convinced Uhtred to let you in, but shortly after that you lost consciousness and we had to put you in one of our empty chambers. Not to imprison you, but to make sure Sihtric is right about you.'

'I understand,' you said softly, 'I'm sorry if I caused any trouble. I will not overstay my welcome-'

'No,' he hushed you politely and took your hand, 'you are more than welcome to stay, don't misunderstand Uhtred's authority for hatred of sorts. He just looks out for us. It has been a long time since we met someone new who wasn't infected, so we were all a little hesitant, but everything is okay now.'

'And Sihtric?' you asked, wondering why he wasn't by your side after he had vouched for you, 'is he okay?'

'He will be. He retreated to his chamber shortly after he had carried you to this bed, he said he needed some rest.'

Sigtryggr got up from the wooden stool and went over to a table where he poured you some water.

'Dinner is being prepared,' he said, 'if you feel well enough, feel free to explore the place. There are some clean clothes on the table here for you that should fit. I'll find you when the food is ready and then I'll introduce you to everyone.'

You roamed through the fortress while the smell of soup and roasted meat lingered in the hallways. You made your way out onto the stronghold's wall, near one of the watchtowers, overlooking the entire fort and its surroundings. You heard the sea behind you while you stared at the darkened lands ahead of you.

The fort was surrounded with big wooden beams, all cut sharp to impale the undead if they came too close. Each watchtower and wall had sentries on duty, who were armed and alert, which gave you a safe and secure feeling, and dared you to explore a little more. You passed a few people on your way down from the wall, all who gave you a welcoming smile and nod, and you just hoped this place wasn't too good to be true.

Before you went down the last stairs you spotted Sihtric, leaning on the wooden railing as he overlooked the quiet courtyard. A thick fur cloak was draped over his shoulders, while his hair was unbraided and messy. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw him, and you made your way over.

'I never got to thank you,' you said softly as you leaned on the railing next to him, 'for everything. For saving me and bringing me here. I was told you convinced Uhtred to let me stay, but I can't remember any of that myself.'

Sihtric only hummed shortly in response, his eyes still fixated on the dark courtyard, while his jaw was clenched and his hand wrapped tightly around a jug of ale.

'So… thank you,' you said again, trying to fill the awkward silence, 'you really saved my life without even knowing me.'

You waited for a response, but Sihtric gave you nothing. And just when you wanted to ask if something was wrong, Sigtryggr came up behind you.

'There you are,' Sigtryggr smiled at you, 'dinner is ready. Come on, everyone is excited to meet you.'

You somewhat reluctantly left your saviour to follow the kind man. And when you looked back over your shoulder as you descended the stairs, Sihtric had already vanished into the darkness.

The group welcomed you during a delicious and well needed dinner. You sat at a large oak table as you ate, and you soaked up all the stories you were told in a short time.

Uhtred was half Saxon and half Dane, and he had lost his wife many years ago, along with his son. Uhtred told you that he had fought for years to conquer Bebbanburg alongside Finan, Sihtric and Osferth. They had won the final battle just before the sickness broke out.

'First we thought it was just a sickness like we had seen years ago,' Uhtred said, 'when corpses polluted the rivers and it seemed to spread by air. But we soon noticed this was different and we then believed these beings to be Draugr, dead Vikings who came back to life for revenge. But we also understood quickly that we were wrong about that, and so we tried to act accordingly and keep ourselves safe. Unfortunately not everyone made it while we secured the fort on the outside to keep the after-walkers from entering.'

'We have lost some good people,' Sigtryggr added.

Sigtryggr was a Dane and seemed to take a liking to you. He told you how he was married to Uhtred's daughter, Stiorra, but had lost her to the sickness. And since she had a Viking funeral, her body was burned, so she could never return from her grave. Sigtryggr saw it as a bittersweet blessing.

'And at least she never had to see the horrors we face now,' he said with a faint smile, 'I have mourned her. But then we have all mourned.'

You all murmured in agreement, and then a lady named Aelswith broke the peaceful silence by saying you should all pray, to which many rolled their eyes and sighed, apart from her husband, Alfred. You knew Alfred had been King once, but what is a King when there is no land to rule? The hierarchy had died out when the dead came back to live, and now Alfred and Aelswith were just regular people who had to survive like everyone else. Although, it was clear to see that Aelswith still felt superior to everyone else, while Alfred remained quiet as he struggled with clear health issues.

You then got to know Finan and Osferth, an Irishman and a monk, one a loud mouth and the other rather shy, but both friendly and welcoming. Finan had fought alongside Uhtred all these years and had lost his wife before the sickness even broke out, like Uhtred.

'Osferth is Alfred's bastard child,' Finan whispered while Aelswith rambled something about God again.

You stared at the dark haired warrior with your big eyes, trying to fight the grin that tugged at your lips, but he had seen your amusement already and he gave you a cheeky wink. You knew that must have been a source of entertainment at times.

Beside you and Aelswith, the group consisted of two other women; Hild and Eadith. They were the two who had cleaned you up and made the food, nursing you back to health quicker than you could've hoped for, and you took an instant liking to them. Hild was a survivor in many ways and had been close to Uhtred and his men for a long time. Eadith had also survived several hardships before being taken in by the group, and she told you that most of the men did the hunting while the women nursed them back to health when needed, and that they also took care of chores that needed to be done.

Lastly you were introduced to Father Beocca and Father Pyrlig, two priests, one of them heavily religious and widowed a while ago, and the latter was a hardened warrior. Both of them welcomed you kindly and were happy to be in the presence of a Saxon and, seemingly, Christian lady. You noticed you were all different, but the one thing you all had in common was that you had lost loved ones in one way or another and have gone through terrible things in order to stay alive.

'What about Sihtric?' you asked as you noticed he was missing at the table, 'what's his story?'

'Sihtric is one of my most loyal men,' Uhtred said, 'that's all you need to know for now. The rest will follow in time, I'm sure.'

You weren't sure what that meant, but you also weren't going to pry. And you then finally opened up a little bit about yourself, telling the group where you came from and what you had done in order to survive. You also told them you had been married before, but that your husband had died in battle years ago, something you hadn't been very saddened about as you weren't happily married back then, so you had never even deemed your marriage as something important in your life. But luckily it wasn't all doom and gloom, and the night still had room for laughter too.

And then, after some more chatter and enjoying some more ale, you went to bed feeling rather satisfied for the first time in a while. But after hours of tossing and turning you found yourself still awake, and you decided to leave your chamber for some fresh air. You wrapped a fur around your shoulders, while wearing the clean nightgown you were given earlier, and you welcomed the cool night's air as you wandered across the walls again.

After you cooled off outside you decided to head back in again, and when you strolled past the kitchen you caught a glimpse of Sihtric as the door was ajar. You took a few steps back to peek through the door, and you saw Sihtric was on his own, eating quietly while staring into the burning hearth. An uneasy feeling crept up on you, and your heart felt heavy.

Because it seemed as if Sihtric did not want to be near you, despite saving you and bringing you back to Bebbanburg by his own choice, and even carrying you to your chamber after you had fainted.

You adjusted to your new home quicker than expected, and you helped alongside the women as the days passed by preparing food, washing and fixing up clothes, and tending to those who had fallen ill with a harmless cold or had a minor injury. Whenever you had a few moments to spare, Hild taught you how to use weapons and how to defend yourself, against the undead and the living, while Eadith taught you about plants and flowers, which ones were safe to eat and which ones you had to stay far away from. You quickly gained knowledge and skill during your first days in Bebbanburg, and you hoped that if you would ever end up lost in the woods again, your chances of survival would be much greater.

You also found that everyone was kind, the group you shared dinner with daily in particular, but the other people who resided in Bebbanburg were friendly too even if they kept more to themselves.

But Sihtric continued to keep his distance, for reasons unbeknownst to you, which you tried to shake it off. And that wouldn't be so hard if you didn't catch him gazing at you ever so often. You wanted to talk to him, just to be near him because something about him attracted you, but you felt it was best to give him his space. If he was interested in getting to know you, he surely would take it upon himself to start a conversation. And after a few more days he began to eat dinner with the group again, often sitting across from you at the large table and staring at you as discreetly as possible.

You got along with everyone and took a liking to Sigtryggr, who tended to be flirty with you but had a way of keeping it comfortable and not overly obvious. The only person who was overly obvious was Aelswith. You could tell her kindness wasn't real, and it would be a matter of time before she'd show her true colours, you were certain of that.

'How many of you escaped the village?' Uhtred asked after a few evenings.

'I'm not sure,' you said, 'a small group. Maybe ten?'

'It's been less than a week, do you think they are still alive?'

Uhtred's question caused the chatter to die down at the table, and everyone looked at you. You said you weren't sure. You did think they were still out in the woods, but as everyone had gotten a little too comfortable by not encountering the living dead for a while, you feared they might have gotten killed already. But you also felt there was a chance they were surviving in the one of the sheds you had come across yourself.

'But I am not sure,' you added, 'maybe they died, maybe they were found. They could be anywhere.'

'But they could be close too,' Uhtred said.

'They could be. Why?'

'I've been thinking,' Uhtred spoke up, addressing the whole table, 'we haven't met survivors in a while, and if those people are still out there we could perhaps find them and take them in. The more people we have, the better we can defend ourselves and this fort.'

As much as you loved seeing some familiar faces of your former home, you couldn't help but worry that a search would be a waste of time and energy.

'I'm not sure if it's worth looking for them,' you said hesitantly, 'it could lead to nothing and it's dangerous out there.'

'My men know how to defend themselves,' Uhtred said.

'You want us to go look for strangers?' Finan asked, clearly unsure about the plan.

'This is a bad idea,' Sihtric finally spoke up, 'this is a search that could get us killed. And for what?'

'What do you mean, for what?' Uhtred asked, 'it's so we can become a stronger group.'

'We don't know those people,' Sihtric argued, 'and she doesn't even know if they are still alive,' he pointed at you, 'you can't ask this from us.'

'You are the one who brought in a complete stranger, Sihtric,' Uhtred scoffed, 'and now you are against it?'

'I am against your decisions that make me go back out there and look for people who are probably dead already.'

You felt a pang at Sihtric's words, but you knew he was right.

'They could be alive too,' Uhtred shrugged.

'I'm sorry,' Finan added, 'but Sihtric is right. We don't know if it's worth it.'

'If it was any of us,' Uhtred stood up and spoke to everyone, 'we'd be thankful that people went out looking for us. This is no debate. Finan, Sihtric, Sigtryggr, you three will start the search tomorrow.'

'I will go with them,' you jumped up.

'I don't think so,' Sihtric snarled.

'You should stay here,' Sigtryggr said calmly, 'you should stay safe.'

'I insist!' you said, 'one way or another, I will go out there. So you can take me with you, or I'll go on my own. I can't let you guys look for my people while I stay here and wait. Hild has been teaching me how to fight and defend. I won't be a liability.'

The three men looked at Uhtred, who threw his hands up, signalling he wasn't going to argue against you joining them.

'Then I will join too,' Osferth said.

The monk attempted to get up, but Finan was quick to pull him down in his seat again.

'You won't,' the Irishman said, to which Osferth silenced.

'Then that's how it is,' Uhtred said, rather proudly, 'you four will look if you can find any survivors. In any case of danger, you turn back. I'm not asking you to risk your lives, okay?'

Sihtric scoffed and stormed off, muttering something inaudible, and you felt your heart sink once again because of him.

You left on horseback at dawn to start the search the next day, alongside the three men. You all wore leather armour, and the men were protected with chainmail underneath, but it was too heavy for you to wear so you'd have to be a little more careful. You did carry a sword and a seax, while Sigtryggr and Finan each carried a sword and a shield, and Sihtric was the owner of an axe, a sword, and a seax.

Sihtric remained distant and rode ahead. But Finan and Sigtryggr enjoyed getting to know you better while you scouted the lands, and you began to think fondly of them as if they were brothers. You searched for hours, occasionally taking a break to rest and eat, but sadly enough you returned to the fort with no news before evening fell.

You hadn't found real traces and only encountered a handful of undead, which Sihtric was fast to slay with his axe before you and the other men could catch up. Uhtred gave you the order to continue the search the next day, and you would.

The next morning it went the same as the day before, you stuck with Finan and Sigtryggr, while Sihtric rode ahead and remained quiet. The day seemed to turn into another useless and even uneventful search, as once again no traces were found that showed a sign of life. You circled back to the spot where the search had started off, deep in the woods, and you all dismounted the horses to sit and rest back against a couple of trees.

'I hate to say it,' Finan said after a while, 'but I don't think they are alive anymore.'

'I know,' you said softly, 'none of us who lived back in the village were really prepared to survive out here. I barely made it myself, so it's not a shock that the others probably struggled as much as I did. I was just lucky,' you looked up at Sihtric, who sat across from you under a tree, 'I was found in time. I can only hope the others have been as lucky as I was.'

'I'm afraid not,' Sigtryggr said compassionately as he sat next to you, 'there's really not many living people around here. We've been here for a while, we know the lands and roads, and we haven't come across anyone for a long time. Until Sihtric found you.'

'I go into these woods every other day,' Sihtric said, 'and I never met anyone who was not an after-walker, except for when I found you. And before I found you I was out here hunting for a while already that day, and I didn't come across anyone else or find any traces of them back then either. I'm sorry, but I told you all this was a waste of time.'

Sihtric got up and mounted his horse, and the rest of you followed without another word. Deep inside everyone knew the chances of finding any survivors who fled your village were slim, but no one other than Sihtric had said it out loud before the search even started. And now, after you all agreed the search would be over, you could finally accept it and move on. You had tried and gone back looking for them, and that was all you could do.

But despite the fact you accepted their probable fate, you still felt a little defeated. And you noticed Finan and Sigtryggr felt the same, as you were all riding the horses while being absent minded.

And the lack of alertness became a problem when you were surprised by after-walkers out of nowhere. And not just a handful this time, no, it was a whole herd. You quickly lost Finan and Sigtryggr as they got off their horses and fought off those who came too close, while your horse panicked and pranced, causing you to fall off and for the horse to run off as fast as possible. You didn't know that the same had happened to Sihtric, who found you while you fought off the undead with your seax, until he grabbed your arm and pulled you with him.

'There's too many!' Sihtric said as he killed off several after-walkers to move away further from the herd, 'and my horse ran off,' he said out of breath after he killed the last undead that came too close, 'where is your horse? We have to get out of here.'

'I fell off,' you stammered, 'I lost my horse too. I also lost Finan and Sigtryggr. I saw they dismounted and fought on foot, but I lost them when I fought back myself. And then you grabbed me.'

Sihtric stared at you in disbelief, and he then groaned before he pulled you with him again, further away from the undead crowd.

'We have to get away from the after-walkers,' he urged, 'can you run?'

'I think so, yes,' you said.

'Good, because we'll have to make a run for it,' Sihtric said, 'we'll have to find one of the empty sheds. That's our only way to make it out alive here. We're too deep in the forest to walk back, and there's too many to fight off right now.'

You looked at Sihtric, and you wanted to speak but no words came out, and he then grabbed your arms.

'Do you understand me?' Sihtric asked and shook you lightly.

'Y-yes,' you breathed, suddenly overwhelmed with fear.

Sihtric gave you a curt nod and took your hand, and somehow you managed to run with him, past the herd and without gaining too much of their attention. And those who did go after you were beheaded by Sihtric and his axe. Every time you tried to help fight one off, Sihtric grabbed your arm and shoved you behind him. He knew you were not wearing any chainmail, and he wasn't going to risk you getting bitten or scratched.

You ran until your lungs burned and you almost threw up, but you found one of the empty sheds in time and you fell down to your knees as soon as Sihtric had locked the door behind him. The shed had two broken windows, which allowed some daylight in but also could cause trouble if the after-walkers heard you. So all you could do was pray that they wouldn't find you, and you'd have to keep quiet.

You both caught your breath once you realised you made it safely inside, you sitting back against the wall while Sihtric leaned back against the door. And it took a moment before either of you could speak again.

'Are you hurt?' Sihtric asked, as if he snapped back to reality, 'let me see you.'

He came over and almost frantically searched your body for wounds, which surprised and confused you.

'I'm fine,' you said, 'just a little sore from the fall. But the after-walkers didn't get close enough to get me. And you? Are you hurt?'

'No,' Sihtric said curtly, then walked back to the door.

You buried your face in your hands for a moment, and you bit back your tears. You weren't in pain, but you were startled. You realised it had been a close call, and things could've ended very differently if Sihtric hadn't found you amidst the herd.

'Thank you for saving me… again,' you whispered.

'Let's not make a habit out of that, shall we?' Sihtric said softly as he peeked out through a gap in the wooden door.

'Why do you hate me?' your words came out before you even realised this was the worst moment to discuss that matter.

Sihtric looked back at you over his shoulder for a second, but he didn't respond, and he then returned his gaze to the gap in the door.

'There's too many after-walkers out there,' Sihtric said after a moment, 'we'll have to stay put until the herd passes. We could be here for a while,' he sighed and took off his cloak, which he threw on the floor next to you and sat down on it, 'so you better get comfortable, lady.'

You shuffled closer to Sihtric to share the warmth of his cloak underneath you, and you sat in silence for a long moment.

'We're going to die here, aren't we?' you whispered.

'Well,' Sihtric said with a soft sigh, 'I wasn't planning on. And if you are planning on dying here, then I will ask you kindly to leave me out of your plan.'

You both chuckled softly and then sat in silence again while you listened to the passing herd outside, as they moaned and snarled their way slowly past the shed and further through the woods.

'I don't hate you,' Sihtric said softly after a while, 'I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I did.'

'It's like you were avoiding and ignoring me the first few days,' you said, 'you didn't even eat dinner with us that first evening.'

'I wasn't hungry.'

'I saw you eat on your own later that night.'

Sihtric shrugged lightly at that.

'You and Sigtryggr?' he suddenly asked.

'What?'

'Do you like him? I've seen you two get close.'

'And I've been well aware that you've been watching me. Yes, I do like him, but not in the way you think. He's been kind to me after I arrived at Bebbanburg and really tries to get to know me. Something you didn't do,' you mumbled.

'And yet I still know all about you,' Sihtric said.

'Oh, really?'

'Men talk too,' he smiled faintly as he looked at the floor, 'Finan told me all about you.'

'And yet no one told me anything about you,' you scoffed, 'why?'

'Because they know I don't share my story with just anyone,' he paused and then shifted to sit more comfortably, 'but if we're going to die here, I might as well tell you my story.'

'You don't have to-'

'I do,' Sihtric cut you off, 'I do have to tell you, so you'll understand why I kept my distance from you. When all of this started, this sickness or whatever it is, I managed to keep my family safe for a while. But my wife got sick eventually, and my children did too. I don't know why I was spared, but I was. My wife and children passed away. And… as with every infected person, they returned from the grave one day. My wife wasn't a Dane, so her body wasn't cremated, nor were my children. They all came back and I,' he stopped talking.

'You had to kill them,' you whispered, feeling terrible for him.

Sihtric nodded and rubbed his hands over his face before he continued.

'I had to kill them. I stabbed them, but as we all learned one way or another, that clearly didn't work. So I… I had to behead them… all of them. They were all I had,' he said softly, 'I was abandoned by my father when I was young and my mother died giving birth to me. I fled Dunholm and served Uhtred, until all of this started to happen. But I had no family when I grew up. And the family I made was taken away from me in the most brutal way.'

'Sihtric, I'm so sorry,' you said and took his hand.

'I have mourned them,' Sihtric said and gave your hand a light squeeze in return, 'and I have healed from that, as far as one can. And I know you more or less understand what I've been through. I heard about your parents and your little brother. And I'm sorry too that you lost them, and I'm sorry for what happened to your village. When I found you, I felt some kind of hope for the first time in a while. Because you proved there are still survivors out there, and not just the after-walkers. But finding you also scared me.'

'Scared you? Why?'

'I got scared because you also made my heart skip a few beats, something that hasn't happened to me in years, if I'm honest. And I am afraid to let people in. I'm afraid to let you in, because I am afraid to again lose all that I care for, or to be abandoned by those I care for. But the truth is that I do want to get to know you.'

'I want to get to know you too,' was all you could respond with, overwhelmed with emotions.

'You will,' Sihtric smiled, 'when we get out of here at least.'

'We will get out of here,' you encouraged both Sihtric and yourself, 'we can stay here safely all night if we have to.'

And so the night began to fall outside, and the temperature dropped along with it. The shed cooled off and it didn't take long before you were both tired and cold. Sihtric picked his cloak up from the floor and draped it over your shoulders. He then pulled you in his arms and held you tightly as you fell asleep, while he stayed up to make sure no after-walker would try to get into the shed.

You and Sihtric returned safely to the fort the next day, late in the morning. The herd had passed and you had not been discovered, but neither of you let your guard down when you walked back by foot. You didn't see Finan or Sigtryggr on your way back, which meant they probably made it back safely before you did. You did find the half eaten and torn apart body of your horse, which caused you to shed a tear, and Sihtric remained hopeful that his horse had made it out alive.

'She knows the way,' he said as you continued the long walk, 'I know that if she wasn't attacked, she could be back home.'

'I hope she is,' you sniffled.

Sihtric took your hand to console you, and you walked hand in hand until you made your way out of the woods and saw the gates of Bebbanburg again. You were both relieved to have made it out alive. And you fell to your knees for a quick prayer to give thanks once you stepped through the massive doors and heard them fall shut behind you.

You were then pleased to see Finan and Sigtryggr, who came over as soon as they saw you and Sihtric. Sigtryggr embraced you for a moment and told you he was glad you both made it back, and as he told you how he and Finan had made it back home, Sihtric quietly left to see if he could find his horse.

'We dismounted and just fought,' Sigtryggr said, 'we managed to fight our way out of the herd and luckily our horses could take us back. We looked for you and Sihtric before we left, but we couldn't search thoroughly as it was too dangerous.'

'I understand,' you said, seeing he was visibly upset he had left you and Sihtric behind in a way, 'you did what you had to do, you and Finan both did. I'm glad you both made it back too. Oh, have you seen Sihtric's horse? He was…' you stopped talking when you suddenly noticed Sihtric had vanished again.

'We found his horse when we fled the woods, we guided her along with us. She is safe too,' Sigtryggr said, 'now, you should get some rest.'

You retreated to your chamber and Eadith came over to hand you a bucket of warm water, so you could rinse yourself and warm up before you would lay down for a moment in your bed. And you woke up hours later, just in time before dinner, where you met Sihtric again after he had run off earlier without a word.

'Where'd you go?' you asked as you sat next to him at the table.

'Went looking for my horse,' Sihtric answered as he gulped down his food.

'I heard she's safe.'

'She is,' he smiled, 'a blessing from the gods, truly.'

You both finished your food and shared a jug of ale before you departed the gathering together and made way to your chambers. Sihtric walked you to your door, where he told you to rest well. He then kissed your cheek, albeit a little awkwardly it still made you blush and your heart flutter, and he then left for his own room, which was further down the long corridor.

The next morning you went to help Eadith wash clothes, and after the chores you went looking for Sihtric. But Sihtric was nowhere to be found, and neither was his horse. When you returned to Eadith, Hild had joined her to make some soup, and you asked if they knew where Sihtric had gone.

'He's out hunting with Finan,' Hild said.

'Out?' you asked, 'he's out there? When… when did he leave?'

'Before dawn,' Eadith said and looked up at you, 'are you okay?'

'Yes,' you lied and wanted to turn on your heels, but the ladies stopped you.

'What is going on?' Hild ask after she sat you down.

You nervously plucked at your brown dress, but you just couldn't hold it in anymore and you burst into tears as you told them about Sihtric's behaviour ever since you got there. And you told them how you thought you had made progress the day before, in the shed, and that he had kissed your cheek before you went to sleep. So the fact that he had left without a word made you feel all that progress had been lost again. You were confused and hurt, but also worried for his safety and that caused all your tears to fall down at once.

Hild and Eadith reassured you that Sihtric would return safely before nightfall, but they also told you that they couldn't explain his behaviour either.

'He's a man,' Hild sighed, 'and sometimes they don't think things through.'

'I'm sure he didn't mean to upset you by leaving like that,' Eadith agreed, 'he probably didn't realise it would make you worried.'

'But if you like him,' Hild said, 'you should tell him.'

And with that word of advice you eventually went out into the courtyard, where you met Osferth and helped him take care of the remaining horses while you learned he was a nice guy too. You told him Hild could teach him how to fight, since he lacked experience apparently, but he told you that Uhtred already had started the process of teaching him.

'I mean meeting with Uhtred once I've finished feeding the horses,' Osferth smiled, 'he will teach me how to use a sword.'

'And I'm sure you will do great,' you encouraged him.

You then told him to go already, and that you would water the horses for him. He thanked you kindly and went to find Uhtred. And when you went to fetch water from a well you walked into Aelswith, who was on her way to Alfred to bring him some broth, as he was feeling unwell. But when she saw you, she immediately came over.

'I am happy you returned safely, girl,' she smiled, 'it must have been a frightening night, to be trapped with a Dane in a shed,' she shivered.

'What?' you asked, confused and offended.

'You never know what those heathens are up to,' she sneered, 'I am happy he didn't touch you. I mean, he didn't, did he?'

'I'm sorry, I don't understand why you think he would-'

'Oh, poor thing,' she pulled you in for a hug, nearly spilling the broth over your dress, 'you must have been so scared. I prayed to God for your safekeeping, and He listened. He listened and brought you back safely!'

You were too stunned to speak and before you were able to collect your thoughts, she had already left and you found yourself alone and confused in the courtyard. You then remembered you were going to water the horses, and just when you finished that task you heard the heavy gates open. You almost dropped the last bucket of water as you made haste to the gates, just in time to see Finan and Sihtric dismount their horses and give one of Uhtred's servants the deer they had caught. Hild came up beside you, and she gave you a nudge when she saw you and Sihtric had locked eyes, both seemingly nailed to the ground.

'Go,' she whispered, 'me and Eadith will take care of the food tonight. You should talk to him.'

It took you a few long seconds to move again, but then you ran over and leaped into his arms, and he gladly caught you so he could hold you tightly.

'Why did you leave without a word?' you asked.

Sihtric looked guilty, knowing he shouldn't have left like that, and he took your hands.

'Come,' he said softly, and he took you to his chamber.

You both sat down on his bed, and you helped him untie the laces of his leather armour.

'Why did you leave like that? Without telling me?' you asked again.

Sihtric looked at you and shrugged lightly, 'Old habit I'm afraid. I'm sorry.'

'I've been worried about you all day, Sihtric.'

'I didn't think you'd worry, I'm sorry I made you worried. I didn't think you'd notice I'd left, I'm sorry.'

You were hurt by his response, and it clearly showed on your face while you stopped working his laces.

'No,' you said, almost embarrassed, 'I'm sorry that I thought there could be something between us.'

You got up from his bed, but Sihtric took your hand and pulled you back to him before you could storm off.

'There is,' he said, 'there… there is something. I'm just,' he hesitated, 'you know what I've lost. And I have healed from that, enough time has passed. But… you,' he sighed softly and took both your hands, 'I can't lose you too, and I'm terrified to lose you eventually.'

'So you'll continue to push me away?' you sniffled.

'No. I don't want that either,' Sihtric said and wiped your tears, 'I'm just not sure how to handle this. I want you close, but it makes me vulnerable too. I am not as focused anymore, I've noticed. I've made small mistakes while hunting, because my mind's wandering off to you. Even Finan noticed it and he wanted to kick my arse,' he chuckled softly, 'he said I'd be a fool if I'd let you slip out of my hands. And he's right, I know he is right. I don't want to push you away. I won't leave like that anymore, I promise. And I want to be around you more, I really do.'

'Well,' you smiled faintly at him and took his hands, 'how about we keep each other company tonight, after dinner?'

'I would like that,' Sihtric said and kissed the back of your hands, 'but first I need to bathe, because I smell like a dead deer.'

'You do,' you laughed.

You then helped him out of his armour and chainmail. And after you had untangled his braids, you left him to bathe in private while you cleaned up his leather armour.

You met Sihtric for dinner and sat side by side while you enjoyed the company of everyone else. You quietly told Hild about your encounter with Aelswith earlier that day, and she told you to not listen to the lady's rambles. And while you listened to Uhtred's amusing stories about teaching Osferth how to defend himself against the after-walkers, Sihtric searched for your hand under the table and held it. He then leaned in and slowly tucked your hair behind your ear as he brought his lips closer.

'Shall we go somewhere quieter?' he whispered in your ear.

You nodded and followed his lead, thanking everyone for the good food and the company before you disappeared out of the great hall.

'Yours or mine?' Sihtric asked.

'Yours,' you smiled as you walked hand in hand, 'my chamber is still quite empty, yours is cosy.'

'Then mine it is,' Sihtric smiled.

He took you to his room and lit several candles, as well as the hearth to light and warm up the place. He then took your hand again and led you to the furs in front of the fire, and you both sat down closely next to each other.

You gazed up at Sihtric, and your heart filled with warmth and a comforting happiness when he smiled at you. You brought your hand up and gently traced the scars on his face, those he had earned in battles over time, and you admired his rugged yet gentle appearance as the flames danced close beside you. Without any words spoken, Sihtric lightly caressed your cheek with the back of his hand before he took your chin, and he leaned in to press a soft kiss onto your lips. It left you breathless for a moment, but before Sihtric could fully pull away, you moved your hands up to his broad shoulders and gave him a light kiss in return.

Sihtric then pulled you onto his lap with ease, and he placed his hands on your sides while you wrapped your arms around his neck, and you then finally both went in for a longer and firmer kiss. You felt his hands move up to your neck, and he deepened the kiss slowly as he held you close. You mindlessly began to pull at his tunic, and he took it off before he pulled back towards him to continue kissing you. Your hands roamed over his bare torso, feeling the scars underneath your fingertips as you kissed him. Sihtric then took off your dress, leaving you in only your underclothes which covered your private parts. He leaned back in to kiss you again, but stopped when he suddenly noticed the bruises on your shoulder and arm, and he gave you a concerned and questioning look.

'It's from when I fell off the horse yesterday,' you whispered as you raked your fingers through his hair, 'it hurts a little, but it's nothing to be concerned about.'

'Why didn't you tell me you were hurting?' his voice was calm and soothing.

'I didn't think you cared,' you said softly.

'I'm sorry,' Sihtric whispered and kissed your lips, 'I'm sorry you thought I wouldn't care about your injuries,' he kissed your cheek, 'I'm sorry you thought I didn't want to be around you,' he kissed your jaw and down to your neck, 'I'm sorry you thought I hated you,' he carefully kissed your bruised shoulder, 'I'm sorry you thought that I left without a word this morning because I didn't care about you,' he looked at you as he palmed your cheek, 'when the truth is that I care too much about you, and that I want to be by your side all the time.'

'Sihtric,' you whispered and bit down on your lip as you looked at him, then cupped his cheek, 'it's okay.'

'No,' he whispered, 'no, it's not. All I did was push you away,' he breathed and carefully laid you down on the soft furs, 'when all I wanted was to love and protect you.'

'You did protect me, Sihtric,' you said as you pulled him on top of you by the leather cord he wore around his neck, on which a bronze pendant dangled, 'and now I want you to love me.'

The next morning you woke up before dawn in Sihtric's arms, in his bed and snug under the warm furs. You were still half asleep when you felt his lips on your neck and his arms squeeze you lightly as he held you from behind.

'I must leave soon,' he whispered in your ear.

'For what reason?' you mumbled.

'Hunting.'

'Again?'

'That deer we caught yesterday was barely enough to feed everyone,' he whispered, 'you know that too. Finan and Uhtred will be joining me today, as we have to scout the lands further than before. We're running out of animals to hunt here, we need to venture further if we want to stay alive.'

'I understand. Promise me you'll be careful?'

'Always.'

You turned around to face him, and you kissed him longingly for a moment until you were rudely interrupted by a hard knocking on the door.

'Sihtric!' Finan's thick accent sounded, 'hurry up already! We are ready and so are the horses!'

'Give me a moment!' Sihtric yelled back.

'Aye, you arseling,' Finan mumbled loud enough for you both to hear before he walked off.

You looked at Sihtric and giggled as he shook his head lightly with a smile on his face, and he then pulled the furcovers back over the two of you so he could make love to you one more time before he had to make a run for it.

You stepped out into the courtyard together after you helped Sihtric with his armour. Everyone who was present to wish the men a safe hunting figured out soon enough why Sihtric was late that morning, something unusual for him, when they saw you both walk out while Sihtric's hair was wild and unbraided.

'Your hair,' you had said in a haste when you got dressed quickly.

'There is no time,' Sihtric hurried while he had put on his boots.

You adjusted Sihtric's warm cloak so it sat more neatly on his shoulders, while Uhtred and Finan already mounted their horses and Eadith came over to hand them bread wrapped in clean cloth. She also gave her baking to Sihtric, who thanked her kindly and turned to his horse to tuck the bread in one of the leather bags attached to the saddle.

'Me and Hild,' Eadith whispered as she passed you, 'want to hear everything.'

You looked at her with flushed cheeks, and she gave you a wink as she grinned before she skipped off, back inside the great hall. You looked back over your shoulder and found Hild, who laughed and turned to follow Eadith into the kitchen.

'Darling,' Sihtric said, drawing your attention back to him again as he pulled you in by your waist, 'I have to go.'

'Come back to me,' you said, your fingers curled around the neck of his armour.

'If you wait for me,' he whispered and held your face in his hands.

Sihtric leaned in and kissed you briefly multiple times, until Finan cleared his throat in a taunting manner and Uhtred wolf whistled. Sihtric broke the kiss with a sigh, but you both could only laugh at the behaviour of the other men.

'I'm sorry about them,' Sihtric chuckled.

'It's okay,' you said, 'just promise you'll come back safely?'

'I will. You are now my reason to come back safely,' Sihtric whispered and kissed your forehead before he mounted his horse.

He then held his hand out to you, which you took, and he leaned in to kiss your hand before you watched the heavy gates of Bebbanburg open. And then the men left on their horses, to explore new territory in an attempt to find food and maybe even more. And you made your way inside to the kitchen, following Eadith and Hild.

'Is the broth for my husband ready?' Aelswith asked as she stood in the door of the kitchen.

You, Eadith and Hild looked up, with smiles and cheeky grins still visible on your faces after you had told them about your night and morning with Sihtric. And you could tell by the look on Aelswith's face that she had heard every word too before she interrupted, as she liked to eavesdrop around corners you had found out.

Eadith quietly handed Aelswith a bowl with broth, and Aelswith looked at you for a few long seconds.

'You will be punished for what you did,' Aelswith said with clear disgust on her face, 'you have sinned, and God will punish you for that.'

'Have I not been punished enough already?' you asked, to which she made a face and left the kitchen.

'Don't listen to her,' Eadith said after a moment.

'I know,' you sighed, 'but she should worry about her husband, instead of sticking her nose in my business.'

'You're right,' Hild said as she cleaned the wooden counter, 'Alfred needs more than just broth every day. He needs more nourishing foods, but she won't allow him to eat any meat.'

'Apparently eating meat is a sin too,' Eadith added, 'so she just lets him suffer.'

'What a cruel woman,' you said, to which the others clearly agreed.

'But back to your adventures,' Eadith laughed, then lowered her voice, 'was he really that good?'

'He was,' you laughed, 'you have no idea-'

You were cut off when sudden screaming erupted from the courtyard, and you all dropped what you were doing to run outside. You met Sigtryggr on your way out, who asked what had happened, but you had no answer for him. And while you ran out, several people came running in, terrified as they screamed something about after-walkers. Sigtryggr managed to grab one maid's arm as she ran, and he asked her what was going on.

'They're in the walls!' the maid cried, 'the after-walkers are in the walls!'

She pulled her arm out of Sigtryggr's grip, who then looked at you with great concern.

'Weapons,' Hild said, 'we need to get our weapons!'

You all ran towards the great hall, where all the weapons were stored when not being carried, and you found Osferth and Pyrlig already there.

'We must fight,' Pyrlig said, and he ran back out again.

You gathered a sword and a seax, while Sigtryggr picked up his sword and a spear, and Eadith and Hild both grabbed a longsword each.

'Can you aim?' you asked Osferth, who grabbed a bow.

'Yes, lady,' he said, 'Sigtryggr's wife taught me before she died.'

'Then why are you never out hunting?'

'Alfred won't allow Uhtred to let me out of these walls,' he said softly.

You were stunned, but with no more time to talk, you both ran to join the others.

'Father Beocca!' you yelled as you passed him, 'grab a sword- wait, where are you going?!'

'I- I shall pray!' Beocca replied and hurried inside as you ran out.

You quickly forgot what Beocca said as you saw the horrors that were unfolding in Bebbanburg's courtyard. Several after-walkers had somehow made it inside the walls, while the gates were still shut tightly, and they had killed numerous people in their wake already. Bodies were scattered throughout the place while those still alive were screaming and hiding.

Each man and woman who were skilled enough fought off the undead to save the fort and its residents from further damage, while everyone also tried to understand where the after-walkers had come from. You beheaded a few yourself and stabbed their skulls, then went along with Sigtryggr and Hild to make sure that the people who had fallen victim to the undead wouldn't become undead themselves, by beheading them and piercing their brains with your seax.

It all happened so fast, but it was also over just as quickly as it had started. Only about a dozen of after-walkers had managed to get in, and they were quickly killed off by everyone who took a stand. When the silence seemed to return to the courtyard, one young maid approached and spoke up as she was in tears.

'It… it was me,' she sobbed, her hand covering a large bleeding wound on her arm, 'I secretly went to fetch flowers in the forest, which I have done so many times before, but I forgot to close the wooden panel I always sneak out of. And now,' she fell to her knees, 'I… I've been bitten.'

Everyone stared in horror at the young maid. You all knew it was a matter of time before she would bleed out and in turn become undead herself. You all felt a certain resentment, for she had endangered everyone and even got people killed, but you all also felt your heart break at her tragic ending. And no one had the heart to stand up and end her misery, except for father Pyrlig.

'I will do it,' he said softly, 'the rest of you go inside, see if none of the after-walkers made it inside the halls. Everyone injured must be brought outside, so Eadith and Hild can tend to them and see if their wounds are fatal.'

'Osferth and I,' Sigtryggr said, 'we will look for the wooden panel and nail it shut. No one,' he raised his voice, 'and I mean no one will leave this place unless it's through those gates!' he pointed his sword to the main gate, 'and nothing will come in here either unless it's through those gates!'

'The former King!' Beocca suddenly cried out as he emerged from one of the halls, 'the former King and his Lady have been killed.'

'I found them like this,' Beocca said sadly as you both stared at the half torn apart bodies of Alfred and Aelswith, 'I came to their chamber to see if they were safe, and to pray with them, but they were already bitten and scratched. They bled out in minutes. I know what needs to be done, but I do not have the heart to… to end it.'

You said nothing as you looked at the corpses, and you stabbed them in the head without hesitation. You then turned to Beocca, who looked pale as a ghost, while you wiped the blood off your seax.

'Did it work, Father?' you asked coldly.

'I'm sorry?'

'Your prayers,' you said, 'did they work?'

And you left before Beocca could even respond, already knowing the answer to your own question. Outside Sigtryggr approached you, and he told you the gap in the wall had been found and fixed. Eadith and Hild had searched the entire fort and only encountered two more after-walkers, who were killed and dragged out to the courtyard. Osferth and Pyrlig were busy stacking all the scattered corpses on a cart, which would be pulled by horse to the centre of the courtyard, where the dead would be burned.

And as you watched the flames devour the bodies, you couldn't help but bite back your tears, as all you wanted was to be with Sihtric and to feel safe again. But you had no idea if he was safe himself, or if he would ever return safely again...

Chapter 2 drops tomorrow.

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