#fierce protector in full force

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

5x22 | 6x4

[amirasainz]

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💙

Her protector

Carlos had always believed that there was nothing in the world more important than the safety and happiness of the woman he adored. Yn, his beautiful, elegant wife, was the very center of his world, and he would do anything to keep her by his side, safe and loved.

It had been a quiet morning in Madrid. The city buzzed with its usual energy, but inside the mansion Carlos had gifted Yn after proposing to her, everything was calm. The sprawling estate had been more than enough to give them both peace. Security was tight — cameras, guards, and walls that could withstand any force that dared to try and breach their sanctuary.

Today, however, Carlos had decided that a little indulgence for Yn was in order. After breakfast, a lavish meal prepared by the mansion’s personal chef, they had made their way to the shopping district of Madrid. Yn’s eyes sparkled when she saw the designer stores — the luxurious brands she had always loved. She squeezed Carlos’s hand, a smile lighting up her face, and he couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for her.

“You look stunning, as always,” Carlos murmured as they walked through the bustling streets. His voice was low and rich with adoration, but the protective tone lingered underneath.

Yn chuckled, the sound like a melody to his ears. “Stop it, cariño. You’re making me blush.”

He grinned. “You should blush. You're a work of art, mi amor. You deserve to be spoiled.”

And spoil her he did. They visited every boutique, and Carlos had his men stationed outside, watching over them. Inside the stores, security guards positioned themselves discreetly, ensuring nothing would threaten the peace of their little outing. No one could harm her — not while Carlos was around.

Yn tried on various outfits, each one more beautiful than the last, and Carlos sat comfortably on a plush velvet sofa, enjoying the view. His dark eyes never strayed from her. She was the most exquisite thing in the world to him. He loved how she looked in everything she wore, but especially in the clothes he picked out for her. They made her shine, and he wanted the world to see that.

“Carlos,” Yn called, emerging from the fitting room in a soft lavender dress that draped elegantly over her figure. “What do you think?”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, taking in the sight of her. The fabric clung to her curves in all the right ways, and the soft color brought out the brightness of her skin and eyes. “Perfection,” he replied, his voice thick with approval. “It was made for you.”

The shop assistant smiled, clearly eager to please. “I think this one is perfect for you, señora,” she said.

Yn smiled back, clearly pleased with the compliment. “I’ll take it,” she said, before slipping back into the dressing room to change.

Carlos leaned back against the cushions, his gaze still fixed on the door. He was surrounded by his men, who were positioned throughout the shop. Though he trusted them implicitly, his attention was always with Yn. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not even for a second.

It was all about control for Carlos. His empire, his wealth, and his reputation were built on power, influence, and intimidation. He was the most powerful Mafia boss in all of Europe, a man whose name sent shivers down the spines of anyone who dared cross him. Yet, when it came to Yn, all that power meant nothing. She was the one he cherished, the one he would go to any lengths to protect.

Carlos had made it clear from the beginning: his love for her was fierce, and he would destroy anyone who thought of hurting her. She was his queen, and nothing — not even the world’s most dangerous enemies — would ever come between them.

Yn returned to him with a small bundle of bags, her face glowing with happiness. “Thank you for today, cariño,” she said, the words soft but full of meaning.

Carlos smiled, his gaze softening as he stood to meet her. “Anything for you, mi amor. You are the light of my life. Let’s go home, alright?”

They exited the store, walking side by side, but something felt… off. The hair on the back of Carlos’s neck stood up, his instincts kicking into overdrive. He glanced around, noting that several of his men were now positioned at key points, all alert. The streets of Madrid were busy, but the quiet hum of activity felt wrong to him today.

He moved closer to Yn, his arm slipping around her waist protectively. “Stay close, amor,” he murmured, his voice low but commanding.

Yn glanced up at him, sensing the shift in his demeanor. “What’s wrong?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away, his eyes scanning the surroundings carefully. Then it happened. A single shot rang out — loud, piercing — breaking the calm like a thunderclap.

Without a second thought, Carlos grabbed Yn, pulling her into his chest. His body shielded her as he spun them around, pressing her back against the stone wall of the building beside them. His hands moved quickly, steadying her as he dropped to one knee, protecting her as best as he could.

“Stay down, mi reina,” he whispered fiercely, his voice a mixture of fear and determination.

Yn, heart pounding, clung to him as her world seemed to spin. She could hear the sound of shots echoing, but Carlos’s presence was her anchor. He was there, always there, keeping her safe.

His men reacted instantly, moving swiftly to cover the situation. Their training kicked in, surrounding the area and pushing bystanders to safety. Carlos’s men were well-equipped to handle this kind of chaos. They were trained to neutralize threats with brutal efficiency. But nothing mattered more than Yn in his arms.

“Carlos,” Yn whispered, her voice trembling. “What’s happening?”

He lifted her chin gently with one hand, his eyes locked on hers. “Don’t worry, mi vida. I’m right here. I’ll always protect you, I swear it.”

Carlos’s fingers grazed her cheek, wiping away the tear that had escaped her eye. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until he touched her. His soft touch was a stark contrast to the violence unfolding around them.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever,” he continued, his voice filled with a deadly promise. “You’re my everything, Yn. No one touches what belongs to me.”

As the gunfire continued, Carlos remained perfectly calm. His mind raced through the possible scenarios, analyzing the situation in mere seconds. This wasn’t just a random attack. Whoever was behind it knew exactly where to strike. And if they thought they could harm Yn… they had another thing coming.

The shots stopped as abruptly as they had started. Carlos didn’t move from his position, his arms wrapped tightly around Yn, keeping her close to his chest. His men had handled the problem quickly — but Carlos needed to be certain.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his hand now tracing small, comforting circles on her back.

Yn nodded, still shaken. “I’m okay… just scared.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “I won’t let them hurt you. Never. I swear it on everything I am.”

The sound of approaching footsteps alerted Carlos, and he raised his head slightly to see one of his men coming toward them. “It’s all clear, boss. It was a distraction, but we’ve handled it.”

Carlos nodded. “Good. See to it that no one gets too close to the area. I’ll deal with this later.”

His eyes returned to Yn, searching her face for any sign of distress. “You’re safe, mi amor. That’s all that matters.”

She met his gaze, her heart still racing but feeling calmer in his arms. “I know. I trust you.”

Carlos smiled, his expression softening as he gently brushed her hair from her face. “I love you, Yn. Never forget that.”

“I won’t,” she whispered back, a small, relieved smile forming on her lips.

As they walked back toward the car, Carlos remained vigilant, his arm around Yn as they slipped into the vehicle. The security detail was thorough, and Carlos had his men close by, ensuring their safe return to the mansion. The world outside may have been dangerous, but as long as they were together, Carlos would face it head-on. For Yn, he would risk everything.

And no one — not even his enemies — would ever be able to tear them apart.

[floatyflowers]

Dark Platonic Ancient Egyptian Deities X Reincarnated! Reader

Ra (god of the Sun and King of the Gods)

As the father figure of the pantheon, Ra takes a patriarchal protector role. He insists you stay close to him in his solar barque, safe from the dangers of the mortal and divine realms.

He grows obsessive about shielding you from chaos especially Apophis, even refusing to let you leave his sight during the night.

Ra often calls you his 'ray of light,' claiming that your presence eases his eternal burden of maintaining Ma’at (cosmic order).

Isis (goddess of Magic and Motherhood)

Isis becomes a motherly figure, fiercely nurturing and protective.

She insists on teaching you spells and protective charms, even if they’re far too hard for you.

She forbids you from interacting with anyone she deems 'unworthy,' claiming she’s the only one who understands how to keep you safe.

Her possessiveness is crude and unyielding; she uses her magic to track you and ensure no harm comes to you, even if it means manipulating others around you.

Osiris (god of the Underworld and Rebirth)

Osiris is calm but quietly obsessive.

He views you as a symbol of renewal and life, a bright presence that balances his somber existence.

Maybe that's because he knows that you are a reincarnation?

Oh wait, he is the one who had you reincarnated in the first place.

He tries to keep you within his underworld domain, rationalizing that it’s the safest place for you, free from earthly or divine dangers.

Osiris has a slightly eerie way of expressing his affection, saying things like,

“You belong to eternity, just like I do.”

Anubis (god of Mummification and Protector of the Dead)

Anubis is like an older sibling who takes his role as your guardian far too seriously.

He constantly watches over you, often from the shadows.

His possessiveness appears as distrust of anyone else, mortal or divine, who tries to approach you.

He justifies this by claiming his duty as a protector.

If you ever get hurt, even slightly, he blames himself and becomes even more overbearing, ensuring no one gets close enough to harm you again.

As for the person who harms you, they will get mummified alive.

Horus (god of Kingship and Sky)

Horus is fiercely territorial, viewing you as his personal charge.

He sees himself as your rightful protector, fighting off any perceived threats to your safety or happiness.

And it doesn't help that his mother, Isis, encouraged him to be like that.

He’s competitive, constantly trying to prove that he’s the only one who can protect you.

He often gets into arguments with other gods over who should have custody of you.

His eagle-eyed vigilance means you’re rarely alone, as he swoops in at the slightest hint of trouble or perceived disobedience.

Set (god of Chaos and Storms)

Surprisingly, Set sees you as a calming impact in his chaotic life.

Your innocent, pure nature makes him protective, almost soft-hearted in your presence.

He grows extremely possessive, believing that only he understands what it means to protect you in a world full of danger and betrayal.

Set doesn’t shy away from using intimidation or brute force to keep others away from you, including the other gods.

He is the first one who suggests that the deities should turn you into immortal or even a goddess.

Thoth (god of Wisdom and Knowledge)

Thoth is fascinated by your knowledge of the modern world and becomes obsessed with learning everything he can from you.

He is the only one after Osiris that knows that you are reincarnated.

He justifies keeping you close, by saying it’s for 'scholarly purposes' yet we all know that he enjoys your childlike curiosity.

He tries to isolate you, offering endless books and scrolls while discouraging interactions with others, fearing they might distract or corrupt you.

"I have found a new rare scroll, who about we read it both together instead of going out for a walk?"

Bastet (goddess of Cats, Home, and Protection)

Bastet is smothering affectionate, treating you like a fragile kitten.

She insists on keeping you within her temples, surrounded by her sacred cats.

She’s fiercely territorial and sees anyone approaching you as a threat.

Her claws come out literally if anyone tries to take you away from her.

Bastet’s love is suffocatingly warm, she showers you with gifts, affection, and constant attention, leaving little room for independence.

Sekhmet (goddess of War and Healing)

Sekhmet is a ferocious guardian, seeing herself as your warrior and protector.

She’s quick to destroy anything or anyone by draining their blood, but only those who she perceives as a danger to you.

And she perceives every human as a danger.

Despite her fearsome nature, she’s surprisingly tender with you, often calling you “little one�� and insisting on tending to your needs personally.

She becomes enraged at the idea of you being harmed or taken from her, leading to bursts of divine wrath that shake the mortal and divine realms.

Sobek (god of the Nile and Crocodiles)

Sobek views you as a fragile, precious being who needs constant protection.

He assigns himself as your personal guard, often scaring off others with his intimidating presence.

His possessive attitude appears in his insistence that you remain near water, claiming it’s the safest place for you.

He has a soft spot for you, often bringing you gifts like shiny trinkets or freshly caught fish.

"Why would you need to cook the fish, my dear? it's better if it is eaten raw."

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Parenthood Prep with the 141 Boys

Pairing: Task Force 141 x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, some fluff overload, light angst (worrying over your well-being), protective behavior, and occasional swearing.

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy! Baby fever has struck hard, and I might turn one of these headcanons into a full fic because I just need to see one of these boys holding a baby!

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

John "Soap" MacTavish

- The moment you tell Soap you’re pregnant, he’s ecstatic. He scoops you into his arms, twirls you around (before apologizing profusely for jostling you).

- Soap is constantly talking to your belly—whether it’s making silly jokes, telling the baby about how “cool” their dad is, or singing Scottish lullabies he swears will “boost their intelligence.”

- He’s a worrywart in disguise. You catch him researching everything about pregnancy—from the best prenatal vitamins to how to set up a safe nursery.

- Cravings? Say no more. He’s on it. You mention something obscure at 2 AM? He’s out the door, mission-style, to track it down.

- He loves touching your belly. If the baby kicks while his hand’s there, you’ll see him absolutely melt.

---

Simon "Ghost" Riley

- When you tell Simon you’re pregnant, he goes quiet—staring at you for a moment. Then he pulls you into a tight hug, whispering, “We’ll make this work.”

- He’s the definition of silent protector. He keeps an eye on you, makes sure you rest, eat, and avoid anything stressful—but he doesn’t hover or fuss.

- Surprisingly, he gets sentimental at night. When you’re both lying in bed, he’ll rest a hand on your belly and quietly tell you about his hopes for your family.

- He’s hyper-aware of safety. He baby-proofs the house months early and makes you wear the most comfortable shoes “so you don’t trip.”

- If anyone gives you grief about being pregnant (strangers or otherwise), Simon’s cold glare is enough to silence them for life.

---

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

- Kyle’s reaction to your pregnancy announcement is pure joy. He grins, hugs you tightly, and starts rambling about all the things he wants to teach the baby.

- He treats you like royalty. Need a foot rub? Done. Want to skip chores? He’s already taken over. He loves pampering you.

- He’s incredibly attentive, always asking, “How are you feeling?” and taking mental notes to adjust his care for you.

- He’s so excited about baby clothes, toys, and decorating the nursery. He’ll drag you to baby stores and gush over tiny onesies.

- When the baby starts kicking, he insists on playing music for them, claiming they’ll be “the next music prodigy.”

---

John Price

- John’s reaction is understated but deeply emotional. He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “We’ve got this, love,” before pulling you into a long hug.

- He’s incredibly supportive and takes on a calming, grounding role. Whenever you’re overwhelmed, he’s right there, soothing you with his steady presence.

- He’s big on preparing you for motherhood. He’ll read parenting books, help you plan for doctor appointments, and stock the house with everything you need.

- John is fiercely protective of you. He’ll make sure you’re never lifting a finger or pushing yourself too hard.

- He loves talking to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. Hearing his deep voice tell stories about his past or his dreams for the future melts your heart.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[twistedpink]

Hi, hi!!! I've been a silent lurker in your account but when I saw that you now allow multiple characters I just knew that I wouldn't want to miss the chance! :>>

Can I request Jamil, Vil, and Rook with overprotective? I'd prefer it if it was obsessive love because I do appreciate a little bit more darker things but you don't have to!! ^^

Thank you sm and take your time! <3

omg so cute!! I had to take some time w/this one because they aren’t really connected (like year/club/dorm), but it was so fun to write!!

All of them are secretive people- putting up fronts to become palatable, but they’re equally possessive. Just with different strengths.

When obsessive!Vil wants something, he gets it. He knows you’re beautiful behind the layers of grime, and only he has the skills for you to reach your full potential.

It means nothing to Vil that you have other admirers, it’s not like he’d ever keep your shine for himself. He feels all fluttery whenever you become possessive over him. Many others would argue that your relationship is far from exclusive on account of his fame, but what the two of you have is special, and he’s not willing to let it go.

Obsessive!Jamil gets ugly with how fiercely he keeps you to himself. If you’re in Scarabia (pre ob) he keeps you nearly sedated with how often you’re hypnotized. It’s not very economical, but he has read that romance improves pain tolerence and reduces stress..

Jamil needs all the help he can get! Can’t you see how hard his work is? Not even mentioning the load he takes on to keep his favourite prefect afloat. You can repay him with a little quality time, can’t you? “The one you behold is your master. When I ask you a question, you will answer. When I give you a command, you will assent. Snake Charmer.”

Obsessive!Rook doesn’t gatekeep you by any stretch of the imagination, but instead forces you to be the protector of your privacy. It’s not like he’s sharing anything invasive (that’s all for his personal collection), but it’s just too much for any strangers to be approaching you in good conscious while knowing all your dirty laundry.

Rook becomes “possessive” only in the face of someone who gets more time with you. Sure he may be the most perceptive on the island, but what’s he supposed to do against Adeuce, or Grim when you spend all your time with them? Eventually he gets to know you well enough without actually meeting you that he greets you- confident that he knows your every move. But you’re full of surprises, so there’s no guarantee he’ll woo you right away. A good hunter knows when to lie in wait <33

[moonlight-joy]

Protector's Fury

Fandom: Kraven the hunter

Summary: The fire crackled softly as Sergei Kravinoff’s imposing presence filled the room, his fierce devotion radiating from every fiber of his being. After chasing off a would-be threat with deadly precision, Sergei’s sharp, unyielding exterior melted as he turned to you, his concern replacing fury. His protective nature shone through in every word and touch, a vow of unwavering loyalty and strength. In his embrace, as the danger faded into the shadows, you realized that no force in the world could ever rival Sergei’s fierce love and resolve to keep you safe—always.

Pairing: Reader/Sergei Kravinoff

The fire crackled in the hearth as Sergei loomed over you, his broad frame casting a shadow that danced with the flickering light. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore into yours, the intensity in them unmistakable. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the challenge in his stance, and you knew better than to underestimate the moment. Sergei Kravinoff didn’t play games lightly, and when he did, the stakes were always high.

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on her!” Sergei’s voice thundered, cutting through the tense air like a knife. His tone was sharp, commanding, and left no room for negotiation.

Your heart raced as you turned to face him, his presence filling the room like a storm. He stood at the door, shoulders squared, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The firelight highlighted the hard set of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his eyes that promised swift retribution. His gaze flickered to you, softening for the briefest moment before shifting back to the intruder, colder than ice.

The man standing opposite Sergei—a rogue hunter, one of many who foolishly sought to challenge him—froze in place, his hand halfway to the knife at his belt. The tension in the room was palpable, the kind that pressed against your chest and made it hard to breathe.

“This has nothing to do with you, Kravinoff,” the rogue sneered, though his voice lacked conviction. His eyes darted nervously to Sergei, then back to you. “Stay out of it.”

Sergei’s laugh was low and menacing, devoid of humor. He took a step forward, the weight of his presence bearing down on everyone in the room. “Everything that concerns her has to do with me,” he said, his voice a growl. “And you, my foolish friend, have made a grave mistake.”

The rogue hesitated, and in that moment, Sergei struck. With the speed and precision of a predator, he closed the distance between them, his hand snapping out to grab the man by the collar. Sergei’s strength was on full display as he lifted the rogue off his feet, pinning him against the wall with effortless force.

“You thought you could threaten her?” Sergei snarled, his face inches from the rogue’s. “Did you truly believe you’d walk away unscathed?”

The rogue’s breath hitched, his bravado crumbling under Sergei’s relentless glare. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” he stammered, but Sergei silenced him with a dangerous squeeze.

“Enough,” Sergei said, his voice low and venomous. “Your cowardice disgusts me. Leave, now, and pray I don’t decide to hunt you down.”

He released the rogue, letting him crumple to the floor in a heap. The man scrambled to his feet, casting one last terrified glance at Sergei before bolting out the door. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Sergei turned to you, his expression softening as he closed the distance between you. His hands, still warm from the heat of his anger, cupped your face gently. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern.

You shook your head, though your heart was still pounding. “No,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

His eyes searched yours, as if confirming your words for himself. Finally, he exhaled, pulling you into his arms. The tension in his body slowly melted away as he held you, his chin resting atop your head. “I won’t let anyone harm you,” he murmured, his voice a vow. “Not now. Not ever.”

You clung to him, the safety of his embrace a balm to your frayed nerves. Sergei was many things—a hunter, a warrior, a man of unyielding intensity—but in that moment, he was your protector, your anchor in the storm.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his chest, your voice trembling with emotion. “For coming for me.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I will always come for you,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “No one lays a finger on what is mine.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, not from fear but from the weight of his devotion. Sergei wasn’t a man who loved lightly; his feelings burned as fiercely as the fire in the hearth. And in that moment, you knew—no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

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[aspenmissing]

ꜱʜɪᴍᴍᴇʀ ᴋɪʟʟꜱ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 5815 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴅʀᴜɢꜱ/ꜱʜɪᴍᴍᴇʀ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ | ᴠɪ | ᴍᴇʟ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JINX

It was a cold, oppressive night in the heart of Zaun, the air thick with the scent of oil and smog. The world felt too heavy for Jinx, her mind teetering on the edge of something darker, something that always felt just a little too close. But tonight, there was something even worse lurking in the shadows.

Y/N had always been there for her—like a sister, a steady presence in Jinx's chaotic life. The older woman, warm and patient, had been the first person to ever show her kindness, to let her see the world as something other than an endless series of explosions and pain. Y/N understood Jinx in a way that no one else did. And she never judged.

But tonight was different.

Jinx had seen them—shimmer addicts, the same ones who’d been hunting down anyone they could get their hands on. They had appeared out of nowhere, their eyes glowing with the unnatural light of the mutagen, their bodies twitching and full of fury. Jinx hadn’t been fast enough to dodge them, her head swirling with thoughts of her old friends and of the things she had lost. Her hand had reached for a weapon, but before she could strike, the shimmer-addicts lunged at her, their eyes flashing red.

Then, out of nowhere, Y/N had appeared, her expression fierce as she shoved Jinx aside. The shimmer addict, a man whose body contorted unnaturally from the drug, swung his weapon with a brutal force. Y/N caught it in midair, her strength surprising even Jinx.

"Go!" Y/N shouted, her voice strained. "Get out of here, Jinx! Now!"

But Jinx stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t want to leave her friend, her protector, to face this alone.

Without warning, Y/N had grabbed the shimmer user by the waist, pulling him close, her arms wrapping around him as tightly as she could. The addict flailed wildly, his arms caught in her grip. Y/N’s strength was incredible, but even she couldn’t hold on much longer.

The ground beneath them began to crack, and Jinx watched, helpless, as they both tumbled back. Y/N’s arms tightened around the man just as the pit below them yawned open, swallowing them both into the abyss.

"No!" Jinx screamed, her heart breaking as she tried to reach for Y/N, but it was too late. The darkness of the pit swallowed her voice, and the world went eerily still.

Jinx couldn't remember how long she had stood there, frozen in place, staring at the black void that had taken Y/N away. But the pain in her chest was so deep, it felt like her heart had shattered into a thousand pieces. She hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.

=

The days that followed were nothing but chaos. Chaos flooded her mind—more than it ever had before. Jinx could feel herself spiralling, but there was something else, too.

It was Y/N.

She had started seeing her—hearing her voice in the back of her mind.

"Jinx," Y/N’s voice echoed, soft and reassuring, "It’s okay, I'm still here."

It wasn’t possible. Y/N had fallen. She had to have fallen. Yet, Jinx couldn't shake the feeling that she was still there—watching over her.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could see her: Y/N’s warm smile, her comforting presence, her laugh that made everything feel like it was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t.

But something was wrong. Y/N’s image was fading—blurred, distant, like a faint memory she was struggling to hold onto. And then, the voice. The voice that had once been a source of safety, of solace—now felt hollow, accusing.

"Jinx…"

It was soft, yes, but there was something sharp in it, something Jinx had never heard before. The warmth was gone, replaced with a cold edge. Y/N’s face, when it appeared, was a twisted mockery of the woman Jinx had known. The smile, once bright and full of warmth, had now become a sad imitation, her eyes hollow, like she had been staring at Jinx from a place far beyond her reach.

"Jinx..." The voice spoke again, low and quiet. "You shouldn’t have let me go..."

Jinx flinched, the words cutting through her chest like a blade. She tried to shake it off, to push the hallucination away, but it lingered, relentless, like a shadow that refused to leave her alone. Was Y/N blaming her? Was it her fault Y/N had fallen?

"No... no..." Jinx whispered, tears threatening to spill as she clutched her head, trying to make the voice stop. "I didn’t want you to go. I tried... I tried so hard, Y/N!"

But Y/N’s image only faded and returned, morphing into something darker. The voice was no longer comforting, no longer a source of strength. It twisted in the air, accusing, and Jinx felt herself suffocating beneath the weight of it.

"You weren’t fast enough, Jinx," the voice came again, colder now. "You didn’t save me. You never save anyone..."

Jinx’s breath hitched. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her hands trembled as the image of Y/N flickered before her, an ethereal, fading presence, pulling further and further away from her grasp.

"I... I was too slow..." Jinx whispered, her voice breaking. "I didn’t mean to... I tried to protect you, I did, but... but I couldn’t... I wasn’t enough..."

The hallucination shifted, Y/N’s form becoming almost unrecognisable now—her face twisted in silent judgment, her eyes now accusing, like she could see every failure, every mistake Jinx had ever made.

"You never could do enough, could you?" Y/N’s voice whispered, now almost bitter. "You let me fall."

Jinx’s heart twisted with guilt and sorrow. It felt like the weight of the world was crushing her chest. The shimmer had taken over her mind, warping her memories and emotions into something unrecognisable. But the guilt—the crushing guilt—was all too real. The things Y/N was saying, the things she had never even thought about before—was it all her fault?

"No, Y/N," Jinx whispered, her hands gripping her head tighter. "Please, don’t leave me like this… I didn’t mean to... I couldn’t stop it."

But the hallucination didn’t respond. It only stood there, the accusing image of Y/N still lingering in the air, forever out of reach.

Jinx’s mind screamed for it to end, but all she was left with was the sound of Y/N’s voice, forever haunting her, always reminding her of what she could never undo.

She had failed. She had failed Y/N. And she would never forgive herself for it.

SEVIKA

Sevika sat at the bar in The Last Drop, nursing a glass of something strong. Her eyes were tired, haunted. She hadn’t been able to sleep properly since that night. The weight of it clung to her—Y/N's face, the last words they'd shared, the warmth of her hand slipping away in the cold.

The glass in her hand felt heavier than usual, as if the very weight of her grief had sunk into the amber liquid. She had no one to blame but herself. No one could have stopped the shimmer addict, the madman who'd killed Y/N. But Sevika couldn’t shake the feeling that she should have been there, that somehow, she should have seen it coming.

Her thoughts drifted back to that night, the echo of the explosion still ringing in her ears. The sudden chaos, the flash of fire, the sound of glass shattering. The alley had been a war zone—a battlefield in the heart of Zaun, where death was all too common. But this time, it felt different. The second that explosion hit, everything seemed to shift, like the very world had spun off its axis.

Y/N... That voice—the soft whisper of her name—still haunted her. Sevika had been only a few steps behind. She'd seen Y/N's familiar silhouette, heard her gentle voice calling out as the explosion rang in their ears.

“Sevika… stay close, I’ll be alright.”

But Y/N hadn't been alright. The shimmer addict had been too quick, too crazed. Sevika had turned just in time to see the man’s wild eyes, the crazed grin, as he lunged toward Y/N with a blade in his hand. The shimmer in his system made him unpredictable, dangerous. Y/N hadn’t stood a chance. The flash of steel, the sickening sound of a blade cutting through flesh. Sevika’s blood ran cold. She reached for her gun, but it was too late. By the time she pulled Y/N into her arms, the damage was done. The woman who had always carried herself with such grace, the person who had offered comfort and guidance to the kids of Zaun, was now nothing but a crumpled, lifeless weight in her lap. No, no, no... Her breath came in short, frantic gasps as she tried to stop the bleeding, tried to do something—anything. But there was nothing to be done. Y/N’s blood mixed with the dirt of the alley, staining the streets she had once walked with such kindness. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, weak and unfocused. She blinked as if seeing the world for the first time. Her lips parted, trying to say something, but no words came. “Y/N… please, don’t…” Sevika whispered, her voice a broken thing, rough with panic. “Please stay with me.” But Y/N’s hand moved—slowly, so slowly—reaching up to touch her cheek. The touch was soft, gentle, like it had always been, but this time, it felt different. There was an emptiness behind it, a finality Sevika couldn’t ignore. “Don’t…” Y/N whispered, barely audible. “Don’t let the darkness consume you… You’re better than that…” The words hit Sevika like a punch to the gut. Y/N had always believed in her. Always believed she could be more than the monster she’d let herself become. Now, Y/N was gone, and all Sevika had was the weight of her dying words.

“Y/N, no... no…” Her voice cracked, and with it, all the years of pain, regret, and fear poured out. Her chest felt like it was being crushed under the weight of the loss. Sevika held onto her, unwilling to let go. I couldn’t save you... I couldn’t... But Y/N’s hand fell limp in hers. Her body grew cold in Sevika’s arms, and the world around her seemed to still. The sound of the distant chaos, the crackle of burning buildings, faded into a hollow silence. Y/N was gone. Sevika couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She just held her, cradling the woman who had meant everything to her. But the minutes, the hours—how long had she been sitting there?—dragged on. The rain began to fall softly, mixing with the blood, washing everything clean, leaving only the memory.

Her thoughts now drifted back to the present. The bar around her felt distant, as if she were no longer a part of this world. The clinking of glasses, the low hum of murmurs from the other patrons—nothing mattered. Nothing could fill the emptiness inside her.

Jinx's voice cut through the fog of her grief. “Sevika…” The younger woman’s voice was soft but insistent. Sevika looked up to see Jinx standing beside her, her wide eyes flicking nervously between Sevika and the empty bottle in her hand. “You’ve been here for days.”

Sevika only gave her a cold stare, but inside, it was like a fist around her heart. Jinx had been there too. She’d lost someone she cared about, and yet, here she was, trying to keep things together. Trying to keep the chaos at bay.

“She’s gone, Jinx,” Sevika muttered, her voice rough with emotion. “Y/N… she’s gone, and I couldn’t save her.”

Jinx didn't say anything at first. She simply reached out, placing a hand on Sevika’s. It was warm against the cold bitterness that had settled inside her. “You didn’t do this, Sevika. You didn’t kill her.”

But Sevika couldn’t hear it. The shimmer addict who’d pulled the trigger was still out there, somewhere. He was the one to blame. He had taken Y/N from her. But the truth didn’t change the fact that Sevika hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been there in time. She’d failed.

The last thing Y/N had said to her echoed in her mind: “Don’t let the darkness consume you, Sevika. You’re better than that.”

Sevika closed her eyes, the tears threatening to break free. Y/N had always believed in her, always believed there was a way out of the darkness. But now, there was nothing left but the abyss.

“I’ll make them pay,” Sevika whispered, her voice cold and resolute. “I’ll make them all pay.”

Jinx nodded, the grim look in her eyes matching the one Sevika knew too well. “We will. But you need to pull yourself together first.”

Sevika’s expression hardened as she looked at Jinx. She nodded, her jaw clenched. “I’ll make it happen, Jinx. Just... leave me to it.”

With that, Sevika stood up, leaving her drink untouched. Her heart burned with the need for vengeance, the need to make the world feel her pain. The shimmer addict, the man who had torn everything apart... he would pay. And anyone who thought they could harm those she cared about would learn just how far Sevika was willing to go.

She walked out of The Last Drop, the sounds of the bar fading behind her, as she set her eyes on the streets of Zaun. There was work to be done, and Sevika would see it through, no matter the cost. She would avenge Y/N. The darkness would consume her enemies, not her.

EKKO

The dimly lit streets of Zaun had never felt colder, not even with the biting wind that usually swept through the alleyways. Ekko’s usual sharp, confident steps now faltered, each one dragging him closer to a pain he didn’t know how to deal with. His heart, once filled with hope, now felt heavy—like a weight that threatened to crush him entirely.

The news had hit him like a freight train. Y/N, the one person who had always been there, the one who had made everything feel brighter, was gone. And it wasn’t just any death. She’d been taken from them by someone who had dared to abuse the power of shimmer. A power that was meant to change the world for the better but had corrupted those who wielded it into monsters, willing to take anything, including lives.

Ekko had been there, fighting alongside her, feeling invincible as they always had. But this time, when the battle raged, it was different. He hadn’t been fast enough to save her. His hands trembled as he adjusted the goggles on his face, still not sure if he was seeing things clearly. He had come too late, just in time to see Y/N fall, her eyes filled with an expression he had never wanted to see: pain, fear, and worst of all, the realisation that she wasn’t going to make it.

Her last words were burned into his memory, though he hadn’t wanted to hear them. "Take care of them… Ekko... please..." It was a plea she had made countless times for the people of Zaun, and now it was for him. She had always put others first, always willing to sacrifice for the greater good. And now, she was gone.

But Ekko wasn’t here to make a statement or to seek vengeance. His path was one of healing, of remembering her for what she had been. He could have torn down the shimmer users who had done this, could have thrown his fury into every fight, but that wasn’t what Y/N would have wanted. No, she had always fought for something better, something more than just a cycle of revenge.

=

He stood in front of the mural that now adorned the wall in the heart of Zaun. It wasn’t just a memorial—it was a testament to who she had been, to what she had fought for. The mural depicted her as she had always been: kind, strong, and full of light. Her vibrant energy captured in the strokes of the paint, a smile on her face, her hands reaching out to the children, her heart always giving. And at the centre of the mural was the soft glow of her eyes, filled with the warmth and compassion that had touched every life she had encountered.

The children of Zaun, the ones who had loved her so dearly, were the ones who had painted the mural. It was their way of saying goodbye, their way of giving her something back after all the kindness she had shown them. Their small hands had brushed the vibrant colours onto the wall, their laughter ringing through the streets as they worked—just like she had always encouraged them to do. They had taken something painful and turned it into something beautiful, just like she had.

Ekko’s hand rested gently on the wall, his fingers brushing the image of her smiling face, his breath catching in his throat. She was still with him, in this space, in the memories, in the legacy she had left behind. The city had lost so much, but what Y/N had given would not be forgotten. The wall seemed to echo her spirit, reminding him of all she had fought for—her hopes, her dreams, her belief that they could make this city a better place, even in the face of darkness.

He closed his eyes, letting the memories flood over him. Her laugh, soft and comforting, had always been his safe place. Her endless dedication to the kids of Zaun, always working to mend the torn clothes of the orphaned, always helping without hesitation. The way her eyes would light up when she talked about her work, when she talked about making things better, when she talked about them. She believed in the future, in the people of Zaun, in the children, in hope. And now that hope had been shattered, leaving nothing but the aching void of her absence.

=

Ekko had tried to stop the pain, tried to hide it, but it was impossible. There was no hiding the loss, no denying it. But she wouldn’t want him to give in to the anger, to the darkness that shimmer had brought into their lives. She had always believed in doing better, in lifting each other up.

"I’m sorry," Ekko whispered, his voice breaking for the first time. "I should have been there… I should have—"

His words were interrupted by a soft voice from behind him, breaking the stillness. It was a child, one of the faces that had been painted in the mural.

"You couldn’t have stopped it, Ekko," the small voice said, filled with a wisdom beyond their years. "But we’ll carry on what she started. We won’t let it end."

Ekko turned, surprised to see the group of children standing behind him, their eyes filled with the same mixture of grief and resolve. Among them was a boy who had once been a tearaway, but now stood taller, stronger, his shoulders squared with a new purpose.

"We know," Ekko said softly, offering a sad but grateful smile. "She always taught you well."

The boy nodded, his expression serious. "We’ll change this place, Ekko. You don’t have to do it alone."

Ekko’s chest tightened as he looked at them, at the kids who had given so much of themselves to this city, who had lived through pain and loss, but were now standing tall in defiance. His eyes flickered back to the mural.

"Zaun will change," Ekko murmured to himself, his voice steady now, the storm inside him quieting. "Because she believed in it. And I believe in it too."

The tears that had threatened to fall now felt unnecessary. Instead, he stood tall, resolute. Y/N would never truly be gone, not while there were people here who remembered her, who would carry her legacy into the future. He would continue to fight, not for vengeance, but for the world she had always dreamed of. For the city that she had believed in. He would make sure that her hope wasn’t lost, that her vision for a better Zaun would live on.

"No more shimmer. No more corruption," Ekko said, a fire reigniting in his chest. "Only the work of those like her—who had made the world brighter by simply being in it."

With a final glance at the mural, Ekko turned away, the weight on his heart now transformed into something else. A quiet determination. A promise.

=

He knew that this city, broken as it was, could still heal. He would make sure of it. For Y/N. For all the children whose future she had worked so hard to build. For a world that would always need people like her. And as long as he had breath in his lungs, he would carry her spirit, her strength, her kindness with him.

Zaun would change. And it would change because of her.

Ekko turned to the children once more, his gaze steady.

"We’ll do it together," he said, his voice firm. "One step at a time."

The children nodded in unison, their faces alight with the same determination he now felt burning through his veins. They would rebuild. They would honour her. And Zaun would rise from the ashes, stronger than before.

SILCO

The streets of Zaun were never quiet, but tonight, something felt different. Silco, his face stoic and cold, walked through the alleys with purpose. The clink of his boots echoed in the damp air as he made his way to a familiar, darkened corner of the city. He had been searching for her all night, driven by a gnawing feeling in his chest. Y/N had been gone longer than he cared to admit, but something in his gut told him she was near.

When he reached the spot, the air was thick with the acrid stench of violence and the distinct metallic tang of blood. His eyes flicked to the ground, where he saw her. Y/N’s lifeless body lay in the gutter, blood staining her clothes, the warm glow of her skin already fading. A shimmer user, hunched over her, still thrusting the sharp steel inside her.

Without hesitation, Silco reached for his gun, his anger rising like a tide. His voice was a low growl as he spoke, just loud enough for the attacker to hear, “You. You dare lay your hands on her?”

The shimmer user didn’t even look up. Lost in their frenzy, they didn’t care who was watching. But it was too late for them to make a move. Silco pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot echoing down the street, loud and final. The shimmer user collapsed, their body falling to the cold stone with a sickening thud.

For a moment, Silco stood frozen. His heart raced in his chest, but there was no time for grief. His eyes shifted to Y/N. Her body was still warm, but the life had gone from her, leaving only the shell of the woman who had once been his everything.

He knelt beside her, his fingers gently brushing her hair from her face, wiping away the blood that marred her features. His hand trembled, but he steadied himself, his gaze hardening with a mixture of fury and sorrow.

With a deep, steadying breath, Silco lifted her into his arms. He held her close, the weight of her body in his arms almost unbearable. Her head rested against his shoulder, her once vibrant presence now an absence he couldn’t begin to accept. Every step he took toward The Last Drop felt heavier than the last, each movement pulling him further from the present moment and closer to the aching reality that she was gone.

=

The door to The Last Drop creaked open, the sound almost unnatural in the otherwise hushed atmosphere. Silco’s eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the dimly lit room. The few patrons still inside froze at the sight of him, their eyes darting nervously toward the body he cradled in his arms. Y/N. The weight of her lifeless form was enough to silence the room.

Without a word, Silco moved through the bar, his steps heavy and deliberate. He wasn’t looking at anyone, didn’t acknowledge the whispers that were starting to ripple through the crowd. His gaze was fixed forward, focused on the narrow staircase leading up to their shared room. The only thing that mattered was getting her there.

The creak of the stairs under his boots was the only sound that followed him. The usual warmth of their room now felt distant, foreign. It hadn’t been long since Y/N had filled it with her presence — laughter, light, a sense of comfort that Silco had never truly known until she had entered his life. But that warmth was gone, replaced by the thick, suffocating cold of her absence.

As he gently laid her down on the bed, Silco’s hand trembled ever so slightly. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering on the skin of her cold cheek. His eyes, usually so steady and sharp, faltered for a moment, staring at her as though he could will her to wake up. To return to him.

But it was too late. She was gone.

"Y/N..." His voice cracked, the name falling from his lips in a low, broken whisper. "You can’t be gone. Not like this."

He stood there for a long moment, just staring at her. The silence in the room was deafening, pressing in on him from every angle. His chest ached in a way that no amount of rage could burn away. She was gone, and nothing could bring her back.

A dark chuckle, bitter and hollow, escaped his throat. "You always did think you were invincible, didn’t you? But you’re not. And now… now they’ll pay for this." The words came out in a growl, the promise of violence thick in the air.

He turned his back to her for a brief moment, walking toward the window. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The city of Zaun was out there, sprawled beneath him — a broken, chaotic mess, just like the world that had stolen Y/N from him.

He turned back to her, his gaze fixed on her now-still form. The overwhelming desire to break something, to make the world feel the same pain he was enduring, pulsed through his veins like wildfire. But in the back of his mind, beneath the fury, there was the raw, jagged ache of loss.

"I should have protected you," Silco muttered, his voice shaking. "But now… now it’s just me. And that’s not enough."

He took a step toward her again, crouching beside the bed. He placed a hand gently on her arm, as though touching her one last time might change something, anything.

"Rest now," he said softly, though the words were harder to say than he had anticipated. "Rest. And when I’m done with them… when I’m done with all of them… I’ll make sure no one forgets who you were. No one will forget us."

With that, he stood again, straightening his back. His posture returned to the cold, unyielding figure he had always been. Silco’s eyes hardened once more, but beneath that, there was a quiet sorrow that would never leave him.

He had one last promise to keep, and this time, it wouldn’t be broken.

BONUS: VANDER

The dim glow of the Undercity was never comforting, yet it had become familiar to Vander. The moans of machinery and distant shouts from the slums had been his life for as long as he could remember. But tonight, something was different. The air felt heavier, the silence thick with an unspoken weight pressing on his chest. The kids—Vi, Powder, Mylo, Claggor—were still in their rooms, but Vander couldn’t rest. His gaze drifted to the door, as though waiting for someone who would never come through it again.

Y/N. She had been everything to him—an anchor, a light amidst the madness that surrounded them. But now, she was gone, torn from him by the cruelty of a shimmer-fuelled rage.

=

It had been a quiet evening, the Last Drop bathed in the soft light of flickering candles, the steady hum of conversation swirling around the bar. Y/N had been there, laughing at something silly one of the kids had said, her bright voice a balm against the chaos of their lives. Vander could still see her, standing near the counter, her dark eyes glinting with the warmth that she always brought into the room.

And then the door had crashed open. A shimmer addict, his eyes wide and unhinged, stumbling into the bar. He was high—frantic. The madness of the drug turning him into something far worse than just a person in pain. The scuffle had been sudden, too fast for anyone to react. Someone had shouted, and then everything descended into chaos.

It had happened so quickly, too quickly. Vander hadn’t even realised that Y/N was caught in the middle of it until it was too late. The shimmer user, desperate and panicked, had lashed out. The air was filled with the sounds of broken glass, muffled shouts, and the sickening thud of fists meeting flesh. When Vander had forced his way through the crowd, he found her crumpled on the floor, blood seeping from a wound too deep. Her breathing had been laboured, slow, her once-bright eyes now dimming. She had reached out to him, a final plea in the grasp of her fingers. "I... I’m sorry, Vander," she whispered, the words barely audible. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” “No, no, don’t,” he had begged, his hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding, but the life was already slipping from her, the glow in her eyes fading with each passing moment. “Y/N, please, stay with me...” But she didn’t.

The weight of it crushed him, and it was in this darkness that the door creaked open again, pulling him from his reverie. He turned to see the kids—Vi, her face drawn with a mixture of worry and confusion; Powder, her wide eyes too bright, teetering on the edge of something too big for her to fully understand; Mylo and Claggor, standing silent, their usual banter missing, the bravado that always accompanied their steps nowhere to be found.

Vander’s chest tightened at the sight of them. The reality of what had happened settled heavily over him. They needed to know, but the words felt too sharp, too final. He swallowed hard, fighting to push down the bile that threatened to rise.

Powder was the first to break the silence, her voice small, fragile. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

Vander’s heart lurched. The question echoed in his mind, louder than any scream or battle cry. His throat constricted, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. The truth felt too much, too raw. He clenched his jaw, trying to keep the emotions buried beneath the weight of his grief.

“No,” he whispered, the word barely making it past his lips. “She’s not.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The room seemed to close in on them, the truth hanging heavily in the air. None of the kids were old enough to fully grasp the depth of the loss, but they felt it, just the same.

Vi stepped forward, her usual strength faltering as her hand reached out to Vander. Her face was pale, the mask of composure slipping as the tears threatened to fall. “I’m sorry, Vander,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll keep fighting. For her. For you.”

Vander didn’t respond immediately. He wanted to say something—something that would make it better, make them believe that everything would be alright. But the words weren’t there. Instead, he just nodded silently, his eyes dark, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond them.

His throat tightened, the lump growing, but he had to keep it together. He had to focus on them. On the kids. They needed him to be strong, to help them through this. He couldn’t let himself fall apart, not now. Not when they were looking to him.

His voice cracked as he spoke, but he kept it steady. “You’re right, Vi. We’ll fight. For Y/N. For all of us.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, but before anyone could speak again, Powder shuffled forward. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around Vander’s waist, pressing herself into him with all the desperation she didn’t know how to express. Her small form trembled against him, as though the weight of the world had descended on her fragile shoulders.

“We’ll make sure you don’t have to be alone,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. The words were simple, but they carried the promise of something more—a quiet declaration that they were still here, still together, despite everything.

Vander closed his eyes, fighting the tears that were now burning behind his eyelids. He had to hold it together. For them. His arms found Powder’s tiny frame, pulling her close, holding her as though he could somehow shield her from the pain. His hand brushed over her hair, his grip tightening as he whispered a broken, “Thank you.”

Then his hand moved to Vi’s, pulling her into the embrace as well. Mylo and Claggor followed suit, their usual swagger replaced by something quieter, more solemn. They all huddled together, a group of broken souls trying to find comfort in each other amidst the wreckage of their world.

Vander didn’t allow himself to break. Not now. His emotions, his grief—it was something he couldn’t afford to share. Not when they needed him. So, he kept it buried, hidden behind the walls he had spent years building. His chest tightened, his breath ragged, but he didn’t let it show. He just held them close, his focus entirely on comforting them.

The tears came, but they stayed inside, hidden beneath the surface as he clung to the kids, the ones who needed him to stay strong. The world could burn for all he cared. In this moment, it was just them. The broken pieces of their family, clinging together in the face of something too big to comprehend.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, tangled in their grief and shared silence, but eventually the sobs began to quiet. Vander didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. They would fight, they would carry on. For Y/N. For each other. He just held them, his heart breaking in ways he didn’t dare to acknowledge, his sadness locked deep inside, where it wouldn’t burden them.

And for them, he would keep fighting.

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Ok so I was thinking of Yandere Dick and Starfire with an s/o who’s has a Night fury dragon! So you might be wondering what is a Night Fury well here’s the official description!

“The Night Fury was once considered to be one of the most mysterious and fearsome species of dragons. In fact, until Hiccup befriended Toothless, no one even knew what a Night Fury looked like because they preferred to attack at night, when their black scales allowed them to blend into the night sky, making them mostly invisible.

Night Furies are classified as members of the Strike Class. They have the ability to "dive bomb," meaning that they can plummet from great heights, gaining speed as they continue downwards, then shoot a "plasma blast" at their target.

For a long time, the only information that the Vikings had gathered on this rare dragon was the whistling sound of its speed cutting through the night sky, followed by a bright purple light, then finally a massive explosion.

Physically, they are of medium build with jet black scales covering their body. Night Furies also possess retractable teeth (hence Toothless' name). Rather than firing like most dragons, Night Furies are able to shoot "plasma blasts" from their mouth. They are also extremely swift and use their speed and coloration to blend into the night sky.

While they may initially seem like vicious, dangerous creatures, Hiccup's friendship with Toothless has increased our understanding of the true nature of the Night Fury. They are highly intelligent, loyal and fiercely protective of those they care about.”

I feel this movie quote sums up the Night Fury reputation. “Night Fury.

Speed: Unknown.

Size: Unknown.

The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself. Never engage this dragon. Your only chance: Hide and pray it does not find you.”

So I was thinking of Yandere Dick and Starfire’s love interest would have one. I’m thinking they found there Night Fuury injured and heals them and slowly gains the trust of the beast. Shh we’re going to pretend that most people don’t know about the Night Fury’s. So I was thinking of a fight that forces Ducks and Starfire’s s/o to finally use there night fury at full power. (Go to YouTube and look up Toothless vs The red death full fight and you’ll see what fight I’m talking about👍🏽)

So how would Dick and Starfire react to this powerful being that acts more like a cat? Bonus points if the s/o takes Dick for rides since he can’t fly! Also remember to take care of yourself!

Yandere Nightwing x reader x yandere starfire

The cave was a hollowed pocket in the mountainside, so quiet and unassuming that no one thought to explore it. That was why you had come here when you found the dragon, scales as black as midnight and eyes burning with defiant intelligence, its body trembling with exhaustion and pain. The Night Fury had been a myth whispered by few, feared by many, and believed by even fewer. Yet, when its wounded frame had stumbled into your path, its snarling maw daring you to approach, you had done something no one else would have dared. You knelt. You whispered. You stayed.

Healing the dragon had been a delicate process. It wasn’t just the wounds—deep gouges across its flanks, a twisted wing—but the trust you had to earn. Days turned to weeks of patience, leaving food and water within reach but never crowding it. Slowly, it began to accept your presence, its sharp eyes watching your every move. When you touched its scales for the first time, you felt the tension in its muscles, the latent power coiled beneath its skin. But it didn’t lash out. It let you stay.

The bond you forged was unlike anything you had ever known. The Night Fury—your Night Fury—became a shadow that followed you everywhere, a silent sentinel and an unyielding protector. Its loyalty was absolute, its intelligence sharp, and its affection—when it chose to show it—felt like a gift. It nuzzled your side like a great cat, purred low in its throat, and even allowed you to ride it, soaring through the skies on wings as silent as the grave.

Dick Grayson had always prided himself on his instincts. He noticed things others missed, pieced together puzzles before the first piece was even on the table. But with you, there was always something just out of reach, some part of your life you kept tucked away. He and Kory could sense it—the way you disappeared at odd hours, the way your gaze drifted toward the mountains as though drawn by some invisible tether. He told himself it was fine, that everyone had their secrets, but the quiet pang in his chest argued otherwise.

Then, the day came when secrets could no longer be hidden.

The attack was sudden and catastrophic—a rogue warship had descended upon the city, its cannons roaring and its drones flooding the streets. Dick and Kory had moved into action instantly, their partnership as fluid as the shifting tides. But even with their combined strength, the onslaught seemed endless. And then you arrived.

Kory’s fiery hair whipped around her as she hovered in the air, her starbolts cutting through the chaos. She turned just in time to see you standing amidst the rubble, your expression fierce and unyielding. But it wasn’t just you—it was the shadow that moved beside you, sleek and predatory.

The Night Fury.

Kory froze for the briefest of moments, her glowing green eyes widening in disbelief. The dragon was both beautiful and terrifying, its scales glinting like obsidian and its eyes locking onto the warship with predatory focus. When it opened its mouth, a plasma blast erupted like a thunderclap, striking the ship with pinpoint precision.

It was then that Kory truly saw you—not just as the person she had grown to adore, but as something more, something untouchable. The bond between you and the dragon was tangible, a connection forged in trust and fire. And as the Night Fury launched into the air with you on its back, weaving through the sky with breathtaking grace, Kory felt a pang of awe so sharp it bordered on envy.

Dick’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the Night Fury dive. The dragon moved like a shadow given life, its speed and agility defying all logic. He saw the way you leaned into the creature’s movements, the way your laughter carried through the air even amidst the chaos. It was a sight both exhilarating and humbling.

When the Night Fury turned its attention to the warship, Dick’s heart skipped a beat. The dragon's plasma blasts tore through the enemy’s defenses with ruthless efficiency, its attacks precise and devastating. But what struck him most was the way it protected you—shielding you with its body, snarling at any threat that dared come too close.

For all his training, all his years as Robin and Nightwing, Dick had never seen anything like it. And when the battle finally ended, the warship reduced to smoldering wreckage, he found himself staring at you with a mixture of admiration and something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name.

The dragon landed with a soft thud, folding its wings as you slid off its back. Kory was the first to approach, her starbolts dimming as she floated to the ground. She reached out cautiously, her movements slow and deliberate, but the Night Fury merely watched her with those piercing eyes, its tail flicking lazily.

“It’s magnificent,” she whispered, her voice tinged with wonder.

You smiled, resting a hand on the dragon’s side. “He’s more than that. He’s family.”

Dick stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the dragon. “Does it have a name?”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “Not yet. I didn’t want to rush it.”

The Night Fury huffed, almost as if amused, and Dick couldn’t help but chuckle. He stepped closer, his hand outstretched, and to his surprise, the dragon allowed him to touch its scales. The texture was smooth and cool beneath his fingers, and he felt a strange sense of reverence wash over him.

“You know,” you said, a teasing glint in your eye, “he likes flying with passengers. Want to try?”

Dick’s eyes lit up, and for a moment, he looked like the boy Kory had fallen in love with all those years ago. “You’re serious?”

You nodded, climbing back onto the Night Fury’s back. “Come on, Grayson. Let’s see if you can handle it.”

As the dragon took to the skies once more, with Dick clinging to you for dear life and Kory watching from below, her smile soft and bittersweet, the two of them realized something profound. You weren’t just theirs to love—you were something wild and untamed, a force of nature bound by no one.

And that only made them want you more.

BONUS : the flight

The Night Fury’s wings sliced through the air like knives, each movement a testament to its power and grace. The night sky stretched endless above Gotham, the city below a sea of twinkling lights and murmured chaos. You sat astride the dragon, its scales blending seamlessly into the dark, while Dick clung to your waist with a grip that was more panic than poise.

“You’ve got to relax,” you called over the wind, laughing softly at the way his arms tightened further.

“Relax?!” Dick’s voice was high-pitched, his usual confidence stripped away by the sheer height and speed. “I can’t relax when I’m flying on something that can dive-bomb like a missile!”

The dragon rumbled beneath you, a sound that could have been amusement. Its sleek head tilted back, as if acknowledging the man clinging to you. With a flick of its tail, it suddenly dipped into a sharp dive.

Dick’s girly scream echoed into the night.

(A/n: Truth to be told... I've only watched half the show yet😭😞👎 I'm so sorry for the long wait and responding w a short ass reply I swear things looked better in my head😵😵)

[the-mortuary-witch]

THE MORRIGAN

WHO IS SHE?

The Morrigan is a triple goddess from Irish mythology who is associated with war, fate, and sovereignty. According to myth, she is often depicted as a crow or raven, and is said to appear in both a positive and negative guise, sometimes as a nurturing mother and other times as a destructive force. She is said to be the phantom queen of the Danaan People, the ancestral spirits of Ireland, and is sometimes depicted as a powerful seer or prophetic figure.

BASIC INFO: 

Appearance: the Morrigan is often depicted as a fierce and powerful woman wearing a long, flowing black cloak or gown, and sometimes with feathers or a crown of feathers. She is also commonly associated with a black crow, which is said to be her messenger and the vessel of her power. Her appearance is usually associated with darkness and mystery, embodying the enigma and unpredictability of war and fate.

Personality: she has a complex and multi-faceted personality, often embodying multiple aspects of femininity. She is said to encompass aspects of the traditional maiden, mother, and crone archetypes, representing youthful zeal, maternal nurturing, and wise counsel, respectively. She is also known for her vengeful and bloodthirsty streak, embodying the brutal and ruthless nature of war and the chaos of fate. Despite her fierce and sometimes fearsome reputation, she is also viewed as a powerful protector and defender of the Irish people.

Symbols: cloak, spear, chariot, sword, and shield

Goddess of: magic, war, battle, life, death, sovereignty, fresh water, destiny, prophecy, and fate

Culture: Celtic

Plants and trees: willow, aspen, rowan, snapdragon, hawthorn, yew, belladonna, mugwort, rose, and nightshade (do not consume, handle with care!)

Crystals: ravenite, yeomanite, schorl, arsenopyrite, harlequin opal, black opal, skye marble, pyrolusite, biotite, feldspar, black agate, hematite, smoky quartz, bloodstone, onyx, charoite, black obsidian, labradorite, shungite, and black tourmaline

Animals: crow, raven, horse, eel, rook, serpent, and wolf

Incense: frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood, rose, cedar, juniper, and dragon’s blood 

Practices: death witchcraft, spirit work, divination, shadow work, ancestor worship, psychic abilities, and necromancy

Colours: red, black, white, blue, and green

Numbers: 3 and 6

Zodiac: Scorpio 

Tarot: The High Priestess, The Tower, Queen of Swords, The Devil, Justice, and Death

Planet: Moon

Days: Monday, Imbolc, Lammas, Mabon, Samhain, Halloween, and full moons

Parents: Cailitin and Ernmas

Siblings: Ériu, Banba, Fódla, Gnim, Coscar, Fiacha, and Oll

Partner: The Dagda and an unnamed shapeshifting goddess

Children: Mechi

MISC:

Crows and ravens: the Morrigan is often associated with crows or ravens due to her nature as a deity of death, fate, and transformation. In Irish mythology, crows or ravens were often seen as messengers between the worlds of the living and the dead, and could be seen as omens of impending change or transformation. For the Morrigan, these birds served as her messengers and helped her carry out her duties as a deity of war, fate, and the supernatural. Additionally, the Morrigan herself was sometimes depicted as a crow or raven in the form of a woman.

Death: she is often associated with death because she is seen as a deity of fate and transformation, which can include death and rebirth. In Irish mythology, she is often depicted as a battle goddess who wields a spear or sword, and is seen as a bringer of violence and change. She is also associated with the concept of death as a natural and inevitable part of life, and is sometimes seen as a guide for the souls of the dead as they cross over to the afterlife.

War: in Irish mythology, she was often seen as a fierce and powerful warrior, who would appear in the form of a crow or raven to guide and aid the soldiers of the Tuatha de Danann, a group of gods and mythological beings. She was often invoked by soldiers in order to bring them victory in battle and could also be seen as a symbol of the chaos and destruction that can occur during war.

Triple goddess: she is often associated with the triple goddess archetype due to her connection with the number three and her role as a goddess of transformation and female empowerment. In Celtic mythology, the number three was often seen as sacred and powerful, and the Morrigan is sometimes depicted as embodying these three aspects of femininity: maiden, mother, and crone. This association reflects her nature as a powerful and multifaceted deity who encompasses the different phases of a woman's life, from youth and fertility to wisdom and maturity.

Samhain: in Celtic mythology, Samhain is believed to be a time when the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead becomes thin, allowing the spirits of the deceased to return to the world of the living. The Morrigan, as a goddess of death and transformation, is seen as playing an important role during this time, guiding and assisting the souls of the dead on their journey to the afterlife.

Magic: was seen as a powerful force that could wield the energy and power of these natural forces, and the Morrigan was often invoked as a source of magical power and insight during certain rituals and spells. Additionally, the Morrigan is sometimes depicted as a sorcerous figure in some myths, casting spells or curses and using her supernatural abilities to influence events on the mortal plane.

FACTS ABOUT THE MORRIGAN:

She owns a herd of enchanted and magical cattle. 

Contrary to some interpretations, the Morrigan is not necessarily seen as an evil or destructive deity. In many myths, she is depicted as a protective and wise figure who aids and guides heroes on their journeys.

She is sometimes portrayed as a shape-shifter, able to take on the form of a crow or other animals.

The Morrigan is often associated with the number three, representing the three aspects of maiden, mother, and crone.

She is also associated with the Fae and the Banshee—a creature that generally takes on the form of an old woman who wails in mourning to announce the coming death of someone in the family.

The name "Morrigan" comes from Old Irish and means "phantom queen" or "great queen."

She is often associated with ravens or crows, which were seen as her messengers between the worlds of the living and the dead.

The Morrigan is known for appearing in the form of a woman with long, flowing hair, sometimes carrying a spear and/or a shield.

HOW TO INVOKE THE MORRIGAN:

Working with the Morrigan often involves building a relationship of mutual respect and trust with her. You can approach working with her in the following ways:

Research and study her mythology, folklore, and symbology to gain a deeper understanding of her nature and characteristics.

Set up an altar or sacred space dedicated to the Morrigan, and make regular offerings to her.

Perform rituals or spells in her honor to seek her guidance and power.

Meditate or visualize her presence in your life, and work on developing a direct channel of communication with her.

PRAYER FOR THE MORRIGAN:

Hail Morrigan, maiden, mother, and crone.  We call upon you, great and powerful deity, to guide us on our path, and protect us from harm. Teach us to be strong and fearless in the face of adversity and help us to find balance in our lives.

Bless our endeavors, and grant us success in all we do. In your name, I give thanks for your presence in our lives. Hail to you, the Morrigan.

SIGNS THAT THE MORRIGAN IS CALLING YOU:

Repeatedly seeing signs of crows or ravens, which are associated with the Morrigan.

Feeling a strong connection to the themes of war, fate, and sovereignty.

Having vivid dreams or visions of the Morrigan or her symbols (e.g. a raven, a battle flag, etc).

Feeling drawn to read or learn about the Morrigan or Celtic mythology.

Experiencing strong emotions or changes in behavior that feel linked to the energy of the Morrigan.

Feeling the urge to explore or embrace warlike or competitive activities (e.g. sports, martial arts, strategy games).

Finding yourself drawn to stories of powerful women, goddesses, or wanting to honour and empower yourself.

Having a sudden urge to explore your own shadow or unconscious and to confront and transform it.

A sudden urge to create or engage in art, poetry, or music that connects to the Morrigan’s energy and symbolism.

OFFERINGS:

Red meat.

Mead. 

Red wine poured into the ground. 

Apples. 

Milk. 

Whiskey. 

Storm water

Crow or raven feathers. 

Knives and daggers. 

Scrying. 

Artwork and poetry. 

Red foods. 

Deep green, black and red stones/crystals. 

Honey. 

Dark chocolate. 

Coins. 

Studying Celtic mythology. 

Blood (especially menstrual blood). 

Traditional Irish foods. 

DEVOTIONAL ACTS:

Creating sigils or magickal symbols associated with the Morrigan and her aspects (such as battle, war, death, etc) and charging them with your intention and energy.

Performing war dances, warrior rites, and ceremonies of protection and victory.

Paint your nails black or red while thinking of her. 

Shadow work. 

Exploring magic and divination related to the Morrigan, including the use of rune stones, scrying, and spirit communication.

Draw or paint her. 

Participating in activities where you are willing to take risks and venture into the unknown, as the Morrigan is known for pushing individuals to embrace their destiny and seize control of their life.

Respecting the dead. 

Working to protect and uphold your own personal sovereignty and destiny, and resisting outside influence or control.

Make a playlist that is dedicated to her, or listen to music that reminds you of her. 

Lighting a black candle. 

Feeding your local murder (crows). 

Celebrating the changing of the seasons and honoring the cycles of life and death.

Praying and making offerings to the Morrigan, seeking her guidance and power for your magical and spiritual practice.

Screaming your heart out when alone in the woods. 

Performing blessings and healing rituals for fresh water bodies, such as lakes, rivers, and streams, to honor the Morrigan’s association with water.

Standing up for yourself. 

Exercising (especially if it’s challenging). 

Celebrate Samhain. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 7: Sapphire] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Thank you for reading (and tolerating all my nautical puns)! 💎

How can love be a curse? How can it be something to fear, to condemn, to break?

She has dreamed of him all her life. First he was a protector, almost fatherlike, and then a remote, bewitching phantom as she crept into adolescence, and then when Harwin Strong died Daemon sailed over Saint George’s Channel to offer her solace in England, and at last the fantasies she never would have confessed to anyone were fulfilled, two marriages and four children later. Rhaenyra remembers what he told her in the mist-draped lakeside cottage where they met in secret, crossing paths like an asteroid striking a planet: My wife means nothing to me. She’s not like us. She is young, and weak, and afraid, and I could never respect that kind of person. Her father owns the last Connemara marble quarry in the world, and I needed a son. But the only woman I want is you.

Aegon fires the pistol as he chases her through the corridors of A-Deck, and when she shrieks nobody hears, or if they do they don’t appear to rescue her; the ship is full of people screaming, sobbing, clawing for their lives against wet walls and locked doors. He shoots and misses again. There’s something wrong with his hands. He keeps fumbling with the gun and almost dropping it, hissing in pain as he squeezes the trigger, and there’s blood staining his fingers.

Good, Rhaenyra thinks. I’m glad he’s hurt. I hope he’s dying.

She sees an open room and ducks inside, slamming the door behind her and barring it with the weight of her body as Aegon rams it with his shoulder. Rhaenyra is surrounded by the trappings of another family who purchased first-class tickets: chairs with velvet upholstery, a faux fireplace, paintings by Rousseau and Boccioni and Homer. The lights flicker and the steel beams of Titanic groan, low and disastrous. There isn’t much time left.

“Daemon!” she yells as loudly as she can. If he hears her, he’ll come running. I have to get to a lifeboat. I have to live for my father, for Jace and Luke and Joffrey, for the children I will one day give Daemon.

Rhaenyra struggles with the lock as Aegon batters the door and it quakes on its hinges. Just as she latches it, he fires the pistol through the door. Wood cracks and splinters; a bullet pierces Rhaenyra’s ribcage like a blade. There is unbearable pressure, and then a sharpness, a pain she believes she cannot stand until it keeps getting bigger, deeper, ripping her open and filling her with dark wet weight like the ocean surging into Titanic. She crumples to the floor. When she coughs, blood spurts out onto her lips. Rhaenyra wipes it away and then stares at the red on her palm.

I can’t die now. My life just became what it was supposed to be.

Aegon punches a hole through the mangled door large enough for him to reach in and unlock it. Then he stands in the threshold looking down at her, his hands shaking but his eyes hard, fierce, unflinching. Rhaenyra has never seen him like this before. She didn’t know he could be good at anything.

“How the fuck did you get on the ship?” Rhaenyra snarls as she scrambles away, hacking up more blood. The black opal ring Daemon gave her gleams like onyx or obsidian, something born of heat and earth and insurmountable, ancient gravity.

Daemon and I were made for each other. The same blood, the same bones, the same will to carve treasures from the bleakest places.

Aegon follows her across the floor, slow stalking steps. He doesn’t answer; instead, he shakes his right hand a few times—steadying himself, casting out tremors like demons—and then grips the pistol with it. He raises the gun, the barrel aimed at Rhaenyra’s face.

“Daemon?!” she screams, but he isn’t here. Then she asks, sudden desperate confusion, her blue eyes wide: “Why are you doing this?”

Aegon’s voice is calm. “Because she can’t be free unless you and Daemon are gone.”

That girl? Daemon’s sad, stupid wife? I’m dying because of HER?

“Father never loved you,” Rhaenyra seethes, red on her teeth, blooddrops spilling from her lips like rubies. Her eyes are cold, glinting sapphires, pools of freezing water that only needs minutes to stop the heart. “Just like Daemon never loved her.”

“I know. And I used to care. It almost killed me, it almost ate me alive. But now I’m better. And I finally know exactly who I’m supposed to be.”

Aegon pulls the trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~

As Daemon descends the Grand Staircase, you crawl down towards the next landing, your head spinning, your hands empty, writhing on your belly like a snake.

The dagger???

But you can’t find it, and you don’t have time to stop and search. Daemon is only a few steps behind you. When your palms hit B-Deck, you try to drag yourself upright, grappling for the banister; but before you can get your feet under you, Daemon kicks you and sends you hurtling down the next flight of stairs. You tumble towards C-Deck, clawing in vain for something to break your fall. Your head strikes the English oak wood and you hear your father’s bewildered voice as he sat at the dining room table in Lough Cutra Castle: Where are you going? When will you be back?

Never, never, never; and now from somewhere below you recognize the roar of rushing water.

“You were going to kill me?!” Daemon taunts as he bears down on you like a storm. Blood soaks his throat and the white shirt beneath his black suit jacket. His eyes are bright, feral, monstrous. “After all those times I spared you when I could have drowned you in a river or a hot bath or the sea? You’re so fucking useless. You really can’t do anything right. All you had to do was shut up and endure, and you could have lived to be an old, old woman with all the comforts my empire afforded you. Now, my dear, you will never see another sunrise. And when Titanic sinks, you’ll be buried with her.”

Down, down, always down towards the ocean floor, you crawl faster away from him as his footsteps grow louder.

“Help,” you moan weakly. Aegon? Anyone? But the only reply is the echoing of your own voice and the sounds of the dying ship: breaking metal, distant screams, gushing torrents of seawater.

You crash into C-Deck and again try to stagger to your feet, but Daemon is here, shoving you as if from a cliffside or off a balcony. And as you plummet down the Grand Staircase towards D-Deck—where the First-Class Dining Saloon is, where Thomas Andrews once assured you that Titanic was unsinkable—it is not hard wooden steps you collide with but swirling ice-cold seawater. You plunge beneath the currents and then come sputtering up to the surface, your white wool coat drenched and threatening to pull you below again like an anchor. You struggle to shed it with arms that are rapidly going numb.

I’m so cold, I’m so cold, if I don’t get out of the water I’ll be dead in minutes—

Daemon’s fingers close around your throat and he forces you under the waist-deep water. You thrash and try to push him away, to pry him off of you, but your muscles seem to have disappeared, they have been scraped off your bones and now you can only wait to die, your breathless lungs burning as your body freezes. You have a sudden vision of Daemon in his firelit study at Lough Cutra Castle, marveling at a shard of Larimar dredged up from the Caribbean Sea and quoting the first known treatise on gemstones, written by Theophrastus in the time of Alexander the Great: Of things formed in the earth, some have their origin from water.

“No!” you scream through the depths, bubbles rising up to air you cannot taste. You claw at Daemon’s hands, but you cannot wound him, cannot get a grip on him, and hasn’t that been true since you married him five years ago?

The dark, freezing water makes you want to give up. It makes death feel easy, painless, inevitable. You imagine faces you’ll never see again: Draco, Aegon, your parents, Fern. You hope Carpathia will be here soon to rescue the survivors. You wonder what will happen to Aegon’s paintings.

Through the water come the muffled booms of explosions, four of them, surely something catastrophic, the ship splitting in half or a distress flare misfired or boilers bursting and shearing through what’s left of the hull. Then Daemon’s hands vanish from your throat and someone is hauling you up out of the icy currents, they are freeing you, they are disinterring you from an oceanic grave.

“I’m here!” Aegon is shouting as you burst into open air, gasping and flailing. He drags you towards the Grand Staircase where you can climb out of the flood, but you’re looking for Daemon. He is a few yards away and floating face-up, one hand clasping his chest and a gurgling sound leaking from his throat. The water around him is turning red. He’s fading, but he’s not dead yet.

“Aegon, he’s still—”

“I know. I’ll take care of him once you’re out of the water. I don’t have any more bullets left.”

“I want to do it.”

“We need to get you dry and warmed up—”

“I want to do it,” you say again, and Aegon lets you go.

You twist off your black opal engagement ring and throw it into the water beside Daemon. Then you place both of you hands on his chest and push him beneath the surface, Aegon standing just behind you with the barrel of the pistol in his grasp in case he has to use it as a club. The glacial seawater froths and whirls as it rises over Daemon’s hemorrhaging chest. He startles—a death rattle, a late rite—and resists feebly, gazing up at you with glassy, disbelieving eyes. They ask: How did this happen? I was supposed to kill you, remember? I own you. I own jewels trapped in subterranean darkness all over the world, and you are the very least of them.

“Draco isn’t yours,” you tell Daemon as you force him under. “Rhaenyra isn’t yours. And I’m not yours either. Now sink and die and make me free.”

He twitches, he bares his crimson teeth at you, but after all this time finally Daemon is the weak one. The rising water flushes maroon around him, his skin goes a frail and translucent bluish-white, his heart is drained until the chambers are cold and grey and empty. You hold him beneath the water until the bubbles roiling up from his nose and mouth disappear. He will never touch you again, he will never hurt anyone, he will never bruise or break or ensnare or captivate. And who will inherit his mines scattered across the planet?

Draco. His only son. And my family and I will act as trustees until he’s eighteen.

“We have to go,” Aegon is saying. He must have taken off his coat before he went into the water after you. He stands shivering in only his white shirt and green corduroy pants, the ocean now lapping at his chest.

“Rhaenyra?” you ask.

“She’s gone. I’m sure.”

“It’s over,” you say softly, feeling weight like stones roll off of you, feeling warmth like sunlight on your face.

As if in reply, the listing ship groans and the lights flicker again. “Not yet,” Aegon says, grabbing your hand. “Let’s hope there’s a lifeboat left.”

You wade to the steps and climb out of the water. Aegon helps you wring out your soaked hair and the skirt of your gown, then snatches his black wool coat off the steps where he left it and puts it on you. You race up the Grand Staircase to C-Deck, and then B-Deck, and then the A-Deck landing where you find your green handbag with Aegon’s tiny aluminum lighter still inside.

“I think you dropped this,” Aegon says when he spots the dagger on a nearby step, still covered with Daemon’s blood. He wipes it clean on his corduroy pants and then passes it to you. When you hesitate to take it, he grins. “Who knows. You might need to stab someone else tonight.”

“I never want to draw blood again.” But you accept the dagger and place it in your handbag, the captive gemstones glimmering there: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire like the North Atlantic Ocean that is swallowing Titanic down into her cold, crushing belly. Then you ascend one last flight of steps to the Boat Deck, passing the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock, stealing a glimpse up at the dome of glass and wrought iron that will soon shatter when the sea punctures through it like a bullet or a blade.

Outside the night air is so frigid that ice crystals begin forming in your hair, and the hem of your blue gown begins to stiffen as it freezes. You are barefoot, you only now realize, and if splinters from the pine planks of the deck needle their way into your flesh you won’t be able to feel them. There are only two lifeboats left on this side of the ship, one of which is already being lowered down to the sea. Officers are still directing women and children into the other. Benjamin Guggenheim and his companions are very drunk, clumsily herding frantic first-class passengers towards the boats. The string quartet is now playing The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár.

“Come, come quickly, Lady Targaryen!” the officers shout when they see you, knowing by your gown that you belong here, perhaps recognizing you from strolls on the Promenade Deck or when you and Daemon boarded Titanic in Cork with much fanfare. Aegon helps you into the lifeboat, his wounded hands cradling yours. Another distress flare is shot into the sky, metallic rain, doomsday portents.

We’re going to be alright, you think. We’re going to survive this.

“Darling, you’re sopping wet!” one of the women in the lifeboat exclaims, and they all begin to fret over you. There are dogs here, a Pomeranian in one lap, a Yorkshire terrier in another.

“Get her under a blanket,” Aegon is saying. “Keep her warm or she’ll get pneumonia. Give her a lifebelt.”

“We will, we will,” another lady shimmering in jewels—a mother of two boys in heavy coats and blue-striped pajamas—promises him. “We’ll take good care of her.”

You turn back to Aegon. “What?”

He tells you, his voice quiet: “Petra, they’re not going to let me in.”

“No, no, you can’t stay here—”

“Women and children only!” an officer booms, then begins waving several shrieking maids towards the vessel, just moments from launching.

“Aegon,” you say, horrified. He’ll die if he stays. He’ll drown or he’ll freeze and he’ll be entombed at the bottom of the Atlantic. “No.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No you won’t,” you sob, then look desperately at the officers. How can I change their minds? “He’s a Targaryen, he’s a first-class passenger, he must be allowed aboard!”

“A Targaryen?!” one of the officers says distractedly as he battles with the rigging. “I know all the Targaryens on Titanic, and he’s not one of them!”

“Just look at him,” the other officer mutters, meaning: He isn’t dressed like someone with castles or mansions or titles or mines. He can’t be someone who matters.

“He is,” you plead, tears stinging on your cheeks as they freeze. “He’s Aegon, he’s a Targaryen, please, he can’t be left behind—”

“Women and children only!” the first officer barks at you as the other pushes away a group of panicked young men in black suits trying to bribe their way into the vessel. “And if you want to stay here with him, that’s your business, but get to it so the rest of us can try to make it off this ship alive!”

“There’s more than enough room for him, for Christ’s sake, there are dogs in here!”

“There will be other lifeboats, love,” one of the women tells you as she drapes a scratchy wool blanket across your shoulders, but you don’t believe that’s true. The maids are climbing into the lifeboat; the officers are beginning to lower it with sharp lurches that make the occupants gasp.

You reach for Aegon, your hands catching on his drenched shirt, the thin layer of ice cracking beneath your fingers. “No, no, Aegon, I can’t go like this.”

“You have to,” he says calmly, and he holds you face still and touches his lips to your forehead, a kiss goodbye, gentle and lingering.

“No—”

“You have a kid. You have to go. Draco will be looking for you on Carpathia.”

“You deserve to be free too.”

“I’ll stay out of the water for as long as I can,” Aegon says like a vow. “I’ll try to find something to float on. And once Titanic goes down…maybe the lifeboats will come back to pick up any survivors.”

The water is too cold. I’ve felt it, I’ve been paralyzed by it, once you go under you only have minutes. “You can’t…you won’t…”

“Petra,” Aegon says, and his eyes turn desperate. He knows it’s his only chance. “Make them come back for me.”

“I will,” you swear to him.

And he pries your fingers off his shirt and rips away from you before your resolve can weaken. High above and through tears that blur your vision, constellations of stars gleam like diamonds.

~~~~~~~~~~

He runs to the other side of the Boat Deck, searching for lifeboats that haven’t launched yet. He can’t find any. There are swarms of passengers weeping, shouting, jostling, and officers trying to restore order. Pistols and flares are fired, chairs are tossed overboard for passengers to cling to as they float. But Aegon knows that won’t be enough; if they stay submerged, they will die.

I need something bigger. I need something I can lie on. A door or a dresser or…

He shoves through the crowd to get to the ship’s railing. Below, the ocean has gotten so much closer. He sees a lifeboat bobbing in the waves, just far enough away that someone brave enough to leap could not get to it. Inside, along with perhaps twenty first-class women and maids, Aegon recognizes Laenor Velaryon and his ever-present Parisian friends. They are puffing on cigars and toasting glasses of brandy, celebrating their good fortune. They must have successfully bribed their way aboard.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs, his breath fog in the frigid air.

How am I going to stay out of the water long enough to survive until I’m rescued?

Then he replays the evening in his mind—his first night with Petra, perhaps his last night on earth, red silk and candles and oil paint and the warmth of her beneath his hands—and Aegon gets an idea. He sprints back to the Grand Staircase and soars down to B-Deck, seawater ankle-deep on the floor. He splashes through the corridors to the staterooms once occupied by Daemon Targaryen’s wife and child, now rid of him, now waiting for what will come next. Aegon hurries through the sitting room, passing the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace and the large, heavy chest where Daemon made Petra lock up the art she bought in Paris.

She didn’t remember to put the real Picasso’s paintings in a lifeboat, but she saved mine, Aegon thinks. If I make it out of this alive somehow, I’m marrying her the second we dock in New York.

He goes to the bedroom, finds what he needs, carries it with him as he returns to the maze of hallways. Now the icy water is nipping at his knees.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ocean is calm, the lifeboat rocking placidly on inky surf. The women comfort their children and their dogs. You take Aegon’s aluminum lighter out of your handbag and light yourself a cigarette, then pass it around so the other passengers can thaw their lungs with hot plumes of nicotine, here in the early hours of the morning when it feels like you’ll never be warm again. The officer who took command of the vessel—the same one who shouted at you and refused to admit Aegon—is rowing vigorously as you and several other women help him, staring horror-struck at Titanic as she goes down by the bow.

“We have to get away from the ship,” the officer keeps saying, and he sounds genuinely petrified. A woman in a glittering gold gown steers with the tiller. “Or she’ll suck us into the water with her.”

There are shadows of other lifeboats nearby, also fleeing from the condemned Titanic, that miraculously colossal and opulent triumph that everyone had told you was unsinkable. You wonder which one Draco and Fern are in, undoubtedly cold and frightened but safe.

Aegon deserves to live too. I have to find him, I have to save him.

Now there is seawater flooding over Titanic’s deck at the bow, where you and Aegon saw third-class passengers—now dead, or very soon to be—kicking around pieces of the iceberg that they didn’t know had doomed them. The ocean surges higher, covering B-Deck, and A-Deck, and finally the Boat Deck, where the towering funnels collapse and you can hear shrieks and guns firing. You know you won’t be able to see Aegon from here—you won’t be able to tell if he made it into a lifeboat somehow, or if he is one of the figures that falls from a lethal height into the waves, or if he is crushed or shot or trapped below deck and drowned—but still, you cannot stop looking for him, peering through the night to where Titanic glows in her spotlight of white-gold electric luminescence.

As the bow sinks, the stern begins to rise, higher and higher until the tension cracks the ship in two, and the passengers you share the lifeboat with wail and sob as the ship’s lights blink out for the last time and the gravesite goes dark. Women call out the names of their husbands, fathers, brothers, adult sons, knowing they must be dying. You can only watch with tears streaming down your face, thinking: How could he survive that? How could I have left him?

The stern bobs for a while in the nightscape sea, a shade, a phantom, and then it plunges into the ocean. The water—indifferent, dispassionate, not a mortal but a titan, here long before humans and destined to outlast them, not unlike the treasures of the earth—gulps down metal beams and pine planks and split bones and shredded flesh. There are screams, so many, so pitiful, so loud they fill the sky, and the howling women in the lifeboat cover their ears and those of their children so they will not have to try to exorcise the sound from their memories later.

As soon as the stern has been consumed by the depths, you say to the officer: “We have to go back to look for survivors.”

“Are you mad, Lady Targaryen?” he snaps at you; but there are tears in his bloodshot eyes. “We’ll be mobbed if we sail into that. They’ll pour into the boat until we go under too. Do you want to freeze to death with them?”

“People will die quickly. They are dying already, the water is cold enough to kill in minutes. If we start rowing towards them now, most of the passengers will be dead by the time we get there. And then we can rescue anyone who’s left.” Please still be alive, Aegon.

“Not a chance in hell,” the officer says.

You turn to the other women. They blink back at you in dazed, timid terror. “It’s murder to leave your men behind,” you implore, you beg them to agree. “Help me row to them.”

But the women only weep softly to themselves and look to the officer to tell them what to do. He smirks at you victoriously, an expression of no humor but rather grim, fearful misery that could drive someone insane. In the lap of one woman, the Pomeranian whimpers.

I can’t leave Aegon, you think. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

You open your green handbag and pull out the dagger, the blade pointed at the officer. He shouts and bolts away from you, incredulous, furious.

“You’re threatening to kill me?!”

You shake your head. “I’m offering you a gift.” You turn the dagger around so the officer can grasp the handle. His gaze catches, transfixed and wondrous, on the gemstone spheres like perfectly aligned planets. “This dagger is worth more than you would make in a decade of work. Go back for survivors, and it’s yours. Refuse, and when we are rescued and my son inherits my husband’s fortune, I will make it my life’s work to destroy you. I will follow you anywhere on earth. I will ruin you. So take the dagger as payment and break my curse, and let us save the people who are left.”

The lifeboat sways in the small, serene waves, and the stars revolve high above in a moonless sky, and you and the other women wait for the officer to reply. After a minute or more—we have to go back now, right now, we don’t have much time—he finally lifts the dagger from your open palm and tucks it into his belt.

“Fine,” he says, picking up his oar again. “Let’s go. I cannot abide your damnation. I’ll be haunted by enough ghosts already.”

He and several of the other women row into the throng while you find the flashlights stored in the bottom of the lifeboat, then perch at the bow searching for Aegon. Instead you see hundreds of bluish corpses floating in their lifebelts, dead men and women and children, some of them first-class or crewmembers of the ship but most of them third-class passengers: Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish, discarded people, good for dying in the operations of mines or factories or railroads and little else.

“Aegon!” you shout over the water, but he does not answer. There is only the mist of your own words and the sound of cold currents rippling as the lifeboat cuts through them.

Your group saves two people from the sea, both nearly frozen to death and unable to speak: one man floating on a table washed out of a dining room, one little girl clutching her dead mother. Then a long time passes with no living souls to salvage.

“Have we done enough now, Lady Targaryen?” the officer asks you gravely. “Have you seen a sufficient number of the dead to assuage your wrath?”

“Not yet,” you say, steely, your eyes fixed on the water as the flashlight illuminates lifeless faces, scraps of wreckage, nothing, nothing, nothing. And then the light settles on him.

When the stern of Titanic went under, so did Aegon: there are ice crystals in his hair, and his clothes are freezing to his skin, and his lips are blue, and he’s shivering violently. But unlike over 1,000 other passengers, he didn’t stay in the depths long enough to perish as the cold stopped their hearts and lungs. He had something with him, a life raft, a second chance, a treasure mined not from some far-flung crevice of the earth but from the bedroom where he uncovered you, where you found each other and never wanted to go back to the way life felt before.

Aegon is sprawled across the oval-shaped mirror that once stood beside your bed, the fractured glass reflecting the stars that glimmer in the night sky. His ravaged hands cling to the wooden frame. And when the beam of the flashlight skates across his face like moonshine, Aegon knows you’ve come back for him, and he reaches for you until your hands link with his and help pull him aboard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carpathia arrives an hour later, just before four in the morning on April 15th, and as the sun rises over the North Atlantic Ocean you and Aegon find Draco and Fern on the bow deck, where stewards are distributing blankets and tea to the survivors. Women wander the ship pleading for help finding their lost loved ones, weeping endlessly for their brothers, their fathers, their husbands. Your tears have stopped entirely.

Carpathia’s passengers are generous. They offer in charity their food, their clothing, even their rooms. Children share their books and toys with Draco. Fern teaches him how to play marbles; you read him The Story of Saint Patrick. A doctor onboard disinfects and bandages Aegon’s hands, and assures him that he will be able to play viola again, not now, perhaps not even soon, but one day.

That first afternoon, as you and Aegon are taking a stroll on the Boat Deck, you spot a man painting a scene of the sunset: gold, tiger’s eye, ruby, red beryl. Aegon shows him some of the portraits from his scuffed leather portfolio…though, of course, one in particular is not suitable for mixed company. The man is so impressed that he insists Aegon must not be deprived of the ability to create such beauty for lack of supplies, and gifts him an easel and some paper, brushes, and oil paints.

It’s difficult with his sore, bandaged hands, but Aegon still wants to try, and when his brush begins to shake he asks you to help him. Aegon explains things to you as you steady his hands: chiaroscuro, scumbling, alla prima, glazing, impasto, a foreign language that will soon become familiar. Already, you are learning. And as Carpathia sails into New York Harbor on the evening of April 18th, Aegon takes a paintbrush and draws a circle around your ring finger in vivid, sapphire blue, a worthless gift of no gleaming gems or metal, a vow that means everything.

It’s been years, but Aegon remembers the way to his mother’s house. He leads you, Draco, and Fern to the doorstep of the Hightower mansion on Fifth Avenue. He knocks and a butler answers, a middle-aged man who gapes at Aegon in shellshocked disbelief.

“One…one moment, sir, if you’d be so kind to…to…to just wait here, please,” the butler stammers, then disappears inside. A few minutes later, a different man appears in the threshold. He must be Aemond, tall and white-blonde and precise in every movement, his left eye concealed by a black leather eyepatch. His remaining eye, a clear alert blue, darts to where Fern is holding Draco on her hip and then to you and Aegon, his bandaged hands resting so lightly on you they could never leave a mark.

Then Aemond’s face softens, and there is a kind sort of relief that seeps in, and you imagine your parents will look the same way when you return to Lough Cutra Castle. “You’re home,” he says quietly.

And Aegon smiles and replies: “We all are.”

[thewulf]

Until the Morning Light || Aragorn

Summary: Request - I wanted to see if I could request an Aragorn x reader. You don’t have to write anything! No pressure <3 It is a bit cheesy, so…Maybe something where they started having strong feelings for each other during their travels to destroy the ring and are so desperately longing after the other, just that they never confess and even the encouragement of the fellowship doesn’t help... Read Rest Here

A/N: Gosh I just adore this man! Thank you for the request always!!

Pairing: Aragorn x Reader

Word Count: 5.1k +

TW: Violence, orc violence, death, blood, crying, angst, Battle of Helm's Deep, lotr warnings

Born under the vast skies of Rohan you grew up amidst the rolling plains and the echoing calls of horses. From a young age you were not just a child of the land but its protector, honing your skills with a blade as well as you could listen to the whispers of the earth. Your heart was fiercely loyal and brave and tempered by the tender tales of your mother. She bestowed upon you a rare gift, a deep connection with nature that allowed you to sense and communicate with the world around you in ways few others could.

This unique ability was distinct from the innate affinity that elves hold with the forests and rivers. Unlike the elves whose communion often involves a harmonious coexistence and a capability to influence nature’s growth and health your gift did not extend to bending the will of the woods or the waters. Instead, it manifested as an intimate understanding. An almost magical perception that let you hear the secrets of leaves rustling in the wind and feel the subtle shifts of the earth beneath your feet. It was a communion, but of a different kind. A silent dialogue that did not seek to alter but to understand and empathize, providing guidance and comfort where it was most needed.

Such a profound connection to nature brought with it a heightened awareness of the creeping darkness that threatened to engulf Middle earth. The very land you communicated with now echoed with the distress of encroaching evil. A warning you felt deep in your bones. It was during this time of growing shadows that tragedy struck your life profoundly. You lost a beloved family member to the dark forces spreading across the land. An event that shattered the peace of your world but also forged a new resolve within you. Carrying the weight of this loss, you vowed with a heart heavy yet unyielding to protect your homeland and its people. This vow was sacred and resolute. It sharpened your resolve as much as your blade and became the echo of your every step on the path of the Fellowship.

It was during these turbulent times that Gandalf the Grey came to your village. The wise wizard saw in you not just a skilled warrior but a unique spirit whose abilities were as rare as they were needed. With words as compelling as the winds of your homeland he requested your presence in the Fellowship. "Middle-earth needs hearts like yours," he said. His eyes twinkling with a mixture of seriousness and kindness.

Thus, with a heart full of resolve and a spirit called to a greater cause, you joined the Fellowship. Not just to honor your vow but to fulfill a destiny that seemed written in the very leaves of the trees you so loved. As you set out from Rohan the wind seemed to carry whispers of encouragement and the land itself seemed to nod in approval. Its daughter now a guardian in its most desperate hour.

Upon your arrival at the rendezvous point where the Fellowship was gathering you were immediately aware of the intense gazes of many. Their eyes scrutinizing every new face—evaluating, assessing. Yet, when you first met Aragorn his gaze was different. It was calm, welcoming, devoid of any judgment that demanded you prove your worth. He seemed to see right through the facade that others often expected you to wear. The mask of a warrior constantly proving herself. Instead, Aragorn acknowledged your capabilities as if they were as clear to him as the daylight.

As you both shared the duties of setting up camp that first evening Aragorn asked you about your journey from Rohan. His genuine interest was refreshing, and soon you found yourself teaching him about the unique properties of the athelas plant found in your homeland. Its healing powers far greater when used with the right incantations. A secret you had kept closely guarded. To your surprise he not only listened intently but also shared his own knowledge creating a beautiful exchange of wisdom.

As the journey progressed Aragorn often sought your company for the watch shifts. During these quiet hours under the vast, starlit sky, you both would sit by the fire. The crackling flames casting flickering shadows on your faces. It was here in the solitude of the night that you shared stories of your pasts. You spoke of your family in Rohan. Of the laughter and tears of your childhood and the deep connection you felt with the land.

Aragorn, in turn, shared tales of his travels. The burdens he carried and the hopes he harbored for peace in middle earth. These exchanges that were filled with laughter and sometimes a comfortable silence laid a strong foundation for your growing affection. There was an ease between you. A mutual respect that flourished without the need for words making each shared moment a treasure.

One evening deep into the journey after a particularly taxing day when tensions within the Fellowship seemed to strain the very air around you Aragorn noticed your weariness. Without a word he took up your watch insisting you rest. "We all have our strengths," he said softly with a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Tonight, let me watch over you." It was a simple act. But in that moment his kindness felt soothing to your soul. It solidified a bond that was quickly becoming as vital as the quest itself.

These moments under the stars with Aragorn where you didn't have to prove yourself but were simply accepted were what you cherished most. They were reminders that in the looming shadow of war there existed moments of peace and deep, unspoken understanding.

Aragorn's presence became a constant in your days and you found yourself increasingly seeking his company. Whether strategizing for the next leg of the journey or sharing a quiet moment away from the rest of the group his steady demeanor brought a comforting consistency to the unpredictable days. After a particularly fierce skirmish against a roving band of orcs you sustained a slight wound. Aragorn was quick to your side. His fingers skilled and gentle as he tended to the injury. His touch was always gentle and careful. It sparked an unfamiliar warmth in your chest. His concerned eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.

As Aragorn wrapped your wound Legolas strolled over with an amused twinkle in his eye. "I see our esteemed leader has found yet another calling… nursing the wounded with such tender care," he commented lightly. His gaze flickering between you and Aragorn with a knowing smile. Aragorn responded with a dismissive grunt. His cheeks tinged with a faint blush, but his eyes remained warm and soft as they met yours again.

Gimli has overheard the exchange and joined in with a hearty laugh. "Ah, but it's a good thing we have Aragorn for both fighting and mending. Saves us calling for Elrond every time someone gets a scratch!" he boomed before clapping Aragorn on the back with such force that it drew a surprised smile from the usually reserved ranger.

This playful banter brought a light-hearted moment to the group easing the tension of the long journey. Later that evening as you sat by the campfire the teasing continued. Gimli’s loud snoring eventually became the subject of jest, and you all shared a hearty laugh. Emboldened by the relaxed atmosphere you nearly confessed your growing feelings to Aragorn. But just as you gathered your courage he turned contemplative, his gaze lost to the horizon.

"I sometimes wonder what lies ahead for all of us," he said softly. A distant look in his eyes. "The weight of this quest, it's much to bear—for all of us." His words were heavy with the burden of leadership and the uncertainty of the future, and they momentarily stalled your confession.

Despite this the bond between you only deepened, strengthened by each shared challenge and quiet moment of understanding. Legolas and Gimli’s lighthearted teasing served as a gentle reminder of the friendship and affection that blossomed even in the darkest of times, adding a touch of warmth to the journey's cold nights.

As you and the Fellowship arrive at Helm's Deep the air is thick with the weight of impending conflict. The massive stone walls of the fortress loom over you, their stark, gray surfaces a harsh reminder of the battle that awaits. Shadows stretch long across the ground as the sun dips below the horizon casting an ominous glow that barely penetrates the gathering dusk.

Around you, soldiers move with a sense of urgency. Their faces set in grim determination. The clanging of armor and the sharp ring of sword against stone fill your ears. A constant reminder of the stakes at play. Despite the hustle and bustle a heavy silence hangs over the assembled troops, each person lost in their own thoughts of the coming night. The air is cool and carries a hint of moisture. The breeze whispering through the battlements as if in mourning for lives yet to be lost.

In all of this your gaze finds Aragorn. His expression is one of resolve marked by the burdens of leadership and the knowledge of what everyone is fighting for. His presence is a steady force amid the chaos, and you feel a strange mixture of comfort and unease as you stand beside him knowing the challenge that lies ahead.

In the midst of this anxious bustle your childhood friend, a charismatic warrior named Ealdred from your village, unexpectedly arrives to aid in the battle. His arrival brings a sudden surge of warmth to the cold stone surroundings of Helm's Deep. As soon as Ealdred sees you his face lights up with a wide, infectious smile and he strides over with open arms.

His greeting is loud and joyous in the subdued murmurs of the assembling warriors. "Ah, if it isn’t the bravest shield-maiden of Rohan!" he exclaims while enveloping you in a hearty hug that lifts you slightly off your feet. The familiarity and comfort of his embrace, reminiscent of your shared past filled with training and childhood adventures, momentarily lift your spirits.

Laughter rolls easily from Ealdred as he sets you down. His presence a stark contrast to the tense air around. "I told myself I wouldn't miss a chance to fight alongside you again," he chuckles before clapping you on the shoulder with a warrior's camaraderie. The sincerity in his voice and the joy in his eyes are a balm to the unease that has been gnawing at you since your arrival at the fortress.

From a short distance away, Aragorn watches this reunion unfold with a complex whirl of emotions. He notices the brightness in your smile. A glow he has seldom seen during the long and perilous journey. Your eyes sparkle with laughter, reflecting a happiness that stirs a pang in his heart. The ease of your interaction with Ealdred, the way your body leans slightly towards him in familiarity and comfort, does not escape Aragorn’s keen observation.

Each laugh shared between you and Ealdred, each nostalgic look exchanged, seems to draw a line of subtle tension through Aragorn. He tries to focus on the preparations at hand, but his gaze involuntarily drifts back to you. The way Ealdred's hand lingers on your back, the warm, open smiles, the apparent joy of your reunion… it all fans a flame of jealousy that Aragorn struggles to suppress.

Though he attempts to dismiss these feelings as trivial they gnaw at him with an intensity that surprises him. The sight of your unabashed happiness with someone else plants seeds of doubt and worry that even the din of the oncoming storm cannot drown. The moment crystallizes something crucial within him. The realization of how deep his feelings for you have grown and how much he fears the possibility of not being the one who brings such joy to your eyes.

As you and Ealdred laugh over shared memories such as recalling the escapades of your youth in Rohan, his arm casually drapes around your shoulders in a brotherly gesture. The familiarity and ease between you two are evident. But to an observer like Aragorn each laugh, and touch seem to whisper of something more.

From his vantage point Aragorn watches the interaction his chest tightening inexplicably with each passing moment. The way Ealdred looks at you with such open admiration and joy, ignites a flame of jealousy in Aragorn’s heart that he can neither quench nor fully understand. His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. A subconscious echo of the turmoil brewing within him.

Ealdred, ever observant, catches the intensity of Aragorn's gaze from across the way. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he leans closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. "I believe the great ranger isn't just watching out for danger, you know," he teases nodding subtly towards Aragorn. "The way he looks at you... it’s as if he’s trying to will you to notice him. Quite the admirer, our King-to-be, wouldn’t you say?"

Your eyes widen slightly. The comment catching you off-guard. For a moment you're lost in thought considering Ealdred's words. You glance over at Aragorn observing his now averted gaze, the stoic mask momentarily fallen, revealing a hint of vulnerability. The idea of Aragorn, a king, having such feelings for you seems almost unfathomable. Yet the possibility stirs a flutter of excitement deep within.

Laughing softly, you shake your head trying to mask your sudden nervousness with humor. "Oh, Ealdred, don't be silly. Aragorn and I—we're just friends," you reply though your voice lacks conviction. "Besides, how could a king ever see anything in someone like me? I’m just a warrior from Rohan. Certainly not a lady of court."

Ealdred gives you a knowing look, his smile suggesting he sees right through your casual dismissal. "Well, even the mightiest kings need true friends and perhaps something more," he murmurs while giving you a playful wink before turning his attention back to the bustling activity around Helm's Deep. “Go to him, I will see you around.” He gives you a push.

As Ealdred walks away you're left with a curious mix of doubt and wonder, pondering his words. The thought lingers in your mind mingling with the echoes of what might be unspoken truths between you and Aragorn. The idea feels both impossible and thrilling, setting your heart racing as you watch Aragorn commanding his men with natural authority. Could there really be more to your friendship? The question hangs in the air, unanswered but increasingly impossible to ignore. Of course, you wanted more but when you learned of his destiny not so long ago you let those thoughts fall away.

Meanwhile, Legolas and Gimli, having observed Aragorn’s unusual demeanor, seize the opportunity for a bit of light-hearted ribbing. "Come now, Aragorn," Legolas chides with a graceful arch of his eyebrow, "your warrior's stare is more intense than any orc's glare we've encountered. And far more directed at our friend than any foe."

Gimli chortles, adding his own gruff commentary. "Lad, you're as subtle as a dwarf in an elf’s dance," he laughs before slapping Aragorn on the back. "Even the blind could see the way you look at her!"

Aragorn was caught between his role as a leader and his personal turmoil and offers only a rare, tight-lipped scowl in response. Though the corners of his mouth twitch, betraying a reluctant amusement at his friends' observations.

Once the teasing subsides Aragorn's gaze drifts back to you, now mingling with a quiet reflection. The light-hearted jests of his companions echo in his mind, stirring a resolve. Perhaps it was time to confront these feelings. To explore the truth behind the glances, the smiles, and the unspoken yearning that had begun to shape his heart. As night falls over Helm's Deep, the looming battle stirs a newfound courage within him. A courage not just to fight enemies, but perhaps to also voice the truth of his heart.

As the day before the battle approaches the air at Helm's Deep grows tense, filled with the weight of impending conflict. Soldiers go about their final preparations. Their movements sharp and focused, while commanders issue last-minute orders with stern expressions. In this bustle, Aragorn finds himself repeatedly glancing your way. His usual calm demeanor overshadowed by a restless concern that has little to do with the battle strategies at hand.

Finally, unable to contain the turmoil stirring within him, Aragorn approaches you. His stride is purposeful yet there's a hesitation in his eyes that you've seldom seen. "I need to speak with you," he says, his voice low, drawing you away from the others under the pretext of discussing the morrow's tactics.

You follow him to a quieter part of the fortress where the sounds of preparation are but distant echoes. As you stand there facing him in the dim light of the torches, Aragorn seems to struggle with his words. His gaze intense and searching.

"A moment ago, I was thinking about our positions for the battle," Aragorn begins, his tone tentative. "But truthfully, that's not why I asked you here." He takes a deep breath. His hands clenching and then relaxing at his sides. "I... I've noticed a distance growing between us while we’ve been here, one that wasn't there before. And I fear," he pauses, his voice tightening, "I fear it might be due to misunderstandings... emotions left unspoken." His admission hangs between you, stark and revealing. The air feels heavier as if charged with the gravity of his words. His eyes never leave yours, seeking, perhaps, a sign of your feelings.

You feel a knot form in your throat. Your own emotions a whirlwind of confusion and revelation. The thought that Aragorn might share even a fraction of the feelings you've struggled to hide sends a shiver through you. But there's also fear—fear of what such an admission means in the face of the darkness that might claim tomorrow.

"Aragorn," you start, your voice barely above a whisper, "I... I've also felt something change. But I believed you saw me only as a… friend in battle, nothing more. With the shadow of war over us I thought it best to keep my feelings to myself." Your confession feels like shedding armor you didn't realize you were wearing, leaving you exposed but strangely free.

Aragorn steps closer. His presence enveloping you in a sense of warmth and safety that contradicts the coldness of Helm's Deep. "I have long admired you, more than as a friend," he confesses, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "But I too feared to speak, to disrupt the bond we have with uncertainties of heart. Yet on the eve of such uncertainty… I find that silence is a greater burden than the risk of sorrow."

The distance between you diminishes with his words bridging gaps formed by unspoken doubts. As you look up into Aragorn's eyes, reflecting both the torchlight and his earnestness, you realize that regardless of what the morrow holds, this moment—honest and raw—has changed something fundamental between you. No longer just allies but something deeper. A connection forged not just in the heat of battle but in the vulnerability of shared hearts.

The emotional confrontation beneath the shadowed walls of Helm’s Deep leaves the air between you and Aragorn charged with newfound understanding and fragile hope. As the initial shock of your mutual confessions fades, the reality of the coming dawn—laden with the uncertainty of battle—sets in, lending a poignant urgency to your words and thoughts.

Aragorn’s eyes that reflected a mix of resolve and tenderness, lock with yours. “We stand on the brink of war, a war that may consume us all,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil you know roils beneath. “But this moment… this truth between us, cannot be overshadowed by what tonight may bring.”

You nod feeling the weight of every word. His hand was still holding yours. He squeezes gently trying to ground you. “I have carried this in my heart, thinking it unwise to speak, fearing the complications it might bring,” you admit. Your own voice stronger than you feel. “But now, facing the unknown, I see only the folly in silence. My heart, just like yours, cannot bear the burden of what-ifs.”

Aragorn’s face softens. The warrior’s mask yielding to the man beneath. “Then let us make a promise,” he proposes. His gaze searching yours for hesitation. Finding none, he continues, “If we survive this war, if fate grants us passage through this darkness, I promise to explore this path with you. To see where our hearts might lead us, unburdened by duty.”

Moved by his words you feel a resolve awaken within you. “I promise, too,” you respond, the night air around you bearing witness. “To find you again. In a world at peace and discover the depth of what we might become together.”

The pact, sealed with the sincerity of shared heartbeats, seems to carve out a small sanctuary against the chaos of the impending battle. As you both stand together the day turns to night and the distant sounds of the encroaching army grow louder, yet, in this secluded moment, there’s a sense of peace. An oasis of calm before the storm.

Aragorn gently lifts your hand to his lips. His kiss a feather-light promise against your skin. “No matter what comes,” he whispers, his breath warm against your fingers, “know that tonight has changed everything.”

As you part ways to prepare for the night ahead, each step back to your respective duties is reluctant but necessary. The promise of a future, however uncertain, fuels a quiet courage in your heart. A courage not just to fight, but to survive, to return, to begin anew.

The stars overhead that were witnesses to your solemn exchange, twinkle with a hopeful light. They cast a soft glow over Helm’s Deep. In the quiet before the battle, you hold onto the memory of Aragorn’s words, the warmth of his touch, and the promise of tomorrow. A tomorrow where you might explore the uncharted paths of both peace and passion.

And in the quiet before the storm with the world held at bay, it is enough.

As night envelops Helm's Deep, the distant roar of the approaching enemy fills the air. A grim reminder of the battle that lies ahead. The walls were thick with the tension of awaiting warriors and bristle with weapons as the moonlight casts long shadows across the battlements. You take your place among the defenders. The weight of your armor familiar and reassuring against the chill of the morning.

Across the way, Aragorn readies himself for combat. His eyes briefly meeting yours across the crowded space. In that fleeting glance you find a silent exchange of resolve and reassurance. A mutual understanding that whatever the day brings, you are not alone.

The battle erupts with the thunderous sound of orc drums and the clamor of arms. Waves of enemies crash against the fortress's defenses. Each assault more ferocious than the last. Amidst the chaos you find yourself fighting back-to-back with Aragorn. Each move synchronized with an instinctual precision that speaks of your deep connection. His presence by your side is both a comfort and a spur pushing you to fight with a fierceness you hadn't known you possessed.

As you parry and thrust Aragorn covers your flank. His swordplay a seamless dance of deadly grace. Every time an orc breaks through the line threatening to overwhelm you, Aragorn is there, his blade swift and sure. In return you guard his back with equal vigilance, your own combat skills honed by years of training now coupled with a personal drive to protect him at all costs.

From the corner of your eye, you catch brief glimpses of Legolas and Gimli, their unique partnership effective and deadly against the enemy. Despite the severity of the battle, you see Legolas shoot a quick, satisfied glance towards you and Aragorn, a small smirk playing on his lips as he loses another arrow into the horde. Gimli, engaged in a competition of his own with the elf, nonetheless nods approvingly in your direction after cleaving another orc with his axe.

The battle rages on. Each moment a blur of sound, motion, and adrenaline. But within this turmoil your bond with Aragorn becomes your strength. When fatigue begins to claw at your limbs it is his steadfast presence that reignites your resolve. When despair whispers in the shadows of your mind it is the promise of a future together that keeps the darkness at bay.

As the tide of the battle shifts with every orc felled and every moment you and Aragorn continue to stand, the hope for victory grows. It was fueled not just by the strength of arms but by the power of the unity you have forged in the heart of conflict. The knowledge that someone fights beside you not just for the fate of middle earth but for the promise of a shared tomorrow is more potent than any weapon forged by dwarves or elves. Together, you fight not only to protect Helm's Deep but to preserve the future that you vowed to explore. In the heat of battle that promise binds you ever closer. A promise that against all odds you will survive to see what lies beyond the war.

As the echoes of battle fade and the sun begins to rise over the now-quiet walls of Helm’s Deep, the air is filled with the heavy scent of rain and renewal. The fortress, though scarred by the night’s ferocity, stands resilient. A showing of the courage of those who defended it. Among the weary soldiers there’s a palpable sense of relief mixed with sorrow for those lost. A bittersweet victory.

In the aftermath as others tend to the wounded and recount the close calls you find yourself seeking out Aragorn. You find him standing alone looking out over the battlements at the dawning day. His profile etched against the lightening sky. His stance is one of a man who has carried too much, seen too much, yet stands ready to face whatever comes next.

Approaching quietly, you stop beside him, sharing the view in silence. After a moment he looks down at you, his eyes reflecting the myriad emotions of the night. Without a word he takes your hand. His grip firm and warm, anchoring you both in the now.

“Aragorn,” you begin but he shakes his head slightly, asking you to stop.

“Let me speak before the world rushes back in,” he says softly. His gaze holds yours, intense and unwavering. “Last night in the middle of this mess I realized something beyond the fear of losing what is precious. I realized what it means to truly love.”

He pauses, searching your face for understanding. “I have loved before,” he continues, “but never like this. Never with such clarity and raw hope. Last night I fought not just for middle earth but for the chance to see what lies ahead with you.”

Tears gather in your eyes as his words wash over you. Each one landing with the weight and warmth of a cherished caress. He continues as he uses his thumbs to wipe away your shed and unshed tears. “You have given me a reason to fight. A reason to return no matter the odds. And if this battle has taught me anything it is that I want to face whatever comes next. Not as a king. Not as a ranger. But as a man hopelessly in love with you.”

Aragorn's confession was simple yet profound. It stirred something deep within you. A surge of love and commitment that mirrors his own. You step closer diminishing the space between you and rest your head against his chest listening to the steady beat of his heart. “And I, too, want nothing more than to face the world with you, Aragorn. To build a life where love is our strength.”

Aragorn begins to speak, his voice low and filled with emotion, confessing his love and the revelation that had come to him amidst the chaos of battle. But as he speaks, something within you stirs. A fierce, overwhelming rush of feeling, amplified by the adrenaline that still courses through your veins.

Before he can finish you close the distance between you were driven by a surge of emotions too powerful to contain. Your hands find his face pulling him down towards you, and your lips meet his in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It's a kiss full of life, of survival, of shared battles and shared dreams. Your bodies press together, each curve and angle molding into the other, as if you could somehow merge into one being united against whatever may come.

Aragorn responds with equal fervor his arms wrapping around you to lift you slightly off the ground deepening the kiss with a passion that mirrors your own. His touch is both a claim and a surrender. A recognition of the bond that has been forged in the heat of battle and sealed in the quiet of dawn.

As you finally part, breathless and hearts pounding, you rest your forehead against his, eyes still closed as you savor the closeness. "I love you," you whisper. The words barely audible but heavy with meaning. "I fought for this, for us."

"And I," Aragorn replies. His breath warm against your lips, "will continue to fight for every day we have together. For a chance to love you as you deserve, fiercely and freely, without the shadow of war."

The promise hangs between you profound and sacred. As you step back still encircled by his arms the world around you seems to awaken. The sounds of the fortress stirring to life, the calls of soldiers and the distant cries of those mourning their fallen. It all fades into the background as you look up at him, seeing not just the warrior or the king but the man who holds your heart.

The sun was now fully above the horizon. It bathes you both in golden light, its rays like a benediction over your newfound commitment. You prepare to face the new day with him. Not just as survivors but as partners bound by love. Each beat of your hearts proof to the battles you’ve endured and the future you will fight for together.

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[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Could I request an Alicent (HOTD) platonic familial imagine where R is her sister and R is a kind and innocent person and is almost assassinated?

Alicent X Sister! Reader: Sworn protector

Warnings: assassination attempt, fear, death, Alicent being a badass, innocent reader, no use of y/n.

Word count: 740

The sun was setting over the Red Keep, casting long shadows across the stone corridors as you walked through them, your soft footsteps the only sound in the otherwise quiet hall. Your gentle smile never faded as you greeted the servants and passing knights with warm words, your kind nature a stark contrast to the growing unrest in King's Landing.

Alicent had always been protective of you, perhaps even more so lately. She'd noticed the tension that had been building in the capital, the whispers that slithered through the courtyards like a silent poison, but she never wanted to worry you. You were too innocent, too pure in her eyes. She adored you for it, though at times, her love for you was laced with a protective fear—one she tried, unsuccessfully, to keep at bay.

Tonight, she had insisted that you stay in her chambers after supper. The invitation was more a command than a request, though you hadn’t questioned it. Alicent had always been a motherly presence to you, even as her own position in court had grown more complicated.

The evening passed in a haze of simple comforts: the low hum of quiet conversation, the clink of a goblet, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across the walls. But you hadn’t seen how uneasy she truly was, not until she had dismissed everyone from the room, save for her most trusted maidservant.

You had barely finished settling into the cushions beside her when the door burst open, a figure cloaked in shadows slipping into the room. Before you could react, the figure lunged, a dagger in hand aimed at your throat.

Alicent’s scream rang out in the dim light, but it was drowned by the chaotic clash of steel and the struggle between your assailant and Alicent herself. Panic flooded your chest as the cold steel of the dagger brushed dangerously close to your skin.

But Alicent was there, always there. Her hands were strong, and the once gentle, serene woman you knew had become a warrior in that moment. She shoved the attacker back, her voice harsh and commanding.

“Stay away from her!”

The usually composed queen was now full of nothing but fury.

The assailant, a rogue mercenary sent by those with more sinister ambitions, faltered, shocked by the ferocity of the woman they had underestimated. In that moment of hesitation, Alicent moved towards one of the knights, grabbing his sword. Before he could react Alicent had made her way to the mercenary. She raised the blade  moving  with a precision that shocked you. She struck striking with unrelenting force, bringing the would-be assassin to the floor, lifeless.

You stared, wide-eyed, frozen in fear, your chest heaving with the sudden shock of what had just transpired. Alicent turned to you, breathless, her eyes wild with a fierce protectiveness.

"Are you hurt?" 

She demanded, voice trembling as she knelt before you, her hand gently lifting your chin to check for any injury.

You shook your head, too stunned to speak. You had always thought the danger of the court was something distant, something spoken of in hushed whispers. But now it had come for you, for the innocence that had been your shield until now.

Alicent’s expression softened as she looked at you. Her eyes, so often sharp and calculating, held only concern now. 

"You’re safe, my sweet sister." 

She whispered the words, pulling you into her arms, her hands running through your hair. 

"I won’t let anyone harm you. Not ever."

You clung to her, tears welling up in your eyes.

"Why would someone want to hurt me?"

You questioned the cruelty, voice barely a whisper, your heart still racing from the near-fatal encounter.

Alicent sighed, brushing your hair back from your face. 

"Some people do not care for kindness, sister. And they will stop at nothing to tear down those who show it." 

Her eyes hardened for a moment, as if contemplating something darker. 

"But I will protect you, always."

You couldn’t find the words to reply, still shaken by what had just happened. But in that moment, as you rested against Alicent’s chest, the weight of her embrace gave you a strange comfort.

The world outside may have been treacherous, cruel, and filled with shadows, but here, in her arms, you knew you were safe. No matter what trials lay ahead, Alicent would always stand between you and harm.

And you trusted her, as you always had.

[brattyfics]

Swampbound II

Adla shot up from sleep, jolted by the sound of something heavy dragging outside. The old porch creaked under the weight, those worn boards groaning like they were telling her to stay inside. For a heartbeat, she thought it was just a remnant of a bad dream. But then it came again—slow, deliberate shuffling, as if someone was moving through the dark with purpose.

She kicked off the sheet, her bare feet gliding over the cool floorboards. Reaching for the shotgun, she crept to the window, quiet as a whisper in the night. Pulling the curtain back just a crack, she squinted into the gloom.

A figure loomed large, hunched over, moving as though it was in pain.

The wolf?

No, that shape was all wrong. Its movements were jerky, struggling to stay upright. Then she spotted it—clawed hands gripping the railing, barely managing to hold on. Her breath caught as the figure slumped, twisting and warping in a way that made her skin crawl.

The truth slammed into her, sharp and unforgiving.

This wasn’t just any wolf.

Adla tightened her grip on the shotgun, heart pounding in her chest. Every instinct told her to retreat, but something gnawed at her—a pull she couldn’t explain. The stories whispered through the town—tales of beastly protectors and vengeful spirits—had always danced at the edges of her mind, but tonight, with this strange presence lurking outside, those old myths felt like a warning.

Whatever was out there, it wasn’t just a man, and it sure as hell wasn’t just a wolf.

Fear gripped her as the shadow twisted, revealing the shape of a man. She blinked, praying to wake from a nightmare, but when her eyes opened, it was still there. The dried pool of blood pooling beneath him turned her stomach.

What kind of trouble had she stumbled into?

Piercing blue-green eyes, both wild and human, locked onto hers through the dim light. She gasped, every muscle screaming at her to run, but there was nowhere to go. The massive man raised one hand, then the other, pounding against the walls of her little house so insistently that the whole place rattled.

She flinched at the frantic banging, the noise shaking the thin window panes. It sounded desperate, but not dangerous. And then, through the chaos, she heard it—a rough voice, weak but clear enough to make her freeze in place. “Help me... please.”

Her instincts urged her to stay put, but that voice—it was broken, pleading. She bit her lip, torn between caution and compassion. She couldn’t rush headlong into a mess, but could she really turn away someone who was hurt?

Shifting her grip on the shotgun, she edged toward the door. "Who’s out there?" she called, her voice steady but low, trying to mask the tremor in her heart.

"Just need a place to catch my breath. I promise I won’t cause no trouble. I’m just trying to escape something that ain’t right. I ain’t gonna hurt you, I swear. Please, just let me in for a minute—I’m beggin’ you."

“Lord, have mercy...” Adla muttered under her breath, caught in a bind. She’d always prided herself on being sharp and cautious, but her heart? Too soft, too generous—sometimes for her own good. “What brought you all the way out here?” she asked, frustration creeping into her voice.

“A whole string of bad luck. If I had anywhere else to go, I wouldn’t be standin’ here, believe me.” She shook her head, eyes on the lock, knowing this was the dumbest thing she’d ever done. Slowly, she twisted it open, pulling the door just wide enough to peek through the screen. 

There he was—wolf turned man, bigger than any person she’d ever seen. His body, thick with muscle, seemed almost sculpted from stone, hard to ignore, even with the bruises and cuts marring his skin. He was bare as the day he was born, flaccid yet exuding a raw strength. She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze upward. He had a face that was almost too beautiful, framed by full lips and those captivating eyes. A fierce, primal energy radiated from him, pulling her in and sending a shiver down her spine.

Letting in a naked stranger was easily the most reckless thing she’d ever done.

He was hunched over, leaning against the front of her house like he was too weary to stand on his own. Each second felt like a battle for him, swaying as if the ground beneath him were unsteady. His eyes, weighed down with exhaustion and pain, locked onto hers, drawing her into a tug-of-war between caution and compassion. “You best not be thinkin’ I’m a fool,” Adla warned, flipping the lock on the screen door. He reached for the door, but then jerked his hand back, hissing as if he’d been bitten by a snake.

“What now?” she asked, her brow knitting in confusion as she took a cautious step back, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.

“You gotta invite me in.” His voice was ragged, as if every word cost him. She frowned, not quite understanding—didn’t she already by opening the door?

“Come on in,” she finally said, stepping back with her shotgun still in hand, not fully trusting him yet. “Just don’t ruin my floor with all that blood.” He limped inside, his gaze never leaving hers, before collapsing clumsily into a chair in her kitchen.

“What the hell happened to you?” Adla asked, watching as his big hands explored his injuries, assessing the damage. He didn’t answer, too focused on his wounds.

“Hey!” she snapped, needing answers. If she was about to shelter some strange, naked wolf-man, she deserved to know what mess he was dragging to her door. “I asked you a question. Why are you here?” His gaze slid over her, assessing, and suddenly she felt exposed—the cool night air making her nipples pebble beneath her thin nightgown. Shifting uncomfortably, she caught his eyes snapping back to her face.

“Just passin' through. My cousin, Mike, and I ran into some trouble with the wrong crowd back in town. I got hurt, lost track of him, wandered off, and ended up here." He hissed, the twisting and turning only aggravating his injuries even more. "I'm just tryin’ to keep it together long enough to find him.”

“And what’s that gonna take? You getting yourself together?” Adla's skin prickled with unease, a warning that she had stumbled into something far beyond her understanding. She needed him out of her space and her life—pronto.

“You got any vinegar?” His voice rasped, dry as a corn husk.

“‘Course I do.” Adla replied, moving around the kitchen with purpose. Her hands worked quickly yet deliberately, keeping him in her line of sight. She set the bottle down on the table, her eyes sharp and filled with suspicion. “What’s that gonna do?”

“It’ll help me heal.” The words came out strained, frustration simmering beneath the surface, though it was clear he was in no shape to argue. She could feel his urgency, a mirror to her own—both of them itching to be rid of each other.

“What else you need?”

“Baking soda and cayenne powder.”

“That’s it?”

Adla raised an eyebrow but gathered the supplies anyway, her movements smooth but laced with tension. She reached for each item from the cupboard, swaying with practiced ease.

“Fresh garlic wouldn’t hurt, if you have it. Maybe some moonshine.”

She paused, lips pursed. Was he fixin’ to heal or cook?

In no time, her table was cluttered with mismatched items—baking soda, vinegar, garlic, cayenne. It looked more like the makings of some old root-worker’s brew than anything meant to patch up a man.

“Pour the vinegar first to clean it out,” Terry instructed, his voice steadier now despite the pain. “Then mix the soda and spices.” He reached for the garlic bulb, popping it open with one strong press, the sound cutting through the silence. She jumped at the display of casual strength. Just how strong was he?

“Please.” His tone softened, pulling her from her startled state.

Adla shot him a wary look, but something in his voice—a strange vulnerability beneath that tough exterior—made her hesitate. He wasn’t lying; she could feel it deep in her bones. Without a word, he grabbed one of the cloves and swallowed it whole. 

With a slow breath, she set her shotgun by the counter, still close enough to grab if things took a turn. Her daddy would be turning in his grave if he knew she was doing this, but something about Terry had her ignoring every warning bell that usually rang loud and clear.

Standing behind him, she stared at the raw, twisted wounds crawling across his back, almost like vines. “Go on,” Terry grunted through clenched teeth.

Steadying herself, she poured the vinegar down his back, watching it stream over the jagged flesh and trickle down his long legs. Terry tensed, letting out a sharp hiss as the vinegar hit the open wounds. His skin bubbled, frothing where it met, as if fighting something deep within. Adla mixed the baking soda and cayenne in a bowl with water, then followed his instructions to spread the strange paste over his back.

She froze as she saw it—right before her eyes, the skin began pulling together, like unseen threads stitching him back together. It wasn’t fast, but it was happening, slowly mending him back to who he was.

Adla’s breath caught in her throat.

Magic wasn’t something she doubted—any Black woman raised out in the marsh knew better than to dismiss it—but seeing it unfold in her own kitchen? That was something else entirely. Her fingers twitched as she stepped back, eyes wide with awe and caution.

“Keep goin’.” Terry grit out, his voice rough but laced with urgency.

She rolled her eyes, cutting him a sharp look. “Mind how you talk to me, mister. You're in my house.”

Terry mirrored her, letting out an exasperated sigh and tapping his foot impatiently as she took another look at his injuries, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. His muscles tensed and flexed, discomfort rippling through him as the mixture worked its way into his wounds. Whatever it was doing, it sure wasn’t gentle. She caught him tilting the moonshine bottle to his lips, her eyes narrowing. So that’s what that was for. She bit her tongue, figuring now wasn’t the time to fuss about him treating her liquor like his own. He probably needed it more than she did right now.

She knelt to check his leg wounds, only to find herself face-to-face with his... package. Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed it seemed to be swelling—whether from the pain, nervousness, or something else entirely, she didn’t know. Her gaze darted away just as quickly.

"Would some aloe help?" she asked, curiosity edging out any pretense of concern. The fabric of her gown grazed his bare skin as she stood, the warmth of her scent wrapping around him like a blanket. He drew in a deep breath and then his eyes fluttered shut.

“Nah, this’ll do,” Terry muttered, his jaw tightening as he shifted again, turning away from her. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft curve of her body just inches away igniting something primal within him. Every movement coiled his muscles tighter, and he fought to keep his breathing steady, hyper-aware of her scent wafting through the air.

Finally, she stepped back, breaking the spell.

“Rest’ll heal on its own. Thank you.” There was sincerity in his tone now, softer than before, though the longing still lingered in the air between them.

“What are you?” She asked softly, testing the waters. She didn’t mean any offense; under the circumstances, it seemed like a fair question.

Terry stiffened for a moment, then met her gaze. “Terry Richmond,” he said, a faint, strained smile flickering across his lips. “But what I am... well, that’s a bit more complicated. Some call me a shifter. I just call myself a survivor.”

“Survivor, huh?” she replied, running the dishrag over her bloody palms. The image of that massive wolf flashed in her mind, and she couldn’t shake the thought that he could swallow her whole without a second thought. “Well, as long as you ain't tryin’ to survive off me, we’ll be alright.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Terry, deep and rough—an echo of a man who’d weathered too much. “Don’t worry, I’ve got enough on my plate without addin’ you to it.” He paused for a beat. “What they call you, miss?”

“Adla.”

That thing between them—the charge—was heavy and palpable, and Adla felt it coursing through the air like a summer storm, but she wasn’t about to act on it—at least, not yet. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Terry froze, his body going rigid, as if he sensed something dangerous lurking.

“Somebody’s comin’,” he muttered, forcing himself to his feet despite the visible pain.

“What are you talkin’ about? I don’t hear anything—” Adla’s voice trailed off as she moved to the window, squinting into the early dawn. Her breath caught when she saw a police cruiser creeping down the slick, muddy road. The lights were off, but the car moved deliberately, as if searching. Morning had crept up on her, the sky shifting from inky black to pale gray-blue, the sun just starting to break the horizon.

“It’s him,” Terry growled, his expression hardening with anger. He stood, wincing, but what stopped her cold was the intensity in his eyes—hungry, vengeful. “I’m gonna kill him,” he growled, his words cold and laced with hatred.

Her pulse quickened, a dozen questions racing through her mind. Who? There were plenty of officers driving cruisers like that, but the way Terry spoke made it seem like he knew, like he could smell them.

“Hold on a minute,” she snapped, stepping closer to him and placing a hand firmly against his chest. “You just got back on your feet, and you sure as hell ain’t in any shape to fightin’.” She pushed against him gently, but with enough force to drive her point home. He winced, the pain breaking through his tough exterior.

“This is my house, my land, my rules. Sit down and keep quiet. I don’t need them knowing you’re here. You can get your revenge later—on your own time.”

Terry stared her down, jaw clenched, clearly battling with his pride. He was a man used to taking charge, not letting someone else handle his problems—especially not a woman. But Adla met his glare head-on, refusing to back down. They stood at an impasse, tension thick between them like the heavy air before a storm. She didn’t flinch; his size and predatory presence didn’t shake her, not after she’d pulled him back from death’s edge.

With a quick flick of her wrist, Adla grabbed her old housecoat from the hook by the door and pulled it on, tying it tightly around her waist. She shot one last glance at Terry—his wild, dangerous eyes still trained on her—before stepping out onto the porch, her bare feet meeting the wooden planks. The door clicked shut behind her, a barrier between him and whatever came next.

She marched toward the fast approaching car, steeling herself for what was coming.

Police Chief Sandy Burne rolled down his window, a scowl carved deep into his features.

“Good mornin’, Chief,” Adla greeted with a nod. He didn’t bother to return the courtesy, his eyes narrowing as he cut straight to business. “You seen anything strange out here lately?”

Well, yes. There’s a damn wolf man in my kitchen!

“No, sir.”

“You sure, gal?” His tone dripped with skepticism. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, holding steady before speaking again, her voice calm but firm. “Yes, I’m sure.”

This was the same tired routine they played whenever their paths crossed. Her daddy had taught her to show respect for the law—not because they earned it, but because they wielded the power to make her life hell, and that was especially true now that he was gone. She was a lone woman in this world, with no safety net outside her own grit.

“Ain't nobody been by? No strangers nosin' around or passin' through?” he pressed, his voice sharper than the edge of a rusty knife.

“No, sir,” she replied, holding his gaze steady, her heart pounding like a war drum. Terry, Jesse—neither were his concern. This part of the marsh was her domain.

Burne’s eyes locked onto hers—beady and treacherous. “Take a look at these pictures. You best be sure,” he warned, passing her sheets of sketches from his window. One was definitely Terry; she recognized him instantly. The other bore a resemblance too—slimmer but sharing the same wide nose and full lips. That must be the cousin he mentioned.

“I ain't seen either of those men,” She lied with a smile, handing the papers back to him. Turning on Terry would be easy, the safest thing to do, but she wouldn’t be complicit in whatever Burne was cooking up. He’d already gotten away with too much. Doubt flickered in the grey-haired man’s eyes. He knew she was lying; she could feel it.

“Alright then. I trust you’ll give me a holler if that changes.” Irritation crossed her face before she could mask it, like a storm cloud rolling in on a clear day. “You got somethin' better to be doing, girl?” There it was again, that single word dripping with the venom of prejudice. Her fist clenched at her sides.

Low growls rumbled from her kitchen, echoing past the porch and into the yard. Adla's heart raced. There was no way that brother was turning into a beast in her kitchen.

“What’s that noise?” Burne demanded.

“A dog,” she replied, keeping her voice casual. “Found him after the storm. Crawled up on my porch and wouldn’t leave. Felt sorry for him, so I let him in. Ain’t like he’s been alone in the house yet.” She prattled on as he swung open the door of his cruiser, stepping out with the confidence of a man with something to prove.

“I thought you said you didn’t see anything.”

“Just a dog,” she insisted, her heart racing as he prowled around her. If he made it to the porch and caught sight of the blood—

“Chief, we need you.” His radio crackled to life. “Got a report of a violent altercation happening over on Flower Street. It’s Mr. Simmons; the family is requesting you personally.”

Burne narrowed his eyes, his tone sharp as he stepped closer, his breath hot against her cheek. “Watch yourself with them dogs, especially the ones you don’t know. Get too close, and you might end up with fleas. You don’t want that, Ms. Bennett.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If I find out you’re keeping secrets from me, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

She felt her teeth clench at the threat. 

The growling continued, rising in a way that sent chills down her spine. 

“I’ll call if I see anything worth mentioning.”

Burne gave her one last intense look before climbing back into his cruiser, kicking up mud as he drove off down the winding road. The nerve of that man! Anger simmered in her veins as she imagined him ripped apart, piece by piece. The sensation coursing through her felt electric, tingling deep in her bones like a storm brewing on the horizon.

She marched back into the house, her voice steady but firm. “You can rest and pull yourself together, but after that, you gotta leave, and don’t even think about coming back.”

Terry nodded, understanding the finality in her tone. As much as he wanted to jump into action against Burne, he wasn’t ready. He and Mike had stumbled into this trouble by underestimating Burne. If Terry was gonna get Mike back, he had to regain his strength, and that meant he needed to rest.

“Don’t move. I’ll find you something to wear,” Adla muttered, tugging a storage bag down from the top of the closet. Her fingers sifted through the men’s clothes she hadn’t had the heart to toss—each piece a remnant of her Daddy’s spirit, lingering like a ghost in her memories. The thought alone weighed heavy on her heart.

“Here,” she said, passing him some of her Daddy’s old things, the ghost of his scent still clinging to the fabric. Terry’s fingers grazed against hers, lingering just a moment too long before she turned away from him.

With a sigh, she led Terry to her childhood bedroom, gesturing to the too-small twin bed where she once dreamed of escaping this very life. No way was she inviting him into her own bed. That was a can of worms she feared would never close if she pried it open.

“Thanks,” Terry said softly, standing too close. The way he looked at her sent a shiver down her spine, like he was weaving an unintentional spell. She shook off the feeling. “Ain’t no thing,” she replied, her tone casual but guarded. “Just get some rest. I’ll be right out here if you need anything.”

Sinking onto the plastic-covered sectional, she felt the crinkling beneath her as her mind raced. Thoughts tumbled over one another, tangled like the Spanish moss outside. Something about Terry being a shifter tugged at her like an old tune she couldn’t quite place—more than just town legends.

One thing was for sure: she’d never seen skin behave the way his had. That was a memory she’d never shake.

Jesse’s grandmother had been a healer, claiming she could cure anything as long as the healed soul accepted the consequences. That same woman brewed her soothing teas on nights when her father was away on the fishing boat, filling the gaps her mother left behind. As a child, Adla had believed in her magic without question. But the older she got, the more it felt like a fairytale—yet perhaps it had been right there all along, hidden in plain sight.

Minutes passed before loud, unmistakable snores broke through the fog of thoughts. Terry sounded every bit like the beast she knew he could become. Rising, she moved to close the cracked bedroom door. She didn’t trust him alone in her space, but the openness felt like it was clouding her ability to think clearly.

Glancing inside, her gaze roamed over his sleeping form. He lay stretched out, exuding a readiness even in slumber. Her eyes lingered on the defined veins in his arms, the ink marking his bicep.

He was undeniably attractive.

Terry hadn’t bothered to wear any of the shirts she’d given him; the faded sheets barely covered his waist. With each breath, his abs flexed, drawing her in closer. A rush of heat flooded her skin as her mind wandered to what lay just beneath those sheets. She felt like a trespasser in her own childhood bedroom—caught between the past and a present that dared her to let go.

Terry stirred as the door creaked open, a tired smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “I don’t mind a little company while I dream.” He drawled, voice low and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he was her man, waiting for her to slip into bed beside him, not some stranger she'd only met a few hours ago.

She gasped, her face growing hot. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t tryin' to disturb you or nothin’.”

Terry sank deeper into the pillowcase that held her scent—a calming blend of saltwater and magnolias, with a hint of citrus underneath. She couldn’t deny how it felt seeing him there, laid out in her bed with his hands tucked behind his head like he belonged. And it was clear he liked it too. The thought stirred something deep inside her, intoxicating and undeniable.

“I just wanted to close the door, that’s all. You were snorin’ like a bear, and I—”

Her mouth hung open as he shifted on the bed, the sheets slipping down just enough to reveal more of his toned torso, the warm light from the window casting soft shadows across his skin.

“This here’s your house, your rules, don’t forget,” he teased, a playful edge to his tone but laced with something sharper.

The idea of climbing in beside him was oh-so-tempting. She’d never felt a heat like this pooling between her thighs, searing and intense. Adla had always feared falling in love, haunted by how losing her mother had shattered her father, but she had nothing against the thrill of hot flings. She loved the playful banter and the slow build to something deeper with a man. With Jesse, it took years to reach that point, but with Terry, the heat flared too quickly. He made her want to toss caution aside, and that sense of risk sent shivers down her spine.

“What do you take me for?” She shot back, one hand perched confidently on her hip.

He remembered how she’d pushed him earlier, bossing him around with that fierce spirit. He craved her fire, even if it meant getting burned. “A woman who knows how to take charge and go after what she wants. Ain’t nothing wrong with that, is there?”

He had that look about him—sure of himself, like a cat toying with a canary, or maybe a werewolf eyeing a Southern belle, ripe for the taking. "Quit playin' around with me." She turned to leave, but he caught her arm, pulling her down to the edge of the bed. She didn't fight him. "You ain’t scared, are you? Thinkin' I might just gobble you up?"

"Just caught off guard, that’s all." Her gaze lingered on his lips, like a wild cat reduced to a purring house cat. Heat pooled beneath her skin, making her feel as if she needed to shed layers. “I ain’t scared of you,” she insisted.

Terry’s soft, seductive smile shifted into a confident smirk. "You got no reason to be," he replied, leaning closer, his warmth wrapping around her. “I ain’t gon’ bite… ‘less you ask real polite.”

A deep pulse thrummed through her core, something fierce. She felt like prey, yet made no move to escape the gaze of her predator. His focus sharpened on the pulse in her neck, and he leaned in, his soft lips grazing her skin as her blood rushed to the surface. She trembled in his embrace. "Don’t you worry, Ms. Adla. You ain't asking for it... not yet."

She gasped as his warm tongue flicked out, pressing against her skin, meant to soothe, yet it sent her heart racing. “Please,” she breathed, torn between desire and confusion.

“Please what?” he asked, pulling back to meet her big brown eyes. She looked like a doll, wild curls escaping from beneath her scarf, the bright blooms of her nightgown drawing his gaze. Her soft curves were undeniable, making it nearly impossible for him to tear his eyes away.

“Don’t devour me,” she whispered, the weight of her words thick with the understanding that she wouldn’t survive if he did. Already drowning in sorrow, she struggled with the truth that the supernatural was real and had come knocking at her door. Her mind raced back to Jesse's grandmother—wait, Jesse.

In an instant, she jolted out of his arms, springing up from the bed as if it had caught fire beneath her.

Terry watched her, a mix of frustration and amusement dancing in his eyes. Her chest rose and fell in quickened breaths, and he couldn’t resist the urge to laugh, a low, rumbling sound that echoed in the quiet room. "You okay, there, sugar?"

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she replied quickly, her voice shaky. “I just... I gotta think.”

“You sure ‘bout that? You look a tad flustered to me.” Terry’s eyes danced with mischief as he grinned, leaning back against the tiny headboard like he owned the place.

Adla felt the tension crackle between them, electricity simmering in the air. “I’m not about to get caught up in whatever foolishness you’ve got goin’ on,” she declared, though her voice wavered, betraying the strength she wished she had.

“You’re already knee-deep in this swamp with me. Ain’t no runnin’ from that now.”

Chapter Three.

@nayaesworld

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[eliotrosechild]

The Seven Archangels

Lucifer – The majestic archangel of unparalleled beauty and power, Lucifer was once the brightest of the heavenly beings. His presence commands respect and awe, as he radiates elegance and grace. His wings of pure energy and amber light represent his divine origin and his connection to heavenly realms, even after his fall. He stands tall, regal, and mesmerizing, a figure of both light and shadow, embodying the complexity of rebellion, pride, and the quest for ultimate freedom.

Michael – The fierce warrior archangel, Michael stands as the eternal protector of righteousness and the leader of the heavenly armies. His wings blaze with pure amber energy, symbolizing his strength and determination. Michael holds a sword of light, prepared to defend against any threat to divine order. His presence is intense and commanding, inspiring courage in those who follow him and fear in those who oppose him. He is the ultimate force of justice and divine power.

Gabriel – The majestic archangel of revelation and messenger of God, Gabriel carries an aura of peace and divine wisdom. With wings of amber light that spread gracefully, he brings messages of hope and guidance from the divine realms. Gabriel’s presence is serene, calm, and full of grace. His trumpet symbolizes his role in delivering important divine messages, sounding the call to awakening and transformation. He is the voice of clarity, speaking the words of the heavens.

Uriel – The majestic archangel of wisdom and enlightenment, Uriel stands as a radiant guide, holding an orb of divine knowledge. His amber wings shine with the light of ancient truths and higher understanding. Uriel’s presence is calm yet powerful, representing insight, foresight, and the illumination of the mind. He is the one who brings clarity in confusion and light to those walking in darkness, offering the wisdom of the ages and a connection to the divine mysteries.

Samael – The mythical archangel of death – The majestic archangel of wisdom and enlightenment, Samael stands as a radiant guide, holding an orb of divine knowledge. His amber wings shine with the light of ancient truths and higher understanding. Uriel’s presence is calm yet powerful, representing insight, foresight, and the illumination of the mind. He is the one who brings clarity in confusion and light to those walking in darkness, offering the wisdom of the ages and a connection to the divine mysteries. destruction, Samael is a figure of mystery and power. His wings of amber energy exude an ancient, almost primordial force. Known as both an angel of death and a figure of temptation, Samael walks the line between divine judgment and rebellion. His role in balancing creation and destruction gives him a complex and enigmatic nature. His presence is both alluring and terrifying, embodying the mythic forces of life and death intertwined.

Azrael – The fierce archangel of death, Azrael stands as the guide for souls transitioning from life to the afterlife. His wings burn with amber intensity, signaling his role in escorting souls through their final journey. Azrael’s presence is both comforting and formidable, representing the inevitability of death and the solemn duty of releasing souls from the physical realm. His fierce demeanor reflects his role as the angel of death, who stands firm in the face of life’s greatest transition.

Raphael – The mythical archangel of healing and protection, Raphael’s wings shimmer with a soft yet powerful amber light. His presence is one of warmth, healing energy, and divine care. Raphael holds a staff, the symbol of his connection to health and the healing arts. His aura is infused with a gentle strength, capable of mending both physical and spiritual wounds. As the healer of God, Raphael guides and protects those in need of restoration, bringing peace and harmony wherever he goes.

[anika-ann]

Ochraňuj me (Protect Me) - sneak peek

Pairing: Knight Steve Rogers x witch!reader Word count (peek): 600 previous installments: Pomiluj mě -Love Me Tender and Očaruj mě -Bewitch me

Warnings: mentions of death; plus you might be a tad lost if you haven't read the previous fics

He nuzzled his face in your hair, his chest expanding with a generous inhale, a steadying breath which made his heart race faster, as if attempting to outrun the very storm you had felt arriving.

You ran your hands down his broad back, feeling your own heart leaping into your throat as the silence between you, often so sweet and comforting, stretched ominously.

“Steven… love,” you whispered, attempting to shift in his embrace, only achieving his hold growing firmer, his muscles almost shaking with effort. Oh Steven… What terrible feat had been laid upon him? “What has happened?”

Finally releasing your body, his hands were quick to cradle your face instead, achingly gentle, even as his eyes roamed your face wordlessly, brimming with so much emotion it stirred your unease further.

“Rytier moj?”

Steven’s face softened minutely, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as tenderly as butterfly wings despite the power – or the lack of it – in his grip.

“My love…”

Lips curling in a tiny smile, you mirrored Steven’s affection, reaching to settle your palm against his cheek, fingers of your other carding through his hair; you heart fluttered when he leaned into your touch, a wavering breath escaping his lips before they pressed against your palm to sooth the scratch of his beard against your skin.

Despite the dulcet image he made, eyes fluttering close for a blissful moment of nothing but love shared, you felt his body pulse with anxious urgency seemingly seeping into your fingertips.

“I did not sleep well…” you confessed, his already pursed lips turning down. “I had a heavy feeling in me. Now I know the gods had not warned me simply for their own whims. What’s happened?”

Steven opened his eyes again; with a single caress of the breeze, he straightened, his aura of a knight – a fierce protector, a loyal friend, a humble determined servant – returning with its full force as did his worry.

“I need your help.”

A simple plea.

A simple answer.

“Always, rytier moj. Anything,” you promised.

One would expect relief to fill your lover’s features; instead, dread twisted them into a frown of dismay. Almost as if he had been hoping for your rejection.

Why?

The whisper of death among the trees grew louder, haunting, sending such a shudder through your body not even your lover’s warmth could hope to protect you from it, another urgent question scratching at the back of your mind.

Death, the trees seemed to whisper.

Whose death?

“Oh bosorka moja…”

Not Steven’s. Never. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

And not your child’s. You’d claw a throat open with your bare hands had anyone tried to take them away. Take her away. You had dreamed two nights prior, dreamed of a girl with Steven’s beautiful eyes and your hair caressed by the wind, her laughter filling the air as he sat her on his shoulders and she placed the daisy crown on his head-

The image had been so full of hope, so bright, so full of promise; it battled the current scent of death fiercely, one blending into another, and it felt you were stood in the middle.

Your choice. Your power. Your victory; or your loss.

You gulped, your gentle hold on Steven’s face growing shaky; with fear or the weight of responsibility, you weren’t sure.

“What is it, love? You are worrying me… come in. Tell me what weights down your-“

“Prince Anthony has been poisoned,” he said at last.

The whisper of the wind turned into a screech of a gale, even as the tree leaves and grass barely rustled.

Bringing drama, y'all! But don't kill me just yet!

...after all, there might be two parts, because have you met me?

May your September start well 💕

[librivore42]

A gift for the fearsomely talented @codenameyan! I hope you enjoy these Hawke siblings! :D

Mild warning for mentions of the blight nibbling away at you

717 words

Every time Carver caught sight of his reflection, he was relieved to not see the Blight looking back.

To look into the face of a ghoul, or a Warden nearing their calling, was to see the Blight staring back at you, breath rattling in broken lungs, still audible in nightmares. Mapped along the blank eyes, the lifeless skin, the ever-dying while still being somehow alive. It wasn't the same with Darkspawn, who had always been that way. But watching something alive and real bend and twist to that internal rot—

Ghouls gave him more shivers than Darkspawn ever could, simply because of what they used to be. To know that the only mercy they could give them was at the end of a blade, to know that one day, perhaps sooner rather than later, it would be him.

At the time he'd been furious. Another decision made for him, forced into a place of needing to be helped as his sister leapt to the fore. To solve a problem that should never have been, a death that should never have raised its head at all.

A death now only deferred, delayed. Decided. Choice denied.

Thinking back on it now, it was stupid to be so upset about it. Of course he hadn't wanted to die. He'd likely have chosen the Wardens in the end. If he'd been given the choice at all.

But none of them had realised this slow death would come with a life. A life. His shoulders had ached to have some weight, some responsibilty that was his and his alone, some acknowledgement that he was more than his sister's brother.

Stepping out from her shadow had been blinding at first. Whether she'd meant to cast that shadow or not, it had taken up his entire sky; he could never stretch far enough to see what he looked like on his own. Now, for however long it lasted, he was in the light and the open air. Grim, messy, ugly though it was, it was his. His mistakes, his victories, they were all his.

A scuffle with another new recruit, hot, angry, full of young chips on shoulders and a need to prove. Whispers, rolled eyes, another hothead with nowhere to go but down.

A drink at the fireside, cheeks still stinging from the blows. Laughter. Some stupid joke he doesn't even remember. Other smiles, scoffs, asking him who he'll fight next.

Training, going through the old motions he'd gone through as a child, now fully realised. A warrior. A protector.

A challenge. Pushing each other higher. Further. Always higher and further to keep out of reach of the claws.

The quiet, grim sorrow of a burial. The circle shrinks. Shrinks.

A Warden's life was a heavy one. But it was one that was his.

The old Carver would have bristled at the idea of going back to Kirkwall, to risk falling under that massive shadow again. But as they moved through the streets, paved with confusion and blood, making their slow and heavy way to the Viscount's Keep, the new Carver had so many more things to concern himself with.

In the main hall of the Keep, his sister, standing tall and fierce over the downed Arishok's body, turned to look at him. And for a moment of confusion and deeply buried panic that he would deny, he swore he was looking into the face of the Blight.

He was being ridiculous of course. The Blight had not sunk its way into her flesh, her blood, thrumming into her skin forever, like it had done for him.

And yet her skin was lifeless, her eyes dull. Dying from the inside out.

The scar which she'd slashed open on a branch while chasing him when she was twelve had long scabbed over and healed before they'd even reached Kirkwall. A red-line memory of tears and shouting, just one of many that had bitterness colouring its edges.

It was open again.

A coincidence, surely. Somehow she'd sustained a wound in the exact same place. The same length. The same depth. The same angry, bleeding red.

She was so large, so tall, so overshadowing in every possibly way. A tree like that could not simply rot. Could not simply fall.

A coincidence. It had to be.