#fixed braces price

[thousandsmilesdentalclinic]

Fixed braces are dental appliances with brackets and wires that steadily align teeth and fix bite issues. They're effective for complex cases. Today, we'll explore how you can achieve your dream smile affordably.

[threnodians]

i have multiple cavities right now due to being in a depression slump since october and they hurt a lot and are sensitive and uncomfortable but i literally cannot fucking afford to go to the dentist so 🤷🏼‍♀️ i guess they’ll just rot in my skull ✨

[chatfieldbraces]

To gain full clarity on which braces option makes the most economic sense for your smile goals, turn to expert local orthodontists like Chatfield Dental Braces. Their orthodontists provide free consultations to examine your teeth and outline personalized treatment options with pricing breakdowns. Clinics across London and Cahtfield, Battersea.

Chatfield Braces, Invisalign London also offers interest-free monthly payment plans to make care more affordable for patients. Visit them online to learn more aboutclear smile aligner price London or call to book your first evaluation.

[dead-end-draws]

WOF tribe Merchant/Trading booth concepts:

Hey folks! This one was the recent winner of this WOF poll, so here’s my concept art that headcannons trading in Pyrrhia.

Read below cut for close-ups of the individual booths + the thought process / headcannons behind the design choices: 👇

Skywings: The Sky Kingdom’s mountain ranges provide plenty of pasture for raising sheep. As such, Skywing shepherds benefit from traveling to sell their wool, dyes, fabric, and woven tapestries. Many of these merchant tables also include herbs grown exclusively in the mountains, or ibex drinking horns that can be strapped on a dragon’s shoulder & carried in flight.

Along with goods, Skywing merchants may offer sewing services to fix tears, burn marks, or other fabric damage. They are sought out for their quality clothing, and most fabric across Pyrria originated from a Skywing’s talons.

Mudwings: Mudwings’ abundant food & cooking skills are envied almost anywhere in Pyrrhia. Their swamps have fertile soil, responsible for hosting diverse crops which can be purchased as produce at merchant stalls. For those lucky enough to find a traveling Mudwing merchant, the promise of a delicious dish can be whipped up and served at the stall in no time. Along with produce goods, Mudwings sell weaved baskets, spices, and cooking ware.

Sandwings: Sandwing booths offer luxuries of the desert: It’s most common to find accessories such as gold carved jewelry or musical instruments such as drums, lyres, & mandolins for sale. Though, even more sought out across Pyrrhia is Sandwing tattoos/piercings, which are done within the merchant areas. Ink etchings on papyrus paper are stationed outside their tents to showcase designs. All which can be selected, and poked into the skin with a tapping stick and plant dye ink by a trained talon.

Seawings: SeaWings sell a variety of ocean related goods; taking a share in the fish market with Icewings. Outside of food, there are den decorations like driftwood carvings, accessories such as seashell & pearl jewelry, and rope nets weaved by expert Seawing sailors. Some Seawings even sell fishing equipment, canoes, or offer sailor knot tying instructions to curious dragon buyers.

Nightwings: During the war, it was near impossible to find a Nightwing merchant. Most refused to participate in merchant territory, mostly as a way to keep up with their tribe’s mysterious nature.

Though in the more shady, unground parts of the market you can buy from a huge selection of obsidian weaponry, the sharpest in Pyrrhia. No one knew initially how Nightwings smithed so many weapons, or why, until their secret volcano kingdom and the intention to invade the rainforest was discovered. Then forging armor & weapons became clear. Along with a vast armory, for the right price, some Nightwing merchants offer Prophecies & Nightwing Literature (not always guaranteed to always be reliable) and assassin services as well (very reliable).

Rainwings: Though Rainwings haven’t been part of Pyrrhia trading for years, they have a vast hold on dragon medicine. An apothecary of herbs, salves, and remedies are all offered for various ailments due to the rainforest’s abundant resources. Along with medicinal goods, many Rainwings are fruit vendors, promising to any hesitant meat-eating dragons that such an array of flavors isn’t to be missed. Though, their fruit selling pitches often fall flat to most other predominantly meat-eating tribes.

Icewings: Icewings have everything a dragon could need to brace the cold, with a selection of goods only found in the most frigid regions of Pyrrhia. Furs, bone jewelry, and fresh fish (thanks to frost breath) are served on ice. Though Icewings themselves don’t require fur to withstand the cold, it’s considered fashionable and common in upper ranks to wear fur as a status symbol. Since metal is hard to smith without fire & in cold temperatures, fur and bone are more accessible to Icewings for clothing statements.

[uhohdad]

(18+) John Price x Reader - Spanking ♡

WARNING: NON-CONSENSUAL THEMES

John Price absolutely believes in corporal punishment :(

If you’re acting like a brat, he’ll remedy it by throwing you over his knee, holding you tight while you try and squirm away. Locking you down with a sturdy arm over your waist and a leg slung over the back of your knees as you thrash and throw demands you’re in no position to be making.

“What are you doing?! Stop it!”

“Oh no, sweetheart, you’ve been begging for this.”

He’s not afraid to manhandle you, roughly yanking your pants down to your thighs and bunching your panties up to expose your plush ass to him.

The first open palm strike that lands makes you gasp, intensifying the kicking and writhing in his unforgiving grip. He doesn’t fold, keeping you steady with a rigid hold to give you a matching handprint on the other side.

“It’ll be easier for everyone involved if you just let it happen.”

His hits aren’t too painful, but they are hard enough to leave behind a stinging bite that compounds with each strike. John knows it’s not just about the pain - it’s about the humiliation of being bent over his knee with your pretty panties and ass on display, knowing anyone in the vicinity could very well hear your embarrassing punishment. It’s a clear reminder of who’s in charge and what will happen if you step out of line again - that back talk will not be tolerated, because all you are to him is a little girl who doesn’t know her place.

“Cap-Captain!”

“S’okay. You need this.”

His hardened, experienced palm has no problem navigating your squirms, landing his slaps to the height of your ass without fail, alternating sides to make sure he leaves you with an even burn.

You sputter and squeak hit after hit, the repeated, intimidating crack of flesh-on-flesh echoing throughout his office. The crease of your middle is forced against his thigh and your body lurched forward under the force of each increasingly strict swat. His disciplined and evenly-timed strikes have you braced for the next impact before it even lands. You find yourself fighting the pain instead of him, your hands scratching at his legs and your thighs wriggling to expel the stinging sensation his hands bring.

“There we go, that’s it. No need to fight it. You know you needed it.”

His smacks have steadily turn merciless, the pain of his stern hands much harder to swallow. His pace quickens, giving you less time to recover between the burn of each relentless swat. While you’re choking on your own gasped breaths and the broken high-pitched whines coaxed from your throat, you finally give into him. Submitting to his will and lulled by his rhythmic strikes, your mind gone blank, unable to focus on anything other than the next anticipated bite of his unyielding hands.

Reduced to a drooling, limp, sobbing mess splayed across his thighs, his free hand no longer keeping you from thrashing, but offering soothing rubs on your back as he rounds out his final harsh smacks, each sure to elicit a cry and leave behind a handprint. A tender hand follows his last hit, smoothing over your welted backside while you whimper over his lap.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, you’re all done.”

You can’t find it in your right mind or your trembling limbs to pull yourself up anytime soon, but John forgivingly fixes your panties for you, his careful fingers brushing across your warmed, punished ass before he gently tugs your pants back up. He gives calming, feather-light strokes over your sore backside, waiting patiently for you to find your bearings.

You can’t look at him once you slowly bring yourself to a sit, tears welled in your eyeline and your face just as warm as the evidence of your punishment. When he prompts an embrace, though, you all but throw yourself into his arms, burying your burning face into his chest while he holds you tight in his strong arms. From your hiding spot, his words are just a vibration against your cheek.

“Are you my good girl now?”

When you give a silent nod into his shirt, he hums in approval, tracing his fingers up and down your back until you’ve calmed down. He makes you promise him you’ll behave before he sends you on your way with a gentle pat on your backside and your pride in his reddened palm.

John will pretend he didn’t notice the puddle of arousal that stained your pretty panties after your spanking, so long as you pretend you didn’t notice the strain in his pants that had been flush against your side from the moment he put you over his lap. ♡

♡ UHOHDAD’S DRABBLE MASTERLIST ♡

[ohmygraves]

i'm coming down with a flu i think so how about some ghost taking care of sick!reader?

when you wake up in the morning, you feel like you have swallowed pieces of glass in your sleep. your eyes felt hot, watering as you tried to rub it away to no avail. your sinuses felt awful too, you can't breathe properly through your nose. and worst of all you noticed that it's not even morning anymore, as the clock on your nightstand says 13:47 instead.

you started to panic, of course, you missed work and worried about getting in trouble with your boss, frantically searching for your phone. you saw it being charged just beside the clock (not where you left it, clearly you always fell asleep on your phone so it should be on the bed), confused as you unplugged it. your husband must've charged it on your behalf.

expecting for the worst, you braced for at least 53 missed calls from your boss and coworkers, though finding none instead. this surprises you, as you clearly know that your boss would've eaten you alive if you didn't return his calls, let alone missing most of the work hours.

simon suddenly walked in, placing a cup of hot honey lemon concoction on the nightstand. this confuses you evenmore.

"aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"well, you're at home yourself, love. aren't you supposed to be at work?"

when you rolled your eyes in annoyance, simon couldn't help but chuckle, sitting down beside you on your shared bed.

"asked th' old man to let me stay home today. said i'll get the whole base sick with the germs i carried to work."

as ridiculous as it sounds, at least it makes a lot of sense. you took a small tentative sip from the cup, flinching from the temperature. you didn't expect it to be so hot, then again simon always liked his beverages scalding.

"what about my work—"

"called your workplace for you, sweetheart. just rest for now, you sound worse than price today."

"you're so mean..."

"well i love you too."

he stood up, giving your head a small pat, his lips curled into a small smile. "i'll get you some food so you can take your meds."

you nodded weakly, unsure what else to say now since now your head feels like it's spinning. you placed the hot cup back on the nightstand, not wanting to spill it and getting hot lemon all over the bed or the carpet. no way in hell you're cleaning all the mess when you can't even stand up.

you must've fallen asleep afterwards, as simon woke you up, a bowl of hearty cream soup in hand. it has all of your favorite things in it, and smells surprisingly good. that's odd, simon doesn't really cook.

"where'd you buy this...?" you asked, clearly can't see him cooking this from scratch.

"i made this for you, love. now stop being snarky and eat it."

you didn't even have the energy to protest, just taking small bites from the bowl. it was surprisingly tasty, although a little too salty for you. some of the vegetables are also a little undercooked. now this is more like what you expected.

"not bad, gordon ramsey."

"still have the energy to joke around, i see."

"it's a compliment, simon."

now it was his turn to roll his eyes, sitting beside you and watching you eat his food. you pointed out how it tasted, and what he might have to fix next. he nodded quietly, hand caressing your hair slowly as he listened.

"i didn't get any call or text from work... what did you do?"

"just a little convincing, nothing big."

he didn't mention (vaguely) threatening your boss, or how he basically begged the captain to stay home today so he could take care of you instead. you don't need to know that.

[syoddeye]

the warren, part four - nothing

price x f!reader | 4.5k words part one - bait | part two - fix | part three - trouble tags: harassment, alcohol, violence, weird and unsettling vibes, darkfic. a/n: peeling away reader's layers. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Light beckons you out from the makeshift burrow you furiously dug beneath your bed, breaking through pilled walls of linen. It pulls you from sleep, reluctantly at first, then all at once when visions of the night before rush back in a deluge. It’s enough to momentarily forget your shelter, wincing as you smack your skull into the timber frame. Your muscles ache from laying awake for hours, curled in a tight ball, both cowering and vigilant. Prepared to defend yourself from whatever clawed the walls, should it have climbed in through the window.

You hold your breath, count to ten, and listen. The hammering of a woodpecker. Robins, wrens, and bluebirds singing. Squirrels and chipmunks chattering. The idyllic sounds of nature are not enough to banish the deep scratching from your ears. Not enough to erase the nightmare that the daylight apparently keeps at bay.

It’s privately embarrassing, fighting your way out of the sheets and blankets. Squeezing out from under the bed in a huff. You dress hastily into simple jeans and a t-shirt, somehow rationalizing that if whatever is out there is actually cathemeral, you won’t want to be caught in a dress.

Eyes wide and head swiveling, you make the short journey from the bedroom to the kitchen a step at a time. Nothing appears amiss. Your phone is in your bag on the table where you left it, and your wallet is undisturbed.

Summoning your courage with a chef knife, you steel yourself to check the exterior. You brace yourself for carnage, but only dull gravel stretches before you. Your car sits unmoved. The carport still sags. There are no downed trees or flattened brush on the perimeter. Even the cats, flitting about the yard, seem unperturbed. They stare, pupils constricted in judgment, as you start to circle the cabin.

You pause at the turn that’ll take you beneath the window of the cabin’s bedroom, where the scratching emanated. The knife is slippery in your palm from sweat, your stomach in knots. Inch by inch, you force your feet to move.

Nothing. More nothing.

The walls are unscathed. Devoid of any marks save by what seems natural. The discovery, or lack thereof, leads you to complete a loop, then another. You walk around the cabin four times looking for any sign of the nightmare, and find no scratches, footprints, or other signs of a large animal.

Inside, you feed the knife into the block by the sink and stare into your warped reflection in the faucet. Maybe you ate something bad at dinner.

In the washroom, you reach for your toothbrush and catch air. It takes a second to register why and another to race to the screened porch. You unbolt the door, throw it open, and…Empty. You check behind the glider and its ottoman. Nothing . Not so much as a splatter of toothpaste or dried spit.

The hair on the nape of your neck stands electrified, blood buzzing. Looking through the fine mesh of the screen, a thin calico struts past. It stops, assessing your dumbfounded look, then continues, ducking beneath your car.

You swallow, mouth dry and stale. John said he’d speak with you about the car, and the store ought to be open. Suppose you’ll visit him sooner rather than later.

~~

John isn’t alone. A dirt bike occupies the spot beside his truck.. Through the door, you see a man at the counter, and rather than interrupt the conversation, you delay and check the kittens.

They’re behind the shop now, on the back porch of the connected living space. Curious heads poke over the ridge of their tub, and all but a brave tabby scurry clamber out to scamper under the steps. The remaining kitten allows a single touch, then tucks itself into the corner, staring as if it doesn’t know what to make of you. A half-eaten pile of wet food sits atop the straw. You imagine John leaving it, whispering to the little things. It’s sweet. For his backward opinions on animals, he doesn’t neglect them.

After a few minutes, you can’t dawdle anymore. Your mouth tastes sour. The single mint from the bottom of your bag is a poor substitute for hygiene. The man’s head turns when the electronic chime above the door sounds your entry.

Pushing your sunglasses to the top of your head, your eyes widen at the unobstructed view.

The man is big. The term ‘cornfed’ comes to mind, but that doesn’t seem fitting. He looks like he’d give Paul Bunyan a run for his money in a cage match—taller and broader than John, with buzzed blond hair and enough scars to suggest he fought a wood chipper and won. 

In your gut, it feels as though you shouldn’t look at him directly.

John straightens, chest puffing out. “Be with you in a moment.”

You nod in response and duck into the first aisle, though the man turns his head, getting a good look at you with how he towers above the shelves. It’s a standoff for all of three seconds before the corner of his mouth twitches, and he turns back. You pretend to find the canned tuna fascinating after that. This isn’t any of your business.

The men talk in hushed tones. Not a word rises above a whisper. Minutes pass, and you’ve memorized everything between the tuna and green beans. Peeking between tins, you see John’s brow low and stern, mouth flat, painting a picture of disappointment. He cards a hand through his hair. Whatever stresses him, his exasperation breaks the quiet.

“The second you know, call me.”

It’s at this moment, of course, he catches you looking. He offers a quick smile, then jerks his head. The man moves, and you scuttle as nonchalantly as possible to hide behind the endcap. You watch his head float above the shelves until he exits and stay there until John speaks.

“Got a sweet tooth?”

You blink, taking stock of the colorful display of cookies and candy in front of you. Sheepishly, you emerge from your hiding spot. “No. I just didn’t want to intrude.”

John chuckles, head bowed. “So polite.”

The toiletries have a clear view of John. In his hand sits a phone, much newer than the brick you’ve seen him use before. Whatever’s on the screen holds his attention. He pinches something—an image or video?—and zooms. Curiosity grips you, but it’s really not your business, though questions itch your throat. It isn’t until you pluck a toothbrush from a hook and step in his direction that his eyes flick up. He locks the phone, casually tucking it into a pocket. “That’s it? Did you misplace yours?”

The question makes the tips of your ears hot. You slowly dig out your wallet, cobbling together a white lie. What are you supposed to say? That you dropped it because of a bump in the night and subsequently, something, probably a rat with your luck, stole it? It doesn’t make sense, and you don’t want to be labeled nuts. You don’t know what you heard. You didn’t even see it. On the walk down, you concluded that it was most likely a cougar or bear after a cat and that you were very, very lucky. That a critter found a hole in the screen and made off with your toothbrush. Somehow, it all comes out as—

“I once read you’re supposed to replace them every six weeks, so. Oh! I’ll take one of those, too.” The lie rushes out. Hopefully, the novelty fish-shaped pocket knife you point at distracts him.

John smooths a finger over his mustache, eyes twinkling with an amusement you know means he doesn’t believe you, but he lets you get away with it. “Right.”

As he clips off the tag, you maintain a distance to spare him your breath.

“Don’t s’pose you’ve heard from Nik, have you?”

He slides the folded blade across the counter. “I have. He’d like to meet in person at his shop. Noon work?”

The sooner, the better. “Yes. Can I get a lift?”

John grins. “Well, I’m not gonna let you walk.”

~~

Your car is down for the count, but nothing that Nikolai can’t fix, or so he claims. The rundown of its issues is lost in translation, a dizzying volley of jargon. The Russian man’s another mystery you can’t afford to press, given he’s the only mechanic in the area willing to do the work on the cheap. It doesn’t soften the blow when you learn the necessary parts won’t arrive for weeks. But what other choice do you have? You fork over an eye-watering amount of money, knowing precisely how lean your account will stand when the transaction clears. John and Nik excuse themselves to the office afterward, and the former politely asks you to wait by the truck.

The auto shop slash junkyard sits deep into the woods, nestled at the foot of a ridge at the base of Mount Grouse. A labyrinth of rust and metal that snakes into the surrounding trees. Boat hulls, machinery, wrecked cars, and the like litter almost every square inch of the ground. You wander around, scanning crumpled plates on flattened cars. Crouching to examine one such plate from New Jersey or New Hampshire, something New , a prolonged meow draws your attention. You catch the tip of a tail as it disappears around the corner of the shop and inwardly sigh. Another feral cat.

A path wraps around the building, and a hefty tomcat sits at the far end. His tail twitches, beckoning, if you didn’t know any better. The men aren’t finished, so you follow.

Of course, he darts off as soon as you’re close. He scurries toward an upturned pallet leaning against the sheer rock wall—next to a heavy-duty iron gate. You’ve attended enough family days and mine tours to know an adit when you see one. Memories as sharp as a pickaxe hook your ribs, stealing your breath away.

The sight pulls you forward, but a voice calls you back.

“Taking yourself on a tour?”

Nik stands at the opposite end of the path with an amused smile.

Shaking off the sudden swell of emotion as best you can, you glance at the sealed entrance. This is Idaho. This is a mountain. It’s simple math to deduce it’s an old mine shaft. You drag your feet toward Nik. Apprehension unseats the grim memories swirling in your head.

“Sorry. I saw a cat.” You confess lamely, looking past him to see John slowly pace a short distance down the drive, phone to his ear.

“Ah, one of my employees.” Nik humors. “They help keep the rats out of my business.”

“Well, I haven’t seen so much as a mouse.” You attempt to appease and shove your hands in your pockets, fiddling with the puny knife you bought.

Nik nods. “Yes, they’re very good at their jobs. Good thing you’re not a rat, hm?” 

Your smile falters, but you politely laugh. “Yeah, good thing,” You dig your nails into the knife handle until it hurts, wishing John’s call would end already. 

Nik’s lips thin in a sage expression, then huffs, clapping a filthy hand on your shoulder. “Yes. Not a rat, no.” He ignores your wince. “You strike me more as a rabbit. A bunny.” He throws his head back and laughs, coughing a bit as it crests. A word or two of Russian slips out.

“What's so funny?” 

Finally, John crosses the shop’s yard, and Nik immediately lets go. 

“He said that I strike him as a rabbit?” You respond, hoping he can shed light.

John’s face pinches, then he shakes his head. “It’s a bad joke. Is she set, Nik?” 

The Russian affirms with a wheeze and waves his hand as if to sweep you away. “Yes. Hop along now, rabbit.”

You stiffly climb into the truck, grateful when the junkyard disappears in the rearview, swallowed by the trees. John doesn’t speak until he turns onto the road.

“Sorry about Nik.”

“I know he didn’t mean anything by it.” You’ve met worse men than Nik, with far worse ‘jokes’. 

Another brief silence passes before John cranks the window and invites the cool breeze to cut through the truck’s cab. He takes a deep breath, an uncertain look on his face. “That was a friend on the phone, the one who’s gonna assist with your paperwork, if you’re still interested in the job.”

The contents of your stomach churn. The job slipped your mind, what with everything else. 

“I am. They’re fine with, um, taking creative liberties?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, there’s a catch. I’ll need some legitimate information for my own records to create a believable paper trail. He’ll take it from there.”

Your head spins, forcing your eyes shut for fear of car sickness. It’s been years since you filled out a form with your legitimate information, you didn’t need to. When you purchased your fake ID, the man asked for a phony name and address, and you bit your nails to the beds as Kate processed your application. It’s a mix of luck, half-assed security, the average person’s everyday indifference, and your dwindling cash that you’ve made it this far. And the confidence with which John speaks, as if it’s all really that simple and routine, doesn’t help. But it’s like the car: what choice do you have? Scrape by on shady writing jobs posted to message boards or allow the man with no qualms of committing fraud and forgery, a man who likes you, to do you a favor?

You don’t notice the truck’s stopped, idling, until John settles a wide hand over your knee. He gazes at you, eyes the softest you’ve seen, and wears a sympathetic smile. “You can trust me.”

Someone else’s face eclipses his for a split second. You push it away. John’s the first person to stick their neck out for you in a long time. That is worth something. You lay your hand on his and squeeze.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

~~

You ‘pass’ the ‘background check’ with flying colors. John takes you to the Foxhole to celebrate and introduces you to its regulars as his new shop girl. It’s a bit much, but the buzz from the beer and excitement from securing actual employment keep you in high spirits. He summons you to work the next day and spends the morning showing you the ropes of what he promises to be an uncomplicated job. By that afternoon, you’re on duty.

Time passes with relative normalcy. The possible bear or cougar incident fades to background noise. The shop is as straightforward as promised. Business rapidly picks up shortly after you start, as does activity across both towns. The lake teems with boats. The Foxhole’s parking lot fills every night. The Lakeshore Arms motel is booked.

You haven’t worked regularly since you were a teenager, but it’s strangely pleasant. Akin to those early days on the road, savoring the taste of independence. Out from under a steel-toed boot and reacquainting yourself with personhood. Sure, you’re not changing the world stocking shelves or chatting with tourists, but you’re earning money, and John’s a better boss than he is a date.

John’s also a better handyman, and Kate keeps him busy with a laundry list of improvements and repairs for the cabin. He turns up bright and early on weekend mornings with his toolbag in hand. Kate apparently worries about energy costs and regularly tasks him with installing energy-efficient features across her properties. A new shower head, LED bulbs, and another dozen minor fixes. He even patches the mesh on the screened porch. You do not complain, luxuriating in longer showers without an ounce of guilt.

Weeks go by before John leaves you alone at the store. He’s been making inventory trips to Ponderosa in the evenings to avoid it, but a beer shortage necessitates it. It takes convincing, but he eventually piles into his truck, waving a hand in departure. Manning the ship alone proves smooth sailing. Mostly.

You hear them before you see them. A trio of raucous voices and whooping laughter—sounds you and the lone female customer share a look at. She hustles to the counter just as three men burst in, shirtless, reeking of beer, and delightfully, blasting music from a phone. Plastering a smile to your face, you ring the woman up and watch her hurriedly exit before the men notice her. You wish you could follow.

The first man to spot you elbows his buddy, the clear ringleader. They make a show of browsing the aisles, tossing various items at one another, lobbing them over the shelves. As you pretend to be utterly engulfed in an old hunting magazine, you see them exchange smirks and obscene gestures in your periphery. They’re smart enough to keep whatever comments they make quiet, but your disinterest isn’t enough to deter them from their shopping. A couple of six-packs, chip bags, and energy drinks appear in view on the counter, covering the magazine and forcing you to finally acknowledge them.

“Hey babe,” The ringleader grins. “Sorry to interrupt your reading, but mind grabbing that apple chew for me?”

Disgusting, unsurprising, and dreadfully reminiscent. “Sure thing. ID for it and the beer?”

He forks it over with an indignant huff, his friends snickering. Unfortunately, Nash is of age. You turn and rise on your toes, only for a bolt of humiliation to surge down your spine at the sound of a low whistle.

You nearly fumble the tin, cheeks aflame, and you spin and slam it on the counter. The men laugh at your embarrassment, eyes lit up with booze and cocksure grins on their sunburnt faces. 

Nash leans, encroaching on your space. The scuffed laminate makes for a poor shield. “You a local?”

“Yes.” You hiss out, terse.

The man on the left elbows Nash again. “Ooh, a country bumpkin.”

“More like a country pumpkin. You’re pretty cute, you know that?”

“Thanks.” You fly through checkout and reach for the chew. Nash’s hand flattens over it.

“Just trying to make conversation, Christ. What happened to smiling for the customers, baby?”

You force a painfully fake smile. “Can I ring you up for that? Or are you no longer interested?”

Nash straightens and sneers, voice booming louder and meaner. “Oh, I’m interested. Interested in what’s got your tits in a tangle.”

How quickly you shrink. You swallow, and a meek apology promptly slips out. 

“That’s more like it. Jesus. Here.” He aggressively slides the tin to the scanner, and you finish the sale. He grabs the receipt roughly, too, crumpling it into a ball. As his friends tote their purchases out the door, he lingers, smirking when you meet his gaze. “I’ll see you later, babe. At close. Seven o’ clock, right?” He tosses the receipt over his shoulder as he leaves, calling for his friends as they climb into a Wrangler.

For the next hour, you stare at the door and grip the knife in your pocket. Only when a familiar truck pulls into its usual spot, do you relax. John rumbles out a greeting with a tired smile, fetching the dolly. 

You can’t stop what spills out.

“Some creeps came by.” 

John pauses inside the door, half-turning toward you with a confused expression. His eyes scan the air, then drop to his watch. Without looking, he reaches for the door sign and flips it to ‘Closed’. 

“Right. Let me finish unloading, and then you tell me what happened.”

He’s irate, which is encouraging and refreshingly normal. Thankfully, he keeps it in check, but you see it in the set of his jaw and hard, focused stare as you recount what happened. Closing is a tense chore, one that passes quickly.

“Gonna make a call, then I’ll take you home.” He ducks out front, not offering a chance to refuse.

The call is brief. John beckons with a crooked finger within minutes. He locks up, and it’s in no time you’re parked outside the cabin. Fifteen minutes before your would-be suitor’s visit.

“Thanks, John. You didn’t have to do that.”

He waves off your words. “Nonsense. You won’t have to worry about somethin’ like that again. You’re gonna start accompanying me on inventory runs.”

Your brows raise. You won’t turn down weekly visits to Ponderosa. Aside from the diner, they have a library, and you’re out of books. “Really? But what about the store?”

“I’d rather close for a few hours a week than leave you alone.”

You’re keenly aware of all that John’s done for you. Tracking his favors and assistance in your head like a ledger. Finding your ID, fixing the light, helping with your car. Ferrying you about. It’s a helpful reference, tangible evidence that despite his faults and deficits, he is, on the whole, a good man.

“Will you stay for dinner? As a thank you for this and for the job?”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not. You’ve been nothing but good to me. I owe you.”

John looks pleasantly surprised. He kills the engine. “If you insist.”

~~

Dinner is lackluster. You know it is. You’ve never been a cook, and you didn’t learn when you were thrust into the kitchen and told to prepare food. To host. No one taught you, and the cookbooks borrowed from the library or neighbors might as well have been written in a dead language. With time, you learned to coupon and to stock staples. That the basics kept the peace and deflected ridicule. And, above all, as long as meals are hot and served on time, nobody’ll complain.

It doesn’t stop you from hunching over the stovetop, overthinking simple biscuits and gravy. Feeling John’s eyes from the table. The biscuits are rushed, and the gravy’s nowhere near as rich as you’d like, but he polishes his plate clean. He only asks if you have a beer, and you have precisely one.

After, it’s the date all over again. Having found your way to the couch to chat, you’re overly conscious of your proximity to John. Your attention is torn between his story and wondering if you should be so close. How it feels wrong, traitorous. Still, you’re careful with active listening, encouraging him to speak and nodding appropriately. Yet, he calls you on it, pausing with a wry smile.

“I’m not boring you to death, am I?” He gestures at his face. “Got a dreamy look in your eye. Somethin’ on your mind?”

Yes. Something in your stomach, too, and it’s not just your abysmal cooking. It’s strange, the onset of butterflies. It’s been ages since you felt their flutter. You’re undecided if their reemergence is a good thing or not. Experience says it’s too soon to tell, but in the moment—

“This is nice.”

“Yeah?” His smile stretches, pleased.

You worry your lip. How to put it. “I don’t…host people. At least I haven’t in, um, a long time.”

“Since before…?” The ‘Coming here’ is silent. Implied.

“Yes, when I left—” The next word lodges in your throat, caught in a sieve. You lick your lips and push to your feet. The dishes need doing. You shouldn’t’ve sat without washing them.

John gives you several minutes, a mercy. You can blame the heat in your hands and face on the piping hot water and its steam. He reaches around you, turns off the tap, and steals the towel on your shoulder. His hands engulf yours as he dries them, then lifts both to his face to kiss each scalded knuckle.

“I don’t know where you came from, or who you might’ve left behind,” He murmurs, his timbre deep and inviting. “But I can be patient. You’ll tell me in your own time, won’t you.”

Your eyes are open right up until his mouth slots over yours. Body shaking until he touches you. His lips are a little chapped, and his beard tickles, but it’s nicer than expected. Practiced and unhurried. He waits until you melt and slump against the counter to press further.

His tongue is warm and heavy, gentle yet intrusive. He hums, mapping your mouth at his leisure. Taking you apart with a single muscle. Like he’ll find the answers he wants, wedged between your teeth.

“John.” You gasp as his palms find your waist and drift south. His thumbs tuck under the hem of your shirt, rubbing circles into skin. Your fingers curl over his chest, feeling his groan before you hear it.

“That’s it, say my name.” He encourages.

Your breathing grows embarrassingly loud and labored. He chases every whimper and hitch, his kisses turning hungry with teeth. Your jaw finds the ground when his hands slide down to cup and squeeze your ass, hauling your hips together. He lazily grinds against you, dragging his hardening cock across your thigh, into your crotch. He noses your neck, grunting. You think you might pass out.

Instead, you think of him. His mouth and his hands and his body. His words, his promises—

A dingy pawnshop.

Your fists unfurl and push, then brace for the worst. “John.” 

He pulls away instantly, and you can hardly see the blue in his eyes. Beneath your palms, his chest shudders. Your heartbeat jumps. This is it.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I can’t.”

It’s gentlemanly, you think, his efforts to hide his disappointment. He lets it pass over his face and replaces it with an understanding look. “Alright.”

The warmth is unexpected and unfamiliar. You want to bask in it, but you shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I’m not ready.”

His thumb traces the apple of your cheek. “Like I said. I can be patient.”

~~~~

The call comes after midnight.

“Yeah?”

The purr of an engine competes with Simon’s stolid voice. “It’s done.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Hour away.”

Good. A decent distance. “All of them?”

“Two, instantly. Soap’s climbin’ a fuckin’ ravine to see to the third. Impaled on a tree, poor bastard.” Simon chuckles. “No one’s gonna see the car ‘til morning, maybe.”

John doesn’t answer immediately. From what his rabbit said, there ought to be enough alcohol in their systems to make the crash convincing. Another group of pissants who made the tragic mistake of getting behind the wheel absolutely smashed.

“Sir?”

“Finish up, and take the long way back.”

“Understood.”

The call ends, and his thoughts return to his rabbit. His little prevaricator. He pulls up the feeds on the smartphone, tapping through cameras to ensure she’s alone. A smug smile spreads across his face at seeing her nestled in bed, coiled in a ball. She’s slept better these past weeks and hardly stirs when his dog makes his rounds. Possessiveness curls in his chest, though he can’t help but covet the empty space beside her. 

One problem solved, another to go. She’s a clever thing, more resourceful and cunning than he initially assumed. Her reluctance would discourage him if he did not know better. It’s of no consequence in the long run.

He can sate his needs elsewhere for the time being.

[duskier]

If you ever wrote the 141 getting bullied by Fem!ghost, the lesbianism in me would go wild I fear (so like…you should totally do it ist saying)

(I'm unsure if this was just for fem Ghost or full fem 141 forgive me fkdjsnd if it isn't good lmk and I'll do better for u <3)

cw cucking (??) cw exhibitionism!! this is just Ghost fucking reader to show the guys how its done

I won't lie I feel like I did good here

I'm so sorry but fem Ghost in a regular 141 sounds like dyke HELL imagine all of these bumbling idiots talking about women like they can take girls home and play them like a instrument when they can't spell clit let alone find it!!

And the second they catch wind that Ghost is a lesbian? They aren't homophobic by a long shot, but suddenly Ghost gets deeper into 'the boys club'. They wanna talk women with Ghost. It's weird, crude, and Ghost can't help but pity the women they all go home to. Soap always asks really invasive questions about how lesbian sex even works, a ton of porn-centric ideas that make Ghost roll her eyes. Gaz mainly wants to guess at Ghost's type in women, keeps showing her girls in his dating apps to see which one catches her eye. Price is obviously curious himself about Ghost's love life, but keeps the most quiet about it.

...Soap gets a ton of bravado when he's drunk. He likes to let loose when they go to bars close to base, usually it isn't too intolerable. But then he brags about how he's the best lay in his town, 'just ask any girl'. Gaz makes a joke about being internationally ranked, to which Price punches his shoulder. They all look when Ghost snorts incredulously.

"Aye? Think you'd do better with that plastic, Lt?" Soap points at her using his whiskey glass, a small drop spilling onto the table with his carelessness.

Ghost narrows her eyes at him. Part of her just wants to deck him, as much of a little brother as he was to her. "I know I would, Sergeant."

...It's your lucky night. Gaz spotted you first, lips missing his straw repeatedly as his eyes fixes on you leaning over the bar. Price sees you next, jostles Soap to get his attention.

But when you look over to their booth, the only person you're looking at is the woman in the balaclava. Black compression shirt not hiding an inch of her bulk, wide shoulders and stomach hanging just over her belt line. Carabiner on a belt loop, and you know you've got to at least try. You'd misread flags before thanks to the stupid military base being so close by, but the sight of Ghost... too tempting.

You can't see Ghost’s entire face, but you see her eyes crinkle when you shyly bring her a drink. Her friends across from her in the booth offer you a seat on their side, but before you can reply, Ghost is patting her thigh. It shouldn't make you so weak in the knees, but it does, so you quickly sit yourself on her thigh.

The men's eyes are wide, fixed on Ghost- how'd she get you under her spell so fast? You don't really notice their looks, too busy drinking in the smell of her cologne, a thrill shooting up your spine at the feel of her hand on your back.

...Ghost gets the idea first. None of the team protests, if anything their eyes grow hungrier. It doesn't take much convincing for you, either. It's a strange request, sure, for three men and one woman to want to take you back to a hotel for the night. But Ghost reassured you-

"None o'em will lay a hand on you, love, you'll just be mine. They just need t'see, learn how to do things right. You mind helping me show them?"

When you nod, mind already imagining what was to come, she cups your cheek with a gloved hand, thumb stroking your soft skin. "There's a good girl. You'll be perfect."

...Within an hour, Ghost's got you naked and compliant in a hotel room down the way. You'd forgotten about the men watching you entirely within only a few minutes of Ghost's bare hands pulling you onto your lap. With one hand she's spreading your ass apart while her other hand slips a finger or two in you. You're bracing yourself with your hands on her chest, gasping with your forehead pressed to hers as she finds every which way to make you feel good in that position.

You don't even have to tell her when you're close. Stars shining behind closed eyelids you can hear her whispering just for you, "Go on, let them see you, pretty thing. You deserve it, cum for me."

After your shocks have worn off, she's kissing you through her mask as she lays you down. Hands caressing and exploring, never in a rush. The only clothes she removes are her gloves and rolling up her balaclava. You're only passingly upset Ghost won't take her actual clothes off- you're sure it had something to do with the dynamic between her and her team- she looks damn good with her strap hooked over her jeans anyway.

You're salivating when she gets her knees on each side of your head. Thumb pressing down on her silicon cock, guiding it between your pretty lips. "Just gotta get it ready f'me pet, then I'll give you what you need."

Her quiet little words of encouragement are all you need, emboldening you to suck it like you're getting paid to, thighs clenching together at the sound of her grumbling praise.

The men aren't touching themselves, despite them straining in their pants and shifting every so often. Their eyes glued to you, your own eyes glued to Ghost as she pulls back, thumb wiping your spit-slick lips clean.

When she lines herself up with you, she doesn't immediately bully herself in. She grinds herself against you, focusing her mental energy on everywhere else. Licking your neck, biting your ear, whispering praises just for you while her fingers tug at your tits.

"Look like a fuckin' dream, love. So good for me, they don't even deserve to see you like this..."

It's when your chest is heaving, your face is flushed, and your nails are clawing her back that she rears her hips back, the plastic expertly catching and slipping into your needy cunt. "Just like that pet, just fuckin'- like that-"

She was so affected, sounded so hoarse, it sent butterflies through you as she started fucking into you. Ghost was like a damned machine, fucking you through orgasm after orgasm, your mewls and desperate cries filling the room. Her arms are so strong around you, she's tearing you apart and holding you together all the same. Like nothing you'd ever had before, and she knows it.

"Think of me, next time you're in bed- with any man like them, yeah? Remember what you could be having instead, call me when he's pumped and gone. I'll take care of you pet, like no man could."

The front of her jeans are soaked from you by the time you finally tap her arm, entire form shaking from exhaustion. Ghost immediately accepts it, pulling out and unhooking her strap as you giggle light-headed at the wet spot you left on her pants. She cleans you up, wet washcloth and all. You try to tell her you don't need it, but the lukewarm cloth soothes your tender parts like she said it would. Dresses you herself because frankly, you're still boneless.

Wraps you in her big warm coat that smells like her cigarettes, tells you kindly she's gonna get you home safe. To the men behind her, the men you couldn't care less about, the men all politely sitting with their hands folded in their laps, she barks, "Do what you will here, clean up when you're done. I'll see you back on base."

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 9 - Pneumothorax

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Accidental injury with knife, descriptions of wounds, wound care, field medicine, allusions/symptoms of lung collapse, blood, ingestion of bodily fluids, gagging

Something your nightmares have never been able to truly capture is just how unnervingly easy it is to push a knife through flesh. The smallest knife cuts through Simon’s skin easier than the MRE packaging. Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes as he looks down at where you’ve pushed the knife into the side of his chest.

Everything is eerily still for a moment. And then he looks back up at you and grins so hard you can tell through the mask.

The knife slips from between your numb fingers. It stays lodged between his ribs for a moment before falling to the ground. You scramble to your feet to stand over his still kneeling form. “Oh god. Simon.”

The way you’d slipped and rolled must have put the knife exactly where it needed to be to slide around his vest. His shirt underneath is ripped enough that you can see pale skin and so much red blood. The wound is bubbling, blood thinning in the cold rain. “Oh, god, Simon, what do I do?”

“Punctured a lung,” he whispers, barely a breath.

“You need a doctor,” you say, and it feels stupid, so obvious, but, “I don’t know where we are. How am I supposed to call for help?”

“’M okay, Precious,” he grunts. And then he stands up, like he’s not at risk of lung collapse. He points at the muddy backpack that flew from your shoulder as you’d grappled with him. “Get the bag.”

The bag? “We’re not playing games anymore!”

“’S got medical supplies in it,” Simon answers. He crouches down to pick up his own pack, and his chest makes a wet sound. “’N another gift for you. C’mon, we’ll go back to the cabin.”

Your heart is in your throat, but at least the cabin has running water. With the medical supplies, you can at least try to clean him up before driving him to the nearest hospital. Wherever that might be. You prop his arm over your shoulder and do your best to brace his good side.“Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

As you start to walk, the edge of the roof is barely in view through the drizzle. You’re so glad you were already on your way back to the cabin when he’d tackled you. Why did you have the knife out? You’d been playing with it, cutting shapes into a big leaf. He should have seen it, he’d run at you from the side. But that’s why he got you something so small, right? So someone attacking you wouldn’t see it, so you could have the element of surprise.

“Call Price,” Simon says, suddenly, knocking you out of your worried spiral.

You look up at him, then at the cabin that’s barely ten meters away. “What?”

“Use my phone. You know the code,” he says again, “Call Price, tell him we’re at the empty north cabin.”

Before you can ask “What?” again, or even, “Who the hell is Price?”, he starts slumping into you. And then all 18 stones of him are in a semi-controlled fall. You try your best to not drop him, gasp when he hisses as your arm presses against the hole in his chest.

The only thing in your head, as Simon slumps into the mud, his blood all over your hands, is that the weather didn't hold out the way you both expected.

Simon’s phone isn’t on him, or in his little knapsack. It’s one of the scariest things you’ve ever done, leaving him there in the dirt to run into the cabin. At the same time, it’s… familiar. Leaving a man to die while you call for help that can’t possibly arrive in time.

This is different. The first time you’d stabbed a man, you’d meant to do it.

The cabin is a little abandoned thing that Simon had fixed up a bit in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the room you’d woken up in, it has a wet room style toilet and shower and a counter with a hot plate. The rest of the weirdly clean little building is just one empty room leading to the only external door.

You hand shakes as you paw through the pile of stuff in one corner of the main room. Simon’s left his battered old phone in the pocket of his jeans, like he always does. Your hands shake as you punch in his passcode. You’re jogging back to his side as soon as you select the only named contact in the phone.

By the time someone picks up, you’re back on your knees by Simon’s side, relieved to see his eyes fluttering.

“Price,” a man answers.

“Hello?” You try not to let your voice get to frantic. “Simon’s hurt. He said to call you. We’re at the north cabin.”

“Empty,” Simon grunts, barely audible.

“The empty one,” you clarify. The line is silent. “Hello?”

“He’s wounded?” Price asks, cool and almost distracted.

“Punctured lung,” you say. “He passed out, but he’s kind of conscious now.”

The man on the other end hums. “That does sound a bit serious.”

“Please,” you insist. “I don’t know where we are, please call an ambulance.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And then the line goes dead.

Your hands are shaking when you touch Simon’s face. “He hung up. Simon, I’m so sorry, he hung up. I don’t know if I can get you into the car. I don’t know if there’s enough time for anyone to get here.”

“’S fine, Precious,” he says, barely a whisper. He looks just as peaceful as if he was at home, in bed. The mud and blood and burbling chest wound ruin the illusion. “Been in worse shape’n this. Price’ll come.”

“We don’t need him here, we need you in a hospital!” It suddenly strikes you that Simon had mentioned medical supplies. “Should I try to stop the bleeding? Gauze and pressure, right?” You grab the backpack and tear it open. There’s gauze, antiseptic gel, and bandage wraps. You also find a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Splash of alcohol first,” Simon says, closing his eyes. When you slap him, he glares up at you with one eye. “Oi.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me!”

“’M no’. Just restin’ m’eyes.”

“Not that either!” The way his accent is becoming more pronounced, and his words more slurred, sets your already galloping heart racing. You uncap the alcohol and tip it, not at all gently, over the wound. “Stay awake.”

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell,” Simon growls, followed by a pained wheeze. “Okay. Fuck. Gauze next, you’ll have to hold it down. Don’t have enough bandages and too much mud, besides.”

The first piece of gauze gets soaked with rain and blood immediately, so you open another couple of packages and press. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you tell him over his hissing. Tears finally start catching up to you. “Simon, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Simon.”

“’S fine,” he sighs. One big, muddy hand comes up to pat your shoulder. “Shouldn’a come at you from the left. Better t’ stay low and come at you from the right.”

“I still might have stabbed you,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have had that stupid knife out, I should have known better-”

“You couldn’a known.”

“I should have,” you insist, and the tears are falling even faster now. “I didn’t need to be playing with knives, I knew you were out here, that you’d start chasing me any moment.”

“’S part of the game,” Simon sighs with a lazy grin. “Weren’ supposed t’ stab me in the chest, but tha’s on me.”

“I wasn’t supposed to stab you at all, Simon,” you sob. “I never wanted…! I don’t…!” Simon’s eyes flutter closed again, and you feel your heart break. “Simon, please, stay awake. I’m sorry. Please, Simon. I don’t hate you, I’m sorry.”

You're not sure how much time passes. But you jump when a hand touches your shoulder, whip around to put yourself between Simon and whoever’s come up behind you. A white man with a beard you would absolutely expect to see walking around in the woods looks between you and Simon with raised brows. He brings a cigar to his lips and takes a pull.

“Simon,” the man says. “You broken?”

“No, sir,” Simon says. When your gaze snaps to him, his eyes are bright behind his mask.

“She said you punctured a lung,” the man you can only assume is Price points out.

“Affirmative.”

“John Price,” he finally introduces himself. He offers you a hand up. When you look between his hand and where you’re keeping pressure on Simon’s wound, he chuckles. “Let’s get this drama queen inside, shall we?” Then Kyle appears at his elbow with a grin and an arm full of blue tarp.

“How’s the hobby search going?”

You can’t stop yourself from bursting into tears.

John Price had guided you inside while Kyle somehow maneuvered Simon onto the tarp to drag him the last few meters to the cabin. Now, there’s another tarp laid out on the floor, with Simon’s clammy, pale body on top of it. Knelt next to him, Kyle mutters something to himself, focused but relaxed. He’d complimented you on a clean strike, once he’d gotten Simon inside and cleaned the wound enough to look at it. Apparently, you probably could have done a lot of damage before killing him outright, if you’d really wanted to.

The sucking sound from Simon’s chest as he chuckled had made you run outside to throw up.

“You meet my girl, Skipper?” Simon eventually wheezes. There’s a big patch of of gauze taped over the wound. That side of him, from shoulder to hip, is the only part of him that’s really clean, besides his now-unmasked face. He winces when Kyle does something with the tubing sticking out of his chest. It’s still trickling blood, but that seems to be better than the flood from when Kyle had first pushed a thick needle between his ribs.

“I have,” John Price says, blowing a cloud of smoke. “You haven’t been keeping her here long. Surprised she stuck around to make sure you’d be okay.”

It strikes your ears as… absurd. The idea that Simon had whisked you away to this tiny, sparse little building for, what? For good? Nonsensically, you want to point out that there’s no kitchen, and Simon knows you like to prep and cook when you’re stressed. MREs wouldn’t cut it for long.

And then it occurs to you that John Price knows Simon. Knows him well enough that he expects you to die.

“She’s had Riley here on a leash for half a year,” Kyle informs him. He pats Simon’s cheek condescendingly, ignores his growl of annoyance. “Poor bastard’d been going mad, cooped up with nothing to do since Soap’s been locked up.”

“Eight months,” you whisper. You’re sitting on the edge of the tarp by Simon’s good side. You sip some water and offer it to Simon. He lets you tip the bottle carefully to his lips. “We met eight months ago.”

“Christ,” Price says, rolling his eyes. “I told you to keep a low profile.”

“’ave been,” Simon grunts.

“And, that little excursion at the ski lodge was what, exactly?”

Simon tilts his head to look at you, mischievous smirk under the black makeup around his eyes. “Had to make sure our first date was memorable.”

You want to smack him. The thought makes you feel guilty since you’ve already stabbed him today. You compromise by petting through his hair, right where the scar you gave him sits, then give his ear a little tug when you get to it.

“Hope it was worth it,” Price says. “You going to get rid of her, or am I?”

Simon is up and standing in front of John almost before you see him move. The back of him is still spattered with dirt and blood, silvery scars in stark contrast. You watch his chest expand, hear the whistle and bubble of air and blood through the tube you can’t see. You take one look at Kyle’s startled, worried face and quickly get to your feet.

When you come around his side, you shiver and shrink back a bit. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Simon’s face this frigid. He’s completely closed off as he stares down at Price, doesn’t even spare you a glance.

For his part, John remains completely relaxed. He takes a lazy pull from his cigar and blows the smoke from the side of his mouth, away from you. “Touched a nerve, have I?”

“She’s good people,” Kyle pipes up, coming to stand across from you, so everyone is in a loose square. He keeps his hands in his pockets. “Hasn’t made no trouble yet.”

John doesn’t look away from Simon. “That so?”

You reach out for Simon’s hand, then think better of it. You touch his back instead, in case he needs that hand. You step closer but stay a little bit behind him. “Simon?”

“She’s talked to the police, you know,” John says. “After your stint at the hospital, and again after your little date.”

That startles you. “I never-”

“Hush, now,” John says.

Simon flinches at the same moment that you feel your back straighten. “Excuse me?” You take a step forward into John’s space. “Maybe you forgot, but I called you here to help. If I wanted him dead, Simon would be dead right now. If I wanted him arrested six months ago, he’d have been arrested.”

“Precious-”

“No, Simon.” you interrupt him, staring into John’s eyes. “He practically lives in my apartment. He drugged and kidnapped me literally last night. He made me touch Brandon’s skull, and then I stabbed him this afternoon. I’ve been at the scene of two mass murders and now I’ve almost killed someone else. What the fuck makes you think you can come in here and talk about me like you know anything about me? Like you think I’m an idiot? Why do you think you get to shush me?”

The man doesn’t react except to pull from his cigar again. Your clothes are stiff and damp and uncomfortable, but you resist the urge to fidget. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Kyle look from you to John and back again.

“If you ever have him arrested, he’ll be out in a day,” John finally says. “You’ll be dead before then.”

“Oh gee,” you mock. “I wonder why that never occurred to me. Making the serial killer angry might get me killed. Shocking.”

Simon’s hand gently touches one of your wrists. “Easy, Precious. Price ‘s just lookin’ out.”

You let him take your hand. “He can do less of that, thank you very much.”

Simon reels you back against his front. He props his chin on top of your head and kind of sags some of his weight onto you. “Don’t think he can, love. Fundamentally incapable. Has to take care of his men.”

“Well he’s my man, now,” you grit out. “So you can fuck right off, John.”

For whatever reason, that cuts the tension. Kyle barks a laugh before he can stop himself. John tips his head back and huffs out smoke. Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Kyle told me you were a little off,” John says. He props a foot on his knee to stub out his cigar on the sole of his boot. “Simon’s been real tight lipped, but I see why he likes you. Not much self-preservation to speak of.”

Of all the stupid conclusions he could have come to…!

Simon’s hand covers your mouth before you can tell John exactly what you think of him. “She’s helping me find new hobbies.”

John just shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. Kyle, how long is he recovering?”

“Three weeks. Two, if he avoids aggravating it,” Kyle answers.

Simon hums. “’M gonna aggravate it.”

“Goddammit,” John swipes a hand down his beard. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.”

The murderous stalker isn’t the problem child? You snort behind Simon’s hand. Hopefully, you never meet this Soap guy.

“Fun as all of this is, I’m on shift in four hours,” Kyle says, looking at his watch. “Need to get home and sanitize. Riley, usual wound care. Drain’s gotta come out in three days. And you need antibiotics. Seriously.” He looks at you. “Make sure he gets them and takes them. All of them. His feet will fall off.”

“No they won’t,” you say when Simon drops his hand to wrap around your shoulders, just as he says, “Fuck off, Garrick.”

“Take the damn antibiotics,” John says, standing from his seat. “Be ready for a call in three weeks.”

“Affirmative.”

“And you,” John holds a hand out to you to shake. Waits for you to take it and gives a firm shake. “Let me know if you get tired of him hangin’ all over you.”

“So you can kill me.”

He gives you an amused grin. “I’m not in the practice of wasting valuable assets.”

“I’m sure you meant that in a way that’s not offensive,” you answer. “I’ll do my best to never call you again.”

“Smart girl.” He gives Simon a nod, and then he and Kyle are out the front door.

The shower head sputters and spits, but eventually produces surprisingly warm water. Not hot, but warm enough that you don’t feel bad herding Simon in to get clean. Warm enough that you groan when you step in with him.

There’s a silicone bulb hanging from the tube in Simon’s armpit, compressed to create some kind of vacuum. It’s pink with blood and other fluids. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so you use your hands to gently wash you both with a generic body wash. When you start rinsing dirt and an errant piece of leaf litter from your hair, he smirks and leans in until your back is pressed against the cold tile.

“Fuck,” you can’t help but panic. Your hands go to his hips in case he’s losing his balance. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, just braces the arm on his wounded side over your head. The drain site looks a little red, but not concerning, so you check the edges of the waterproof bandage Gaz placed to make sure it’s still set.

That’s why you don’t realize what he’s done until a splash of his blood hits your cheek and drips into your mouth. You can’t really rear back, trapped against the wall. All you can do tilt your face away and sputter as he empties the drain onto the side of your neck to drip down your collarbones.

He grunts a disagreeing sound when you lift your arm, catches your hand before you can lift it very far. His hand comes up to your cheek, two fingers touching where his blood has dripped to your chin. He pushes his hips into you, and you can feel where he’s getting hard.

When he speaks, it’s little more than a whisper. “You were supposed to slash my arm, you know.”

“Wha-”

He’s not gentle when he shoves his fingers into your mouth. For all that he was laid out on the floor less than an hour ago, you can’t force his hand away with both of yours. It’s all you can do try to fight the urge to gag as you barely hold him at bay.

“Knew you’d like the gifts,” he growls down at you. “But you were s’possed to slash, hm? That’s what a good girl like you does, chased in the woods. Easy to drop a knife that way.” He uses his fingers in your mouth and thumb under your chin to make you stare up into his eyes. “Where’s a sweet thing like you learn to keep a knife close to the body? Felt you let it slide, flat. Felt you push.”

Had you? You hadn’t felt it, just the anxiety spike of being attacked, the cradle of his hand shielding your head from the ground. Just his huge body and that skull mask, on you suddenly, without warning. You can’t answer, can’t even try without gagging. Simon gives your jaw a little shake.

“You could have killed me, today.” He grinds your body between his and the wall for a moment, before stepping back. He drags you under the spray of water, other hand cradling the back of your head. You struggle to cough, try to turn your face down. Your heart races as you do, knowing it’s only because he let you.

And then he slips his fingers from your mouth and brings your face to his chest. He holds you as you cough, pets over your back. You cling to him, because what else can you do? When you finally look up at him, his pupils have all but swallowed the blue of his eyes.

“Fear looks so good on you, Precious.”

Taglist: @mishaglass, @oceanicexolorer, @whitetiger846, @iknownothingpeople, @fruitdoom, @achillesquartz, @hindi-si-ikay, @ahopelesspedantic

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (12)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts of this story visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Previous part: 11

- Next part: 13

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska @lightdragonrayne @alyssa-dayne

The lush greenery and carefully tended flowers seemed out of place, too peaceful against the backdrop of tension and unease that permeated the castle. You walked beside Rhaegar, your arm threaded through his as you strolled through the winding paths of the garden. It would appear to anyone else that the two of you were simply siblings enjoying a quiet moment away from the pressures of court, the Prince and his sister taking a peaceful walk in the beauty of the gardens.

Behind you, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy followed at a respectful distance, their presence as your protectors always felt but never imposing. They were more than just guards—they were part of the tight-knit circle that had formed around you and Rhaegar, a bond of trust that extended beyond duty and oaths. Arthur, always steady and sure, had his gaze fixed on Rhaegar, who occasionally glanced back at him with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.

The breeze was gentle, carrying the scent of the roses, but beneath the surface, you could feel the tension in your brother’s arm. There was something weighing on him, something that had been there ever since the horror of the throne room a week ago. His face, though calm and serene, held an edge of worry, the kind of concern he always tried to keep from you but that you had learned to see through.

“Do you trust me?” Rhaegar asked suddenly, breaking the silence between you. His voice was soft but serious, and the question made you pause mid-step, looking up at him in surprise.

You furrowed your brow, confusion settling in. “Of course, I trust you,” you answered, your voice tinged with worry. “You’re my brother.”

Rhaegar slowed his pace, leading you toward a quieter part of the garden where the paths became more shaded by the high walls of ivy and the sound of the Red Keep faded into the background. His grip on your arm tightened slightly, as if bracing himself for something.

“There may come a time soon, Y/N,” Rhaegar began, his tone low but filled with a quiet intensity, “when you must be ready to leave. Arthur will come for you, and when he does... you must go with him. No hesitation. Do you understand?”

You stopped walking, turning toward him fully now, your heart beginning to race. Rhaegar’s expression was solemn, but there was an urgency in his eyes that unnerved you. “Rhaegar, what are you talking about?”

His gaze flickered past you for a moment, catching Arthur’s eye. The Knight of the Morning, standing a few paces behind with Ser Barristan, exchanged a knowing look with the prince. Your chest tightened at the silent communication between them—there was something being planned, something that had already been set into motion without your knowledge.

“I’m going to take you away from here,” Rhaegar said, his voice soft but unyielding, as if the decision had already been made and there was no turning back. “Away from Father. Away from this insanity.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in like a stone. Panic began to rise in your chest, and you shook your head, your hands gripping his arm tighter. “I can’t, Rhaegar,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “If I leave, if we run... Father will call you a traitor. He’ll brand you as a traitor to the crown. You know what he’ll do.”

Rhaegar’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and sorrow. “None of it matters anymore,” he said quietly but firmly. “Don’t you see? It’s already gone too far. He’s lost to us, Y/N. He’s not our father anymore. He’s... something else. Something that will consume us all if we stay.”

You shook your head again, fear now gripping you as you thought of the consequences, of what your father would do if he discovered you had fled. “He’ll kill you,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He’ll kill you, Rhaegar. I can’t—”

Rhaegar cupped your face with his hands, his touch gentle but steady. He leaned in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours as he spoke in a low, urgent tone. “I won’t let that happen. I’ll protect you. We’ll go somewhere safe, where he can’t reach us. Arthur and Barristan will help, and we’ll be far away before anyone knows we’re gone. You just have to trust me, Y/N.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you searched your brother’s face, seeing the deep conviction in his eyes. He was trying to save you, to protect you from a fate you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. And yet, the thought of leaving, of running away from the place you had known your whole life, terrified you. More than that, the thought of Rhaegar being labeled a traitor—a title that would surely lead to his death—was unbearable.

Before you could respond, before the panic in your chest could give voice to your fears, Rhaegar stiffened. His grip on you tightened as his eyes flicked past you, a shadow of something dark crossing his face.

You turned, following his gaze, and saw them approaching.

King Aerys, your father, was striding down the garden path toward you, his long robes billowing around him like a storm. His face was twisted with that familiar chaos, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, fevered light. Behind him, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Gerold Hightower followed closely, their expressions unreadable but strained. 

Rhaegar’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer to him in a protective gesture as Aerys drew nearer. You could feel the tension radiating from your brother, the unspoken warning in his touch.

Aerys stopped a few paces away, his gaze locking onto you first with an unsettling intensity before shifting to Rhaegar. His smile was slow, predatory, as though he had caught something in a trap. “Ah, my children,” Aerys said, his voice dripping with twisted affection. “Enjoying a stroll, are we?”

Rhaegar’s grip on you tightened, his body tense as a bowstring. “Just some fresh air, Father,” he said, his voice calm but cold.

Aerys’ smile widened, his gaze flicking back to you. “Good. It’s important for you to enjoy your time here, Y/N. Soon enough, everything will be... different.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine, your heart pounding in your chest. There was something in your father’s voice—something dark and foreboding that made your blood run cold. You pressed closer to Rhaegar, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his sleeve.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw clenched. “What do you mean by that?”

Aerys’ smile never faltered, but his eyes gleamed with something unspoken. “Oh, you’ll see. Soon enough.”

The king turned away, beckoning Jaime and Gerold to follow, leaving you and Rhaegar standing in the garden, the weight of his words pressing down like a noose tightening around your neck. 

Rhaegar held you close, his heart beating against yours, as the reality of what was to come settled over both of you like a dark, inevitable storm.

Rhaegar gently nudged you forward, urging you to continue walking as if nothing unusual had just happened. His arm remained around your waist, steady and protective, but his body was tense. The soft rustle of the garden’s leaves and the distant murmur of the castle could not dispel the dread in the air after Aerys’ unsettling words. You forced your feet to move, though your heart raced, and your mind churned with fear.

Then, you heard it—a voice, faint yet clear, slipping into your thoughts like a whisper on the wind.

"Why is it troubled?" 

You blinked, your heart stuttering at the suddenness of the voice. It wasn’t Rhaegar, and yet it felt familiar, like the strange whispers you sometimes heard in your dreams. The dragon’s voice, perhaps. You instinctively looked up at your brother, but he seemed not to notice the voice at all, his focus elsewhere.

Rhaegar leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered urgently. “Arthur will take you to Starfall soon. You’ll be safe there with his sister, Ashara. From there, we’ll decide what to do next.”

You glanced up at him, confusion and fear swirling in your chest. "Starfall? But Rhaegar—what about you? What about Mother?" Your voice trembled despite your best efforts to remain composed.

Rhaegar’s expression softened, though the weight of responsibility still pressed heavily on his features. “The North is already preparing to march against the Crownlands,” he explained in a low voice. “Lord Stark’s death has set fire to the North’s fury, and they won’t stand alone. Many lords who disapprove of Father’s rule will follow them. Soon, rebellion will reach King’s Landing.”

A sharp jolt of anxiety shot through you at his words. “Rebellion?” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper. The thought of open war, of bloodshed, made your heart ache. You could feel the storm approaching, and you knew that it would not be kind to those caught in its path.

Rhaegar nodded solemnly. “It’s inevitable now. Father’s actions have sealed the fate of the realm. But you… you can’t be here when it happens. I need you safe, Y/N. That’s why Arthur will take you to Starfall. From there, we’ll have options.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a heavy cloak. The thought of leaving him behind, of leaving your home, terrified you. But you understood why he was asking this of you. You knew, deep down, that it was the only way to protect you from Aerys’ madness.

“What about Mother?” you asked, your voice soft but insistent. The thought of leaving Queen Rhaella behind in this nest of vipers felt unbearable. “We can’t just leave her here with him.”

Rhaegar’s expression softened again, this time with a trace of sadness. “Varys is making arrangements,” he whispered. “He’ll ensure that Mother is escorted safely to Dragonstone. She’ll be far from Father’s reach, and Dragonstone is defensible. He won’t go after her. He’s too fixated on…” Rhaegar’s voice trailed off, but the implication was clear. Aerys’ madness was too focused on you now. His obsession with you, with the dragon you shared a bond with, had consumed him.

You swallowed hard, nodding as you tried to absorb it all. The enormity of it—the rebellion, your father’s madness, the plan to flee—was overwhelming. And still, through it all, you could hear that voice, faint and insistent, as if it were watching, waiting.

"Why is it troubled?" the voice asked again, but this time there was a sliver of curiosity in its tone, as though it were intrigued by your fear, by your indecision.

“I can’t leave you here,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Not alone. I can’t—”

“You must,” Rhaegar said, his voice firm but filled with warmth. “You must trust me, Y/N. I need you to be safe. If anything happened to you, I…” He paused, his grip on you tightening slightly as though the very thought of losing you was too much to bear. “You’re my sister, and I’ll protect you. I’ll find a way. But you need to be far from here when everything begins.”

Your heart ached, torn between the deep love and trust you had for your brother and the fear of leaving him behind. The idea of being so far from him, of being separated while the world seemed to unravel, filled you with dread. But you could see the resolve in Rhaegar’s eyes, the determination that had always been there, quietly guiding him.

He was doing this for you. To protect you from the fire that was about to engulf them all.

You nodded, though it was difficult, the weight of your decision heavy on your shoulders. “Alright,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I trust you, Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar’s expression softened, and he gently squeezed your hand, as if sealing the promise between you. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Arthur and Ashara will take care of you. I’ll make sure Mother is safe. We’ll get through this.”

The grand doors of the throne room creaked open as you and Rhaegar were escorted inside. The room, vast and imposing, was eerily quiet, save for the soft footfalls of your boots against the stone floor. The Iron Throne loomed ahead, its jagged edges catching the light from the high windows, casting sharp shadows across the chamber. But your eyes weren’t on the throne. They were on the creature that lay coiled in the shadows behind it.

Terrax, your dragon, raised his massive head as you entered. His golden eyes, slitted like a cat’s, gleamed in the dim light, and his black scales rippled as he stirred from his slumber. He had grown even more in the past weeks, his presence a dark and brooding force that filled the room with an almost tangible power.

You stopped, your breath catching in your throat as you gazed at him. The bond between you and Terrax was unlike anything you had ever known. It wasn’t just a connection—it was as though a part of your soul was tied to his, as though every beat of your heart was mirrored in his powerful chest. His sharp gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, your hand reaching out as you approached him. The guards behind you paused, unsure whether to follow, but Rhaegar held up a hand, signaling them to wait. He stood just behind you, watching silently as you moved closer to Terrax.

The dragon lowered his head slightly, allowing you to run your hand along the smooth, dark scales of his snout. His breath was warm, almost comforting, and you could feel the raw strength that rippled beneath his skin. You had always been able to sense his emotions—his thoughts, even—but today, there was something more, something urgent and protective in the way he watched you.

You leaned in, resting your forehead gently against his massive head, and whispered softly to him, “I don’t want to leave you.” Terrax rumbled in response, the deep sound vibrating through the air, and you felt the faintest brush of his mind against yours, a wordless promise of loyalty.

Rhaegar moved closer, his presence a steady warmth at your back. You straightened and turned to him, your hand still resting on Terrax’s snout. “I can’t leave him behind,” you said, your voice quiet but filled with conviction. The thought of leaving Terrax in King’s Landing, in the hands of your father, filled you with dread. “He’s a part of me, Rhaegar. I can’t leave him to Father.”

Rhaegar’s violet eyes softened as he looked at you, and then at Terrax. His expression held a mixture of understanding and something deeper—something that spoke of his own burdens, his own dreams. “I know,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “But I don’t believe you’ll have to. Terrax won’t stay here. He’ll follow you. I’m sure of it.”

You searched his face, hoping to find reassurance in his words, and there was a certainty in his gaze that calmed the fear that had taken root in your heart. Still, the thought of leaving the dragon behind, even for a moment, made you uneasy. You turned back to Terrax, brushing your fingers along his scales once more, before reluctantly stepping away from him.

As you moved back toward Rhaegar, you hesitated for a moment, a question bubbling up inside you. You had always known your brother was different, marked by the same fire that ran through your veins, but there was something about the way he had spoken lately—about your future, about his own—that troubled you.

“Rhaegar,” you said softly, looking up at him, “what about your dreams?”

He blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Your dragon dreams,” you clarified. “You used to speak of them—how you had dreams of your own future, of what you were meant to do. What about those?”

There was a pause, a long silence in which Rhaegar’s gaze drifted away, as though he were looking at something far beyond the walls of the Red Keep. His face, usually so composed, so certain, seemed to cloud with something unspoken. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it.

“They changed,” he said simply, his tone filled with a weight that you couldn’t quite understand.

You stared at him, searching his face for some explanation, but he didn’t offer one. The dreams that had once seemed to guide him, to give him purpose, had shifted. And now, there was a new path before him—one that was uncertain, filled with shadows and unknowns.

Rhaegar met your gaze again, his eyes soft but resolute. “Whatever I thought my future held, it doesn’t matter anymore. Not if it means losing you.”

Your heart clenched at his words, the depth of his love and protectiveness for you clear in every syllable. He had always been your protector, your guardian, but now you could feel the full weight of the choice he was making. He was willing to sacrifice his dreams, his destiny, to keep you safe.

“But Rhaegar,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “what if—”

“None of it matters,” he interrupted gently, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Not anymore. The future I once dreamed of... it’s not what I thought it would be. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you away from here.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the gravity of his words settle over you like a heavy cloak. 

Rhaegar’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder, and you nodded, a quiet acceptance passing between the two of you.

And from the shadows behind the Iron Throne, Terrax watched, his eyes gleaming as he waited, as if understanding what was to come.

Ser Arthur Dayne stood silently near the entrance to the throne room, his eyes fixed on you and Rhaegar as you stood near the looming presence of Terrax. The dragon’s golden eyes were half-lidded, watching with a quiet intensity as you stroked his scales, your figure dwarfed by the beast's size. From this distance, the throne room felt colder, emptier, but all Arthur could see was you—your silver hair catching the light, your slender form so close to your brother, the crown prince.

Every inch of him wanted to move closer, to be by your side, to protect you in the way he had promised he would. The memories of the night he had made that promise still burned in his mind—the desperate moments when he had held you close, whispering that he would take you away from all of this, from the madness that surrounded your family, from the nightmare of Aerys’ rule. And now, watching you with Rhaegar, so fragile yet so strong, Arthur felt that promise tighten in his chest like a vow etched in steel.

Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy stood, his expression calm, though his eyes flicked between you and Rhaegar with the same careful observance. Unlike Arthur, Barristan knew the truth of what lay between you and the Sword of the Morning. He had known for some time now, ever since he let Arthur join you in the chambers as he took the watch, and though he had never spoken a word of it, there was a quiet understanding between the two knights. Barristan had never judged Arthur for it—in fact, he had been nothing but supportive, offering words of comfort in the quiet moments when Arthur's emotions had threatened to spill over. Barristan knew that love, in a place like this, was dangerous. But he also knew that love, especially the kind Arthur felt for you, was the only thing keeping him steady.

"You can see it in him," Barristan said softly, breaking the silence between them. His voice was low, meant only for Arthur to hear. "Rhaegar. He’s made his choice."

Arthur didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on Rhaegar’s face. The prince’s expression was calm, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper—something like resolution, or perhaps a quiet resignation. It was clear that Rhaegar’s mind had already been made up, just as it was clear that he would do anything to protect you. The look in his eyes when he spoke to you, when he guided you gently away from the dragon, was unmistakable.

"Yes," Arthur murmured at last, his voice tight. "He has."

Barristan glanced sideways at Arthur, his sharp eyes catching the tension in his friend’s posture, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. "And you? Are you ready for what comes next?"

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his heart pounding as he watched you turn toward Rhaegar, your expression filled with trust, with that quiet love only a sibling could share. "I’ve always been ready," he replied quietly, though the weight of his words settled heavily on his chest. "I made her a promise."

Barristan nodded slowly, his gaze returning to you. "She trusts you, Arthur. More than anyone else. When the time comes, you must be the one to take her away from this place."

Arthur’s eyes softened as he watched you laugh softly at something Rhaegar said, the sound a brief flicker of light in the cold, dark room. He remembered the nights spent with you in secret, the stolen moments when you had whispered to him your fears, your hopes, your need to escape. It had torn him apart to see you so vulnerable, to know that the only life you had ever known was slowly poisoning you, trapping you in a cage of duty and madness.

"I won’t fail her," Arthur said, his voice low but filled with a quiet, determined intensity. "When the time comes, I’ll take her far away from here. I won’t let anyone stop us."

Barristan’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it was tinged with sadness. "I believe you, Arthur. And so does she."

Arthur’s heart ached as he watched you step closer to Rhaegar, your hand resting on your brother’s arm in a gesture of trust and affection. Rhaegar turned to you, his face softening in a way that only you could bring out in him. The bond between you two was unbreakable, but Arthur knew that when the time came to leave, it would be his responsibility to keep you safe. He had sworn it to you, and to himself. And more than that—he loved you. In ways he had never thought possible, he loved you with a depth that frightened him, but also gave him strength.

Beside him, Barristan shifted slightly, his gaze steady on the scene before them. "Rhaegar knows what needs to be done," he said quietly. "But it won’t be easy. Aerys won’t let you leave so easily."

Arthur’s eyes darkened, a flicker of anger flashing through him at the thought of the Mad King. The man who had claimed you, who had threatened to bind you to him in the most twisted way possible, as though you were nothing more than a tool for his madness. The very idea of Aerys touching you, of controlling your fate, filled Arthur with a rage that simmered just beneath the surface.

"I don’t care what Aerys does," Arthur muttered, his voice cold. "I’ll take her away, even if I have to fight my way out of the Red Keep."

Barristan’s hand rested briefly on Arthur’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. "You’ll have help," he said, his voice filled with quiet resolve. "You won’t do it alone."

Arthur nodded, though his eyes remained on you. As you spoke to Rhaegar, your hand still on his arm, there was a heaviness in your expression, a shadow of fear that Arthur knew all too well. You were trying to be strong, trying to hold yourself together in the face of the growing storm. But Arthur saw through it. He saw the vulnerability beneath, the same vulnerability you had shown him when you had told him, in the stillness of the night, that you couldn’t endure this alone.

"I love her," Arthur whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It wasn’t the first time he had admitted it aloud, but saying it here, in this room, with Barristan beside him, made it feel more real.

"I know," Barristan said softly, his voice filled with understanding. "And that’s why you’ll succeed."

Arthur’s gaze flickered to his friend for a brief moment, gratitude flashing in his eyes, before he turned his attention back to you and Rhaegar. You deserved to be free of this place, of the shadows that clung to your family, and Arthur was willing to do anything to give you that freedom. Whatever it took.

As you stepped back from Terrax, your eyes met Arthur’s across the room, and for a moment, the noise of the world faded away. There was something unspoken between you, something only the two of you understood. It was a promise, a shared hope for a future far away from the chains that bound you here.

Arthur nodded slightly, a silent vow that he would keep you safe, that he would be there when the time came to leave.

And when that time came, he would not hesitate.

The dimly lit chamber of the Red Keep, where Varys found himself waiting, was suffused with an oppressive, almost seen dread. The air was thick with the weight of impending chaos. It had been a couple of months since the execution of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark, and the realm was growing restless. Rebellion stirred in the North, and more and more lords whispered discontent with the king’s increasing madness. Yet here, in the belly of the beast, King Aerys still ruled, his erratic decisions and unpredictable wrath sowing fear throughout the court.

Varys, as ever, had heard all the whispers. But now, it was time for him to speak. Rhaegar had his plans, but before Varys committed to anything, he had to try once more—to steer the king back from the precipice of disaster. Varys had navigated the dangerous currents of court intrigue for years, and though he had seen the signs of Aerys' madness long ago, he still held some hope that the king could be reasoned with—or, at the very least, manipulated into a course of action that would spare the realm.

The doors opened with a creak, and King Aerys strode into the chamber, his long robes trailing behind him, his wild, unkempt hair and beard giving him the look of a man far beyond reason. His eyes gleamed with that familiar fevered light, and a faint, unsettling smile curled his lips as he spotted Varys.

"Ah, my spider," Aerys purred, his voice dripping with a false warmth that sent a chill down Varys’ spine. "What news do you bring me from the shadows today?"

Varys bowed deeply, his head lowered in deference, though his mind was already calculating every word, every move. He had spent years learning how to speak to Aerys without inciting his wrath, but the king’s madness was growing more unpredictable by the day. This would be delicate work.

"Your Grace," Varys began smoothly, "I come to you with the utmost respect and concern for the stability of the realm." He straightened, his hands folded within the long sleeves of his robes. "The lords of Westeros are watching closely. They have heard your decrees, and though many remain loyal to the crown, some... question recent decisions. Particularly regarding Princess Y/N."

Aerys’ smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. "What are you saying, spider?" he asked, his voice suddenly cold.

Varys kept his expression neutral, his voice as calm as ever. "There are whispers, Your Grace. Whispers that speak of unease in the houses still loyal to you. They have always accepted the Targaryen tradition of brother-sister marriages, but... your decision to take Princess Y/N as your own wife has caused unrest among those who hold fast to the Faith of the Seven. These lords, particularly those with great influence, question the future of the realm under such a marriage. I fear that more houses may turn against you if they feel this union is an affront to their beliefs."

Aerys’ eyes darkened, and his lips curled into a sneer. "They dare question me?" His voice rose, a flicker of anger flashing through his expression. "Those fools are nothing but cattle! I am their king! I am the blood of the dragon!"

Varys kept his tone measured, though his pulse quickened. "Of course, Your Grace. No one questions your right to rule. But if I may suggest... reconsidering your earlier plan. Rhaegar and Princess Y/N were always meant to wed. Such a marriage, as was originally intended, would solidify the loyalty of many houses. It would ease their concerns, and it would strengthen the unity of the realm at a time when rebellion stirs in the North. It would—"

"Enough!" Aerys’ voice cracked like a whip, cutting through Varys' words. He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with fury. "You dare suggest that I give up what is mine? That I allow Rhaegar to steal my daughter? My child? No, spider. Y/N belongs to me. She is the mother of my dragon, my future. I will not be swayed by the petty fears of lords who tremble before the Seven. They will fall in line or burn."

Varys remained still, though inside he could feel the conversation slipping beyond his control. Aerys was too far gone, too consumed by his obsession with you and the dragon born from fire and madness. His hold on reality had shattered, and no amount of reason would sway him.

"Your Grace," Varys said, his voice soft but firm, "I only wish to ensure the stability of your reign. The North is already moving, and other lords may soon follow. A marriage between Rhaegar and Princess Y/N would—"

"Silence!" Aerys’ voice roared through the chamber, his face twisted with rage. He took another step forward, his fingers twitching as if he longed to strike. "You think me a fool, don’t you, spider? You think I cannot see your schemes, your attempts to undermine me? Rhaegar is plotting against me—he wants my throne, and you... you would help him take it! But he will not have her. Y/N is mine. Mine!" His voice trembled with madness as he spat the words.

Varys bowed his head once more, knowing there was nothing more he could say that would reach the king. "I only serve the realm, Your Grace," he said quietly.

Aerys’ eyes burned with fury, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Get out of my sight," he hissed. "Before I decide to burn you with the rest of the traitors."

Varys straightened slowly, his expression calm, though his mind raced. He had done what he could—now it was time to act. He turned and left the chamber, the weight of what was to come settling heavily on his shoulders.

Aerys was beyond saving. And Rhaegar’s plan was now the only path forward.

The dark halls of the Red Keep seemed colder tonight, as if the very stones were aware of what awaited you. The summons had come earlier in the day, carried by a messenger who spoke with the trembling fear that now clung to every servant in the castle when mentioning your father. A private dinner with the king, your father, to discuss the "details" of your upcoming wedding.

The very thought of it sent a shudder through you, though you had been careful not to let your discomfort show. Rhaegar had warned you, told you to stay strong, to be prepared for anything. But the weight of it all—the looming threat of the marriage, your father's increasing instability, the rebellion that simmered in the North—it felt like the world was closing in on you from all sides.

As you entered the dining hall, the doors closing behind you with an ominous thud, you were greeted by the sight of your father seated at the head of the table, his eyes gleaming with a strange mix of affection and madness. The table was set with an extravagant feast, far too much food for just the two of you, the aroma rich but sickening to your stomach.

“Ah, my dearest Y/N,” Aerys purred as you approached, his voice warm but laced with a dangerous edge. He rose from his seat, his long robes trailing behind him as he moved to greet you. “Come, sit with me. We have so much to discuss.”

You nodded quietly, your throat tight as you lowered yourself into the chair across from him. Aerys remained standing for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping over you with that unsettling gaze that made your skin crawl. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he sat back down, his smile never faltering.

“Father,” you greeted softly, keeping your voice steady. “You wished to speak with me.”

“Indeed,” Aerys replied, his smile widening as he reached for the goblet of wine before him. “There are so many plans to make for our wedding, my darling. It will be a day unlike any other—fire and blood, the true legacy of our house. The entire realm will witness the purity of our bloodline, and the traitors who would defy us shall be cleansed in the flames.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, and for a moment, you felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. The firelight flickered on the walls, casting long, shifting shadows, and in that moment, the voice returned, soft and serpentine, whispering in the back of your mind.

"The very thought falls to the flame."

You blinked, your hands tightening slightly in your lap as you tried to focus on your father, to keep the fear at bay. He was watching you closely, his expression somewhere between adoration and something far more sinister.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Aerys continued, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. “To see the flames rise, to watch the world burn away its impurities. The traitors will scream, Y/N, but their screams are the song of a new age.”

You swallowed hard, nodding slightly, though the bile rose in your throat. “Yes, Father,” you said quietly, forcing the words out. “I understand.”

Aerys leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with a manic light. “After the wedding, we shall burn those who dare oppose us. The North, the Riverlands—those who would side with the traitors, they will be purified. You and I, my dearest daughter, will be the fire that cleanses the realm.”

Your hands trembled under the table, but you kept your gaze steady on him, unwilling to let him see your fear. His words twisted inside you like a blade, the horror of what he was planning so immense that it seemed almost unreal.

"Ask about the free poison," the voice whispered again, slipping into your mind like a shadow creeping through the darkness.

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you tried to push them away, to focus on the here and now. But they lingered, curling around your thoughts like smoke.

Aerys reached across the table then, his hand brushing against yours, the touch meant to be affectionate, but it sent a wave of revulsion through you. His fingers, long and thin, felt cold against your skin, and you had to fight the urge to pull away. 

“You’re so much like your mother,” he said softly, his tone almost tender, though there was something twisted beneath it. “But you are mine, Y/N. We will be one, bound in fire, as it was always meant to be.”

Your breath hitched, the words suffocating. The thought of his affection, of his claim over you, was unbearable, and yet you knew that you had to remain composed. Any sign of resistance, any sign of hesitation, and Aerys would lash out.

You forced a smile, though it felt hollow. “Of course, Father. Whatever you wish.”

Aerys’ smile grew wider, his grip on your hand tightening slightly, possessive. “Good. Very good. You will make me proud, my dearest.”

He released your hand then, returning to his meal as if nothing had happened. You could still feel the cold imprint of his touch on your skin, the weight of his gaze lingering even as he looked away.

The room seemed to spin for a moment, the firelight flickering more erratically, and again the voice whispered in your mind.

"The very thought falls to the flame."

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, trying to push the voice away, but it clung to you like a shadow, whispering things that unsettled you even further.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Aerys said, cutting through the silence, “how do you imagine the day of our wedding? Do you think the flames will dance higher in the sky when we are wed?”

You stared at him, the question hanging in the air like a poison-laced dagger. Your mind raced, trying to find an answer that wouldn’t betray the terror building inside you. “I’m sure it will be... unforgettable,” you said softly, the words tasting like ash on your tongue.

Aerys smiled again, a strange, faraway look in his eyes. “Yes. It will be. And the traitors will burn in the light of our love.”

You nodded, though every part of you screamed to run, to escape this nightmare that was being built around you. You could feel the fire, the heat, the madness rising, and somewhere in the depths of your mind, the voice whispered again.

"Ask about the free poison."

But you didn’t. Not yet. You couldn’t. Not while Aerys watched you so closely, his twisted affection wrapped around you like chains you could not yet break.

So you remained silent, trapped in the growing storm of madness that surrounded your father, waiting for the moment when you could finally be free.

The moonlight filtered dimly through the cracks in the thick curtains of your chamber, casting faint, silvery shadows over the room. The world outside was quiet, but the silence of the Red Keep was far from peaceful. You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing down on you—your father’s plans, the horrifying wedding, the chaos brewing in the realm. Sleep had become a distant memory, replaced by the constant hum of fear that never seemed to leave your mind.

Then, a soft noise broke through the stillness—the faint creak of your chamber door opening. You sat up instantly, your heart racing, but before fear could fully take hold, you saw the figure stepping into the room.

Arthur.

He moved with the same graceful stealth you had come to know so well, his tall frame silhouetted in the moonlight. He was dressed in dark leathers, his sword sheathed at his side, but his eyes—those soft, concerned eyes—were fixed on you. His expression, though shadowed by the dim light, was filled with a quiet urgency.

"Y/N," he whispered, stepping closer to the bed, his voice low and filled with emotion. "It’s time."

You blinked, the haze of worry giving way to understanding. This was it. Rhaegar’s plan. Arthur had come to take you away, just as he had promised.

Without a word, Arthur reached out his hand to you, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. There was an unmistakable tenderness in his touch, more than just a protective gesture. It was a connection, one that had grown between the two of you over time, forged in stolen moments and quiet confessions. 

You hesitated only for a moment, the gravity of what was happening weighing heavily on your chest. But then, with a deep breath, you took his hand. The moment your fingers intertwined, a sense of calm washed over you—Arthur was here. You weren’t alone.

Arthur’s grip tightened gently, a silent reassurance, and he gave you a soft, encouraging smile. “Come,” he said, his voice still a whisper. “We have to move quickly.”

You slid out of bed, your bare feet touching the cold stone floor, but the chill didn’t matter. Arthur’s hand was warm, his presence solid and comforting, and in that moment, it was all that mattered. He led you toward the corner of the room where the tapestry hung, concealing the secret passage. With a swift, practiced motion, he pushed it aside, revealing the entrance to Maegor’s tunnels.

The darkness within the tunnel yawned before you, and for a brief moment, you felt a flicker of hesitation. You were about to leave behind everything you had ever known—the Red Keep, your family, the life you had been forced to endure. But Arthur’s hand, warm and steady in yours, pulled you back from the edge of doubt.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Arthur whispered, his voice tender as he stepped closer to you. His other hand came up to gently brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering near your cheek. The warmth in his gaze made your heart flutter. “You’re safe with me, Y/N. I promise.”

The affection in his touch, in his words, sent a wave of emotion through you. For so long, you had been trapped—trapped in your father’s plans, trapped in the fear of what was to come. But Arthur… Arthur had been your anchor, your light in the darkness. And now, here he was, offering you a way out. 

“I trust you,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of everything you were feeling. “You know I do.”

Arthur’s eyes softened even further, and for a moment, the tension in his posture melted away. He cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he leaned in, his forehead resting softly against yours. The closeness of him, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, made your heart ache in a way that was both painful and comforting.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words barely audible, as if they were meant only for you and the night. “I’ve loved you for so long… and I’ll protect you, Y/N. Always.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, swallowing the lump in your throat. You leaned into his touch, your forehead still pressed against his, and for that brief moment, the world outside didn’t exist. It was just the two of you, bound by love and promises made in the quiet darkness.

But the moment couldn’t last. The reality of your situation hung over you like a shadow, and Arthur, as much as he wanted to hold you there, knew it as well.

“We have to go,” he said softly, reluctantly pulling away, though his hand remained in yours. “The tunnels will take us outside the Red Keep, and from there, we can disappear.”

You nodded, your chest tightening with the weight of leaving. Leaving your brother, your mother… everything. But Arthur was here, and that was all you needed to keep moving.

He led you into the tunnel, the passage narrowing as the cold air wrapped around you. The walls pressed in on both sides, but Arthur’s presence—his hand still holding yours—kept the fear at bay. His thumb brushed the back of your hand gently as you walked, as if to remind you that he was there, that he wouldn’t let go.

The darkness seemed endless, the path twisting and turning in ways that disoriented you. But Arthur moved with certainty, his grip never faltering. Every now and then, he would glance back at you, his gaze soft and full of concern.

“We’re almost there,” he whispered after a while, his voice echoing softly in the tunnel. “Once we’re outside, we’ll have to move quickly. But I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

You nodded, though the weight of what you were leaving behind pressed heavily on your chest. The fear was there, gnawing at the edges of your resolve, but Arthur’s presence kept it from consuming you entirely.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you saw a faint light ahead—the exit. The cool night air rushed in as you stepped closer, the world outside waiting for you. Freedom.

Arthur paused just before the exit, turning to face you. His eyes searched yours, filled with a mixture of affection and determination. He reached up to cup your face once more, his touch gentle, reverent.

“I made a promise to you,” he said softly, his voice full of emotion. “I will keep it. No matter what happens, Y/N… I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat. “I know,” you whispered, your heart swelling with gratitude and something deeper. “I trust you, Arthur. With my life.”

For a moment, you stood there, your foreheads touching again, your hands intertwined. And then, with a deep breath, Arthur led you out into the night, leaving the Red Keep—and everything it represented—behind.

The midday sun cast a harsh light over the Red Keep, the warmth of the day doing nothing to ease the unease that had been simmering for weeks. The throne room, as always, was heavy with the oppressive air of dread, the courtiers and guards moving about their duties with downcast eyes, hoping to avoid the notice of the king. It was a day like any other—or so it seemed—until the doors to the throne room burst open, and King Aerys stormed inside, his face contorted with fury.

The courtiers froze in place, some recoiling instinctively as the king swept into the room, his robes billowing behind him like a storm. His hair was wild, his eyes blazing with madness, and the room fell silent as his presence commanded attention.

"Where is she?" Aerys bellowed, his voice echoing through the hall like thunder. "Where is my daughter?"

There was a moment of stunned silence as the court struggled to comprehend what was happening. Aerys’ erratic behavior had become all too familiar, but this—this rage, this wild, uncontrolled fury—was something new. The king’s eyes darted around the room, searching for a target, someone to lash out at.

Finally, Grand Maester Pycelle, always hovering near the throne, stepped forward cautiously. His hands trembled as he clutched the edges of his robes, his face pale. “Your Grace... I... I’m afraid I do not understand. Princess Y/N...”

"She is gone!" Aerys shrieked, his voice cracking with rage. "Gone! Stolen from me by that treacherous son of mine!"

The words sent a ripple of shock through the court. Whispers began to spread like wildfire, but no one dared speak aloud. The tension was visible, every breath in the room held as the king’s fury mounted.

Aerys’ hands clenched into fists as he whirled around, his eyes wild as he scanned the faces of his courtiers. "Rhaegar! Where is Rhaegar?!" he roared. "He’s taken her—my daughter—my Y/N! He’s stolen her, and the Sword of the Morning has betrayed me! The traitor... they’ve all conspired against me!"

His voice grew more erratic with every word, his accusations becoming more unhinged. The court stood frozen, terrified to respond, knowing that any wrong move could send the king into further madness.

Pycelle swallowed nervously, his face beading with sweat as he stepped forward again. “Your Grace, perhaps there is a misunderstanding—"

"There is no misunderstanding!" Aerys screamed, his voice reverberating through the hall. "Rhaegar has taken her! Arthur Dayne, that snake, has helped him! They’ve stolen her away—my daughter—from me!"

He slammed his fist down onto the arm of the Iron Throne, the sharp edges of the jagged swords biting into his skin, drawing blood. But Aerys didn’t seem to notice—or care. His eyes blazed with fury, his breathing ragged, his entire body trembling with rage.

"And where is the queen?" he demanded, his voice suddenly dropping to a low, venomous hiss. His eyes flicked to where Queen Rhaella should have been, her usual place at his side conspicuously empty.

For a moment, the court held its breath, waiting for Aerys to explode again. But then, in a surprising twist, he dismissed her absence with a wave of his hand, his attention entirely focused on you. "It doesn’t matter," he spat. "Rhaella is of no concern. It’s Y/N. My daughter. She belongs to me, and now she’s gone—stolen!"

The hall seemed to grow colder as Aerys ranted, his madness unraveling before their eyes. Some of the courtiers exchanged nervous glances, but no one dared to speak. No one dared to move. The king was spiraling, and there was no telling what he might do.

"I want her found!" Aerys screeched, rising from the Iron Throne with a wild, violent movement. His eyes glowed with a terrifying, feverish light. "Send out the guards—every one of them! Scour the city, search the lands, tear apart every house, every corner of Westeros until they find her! She is mine!" His voice cracked again, high-pitched and hysterical.

Ser Gerold Hightower, who had been standing near the back of the room, stepped forward cautiously, his face grim. “Your Grace,” he began carefully, trying to remain calm in the face of the king’s rage. “We will search for the princess and Prince Rhaegar. But we must proceed carefully. There is unrest in the realm, and we must—”

"I don’t care about the realm!" Aerys shrieked, his face twisting with madness. "Rhaegar has betrayed me—he has betrayed us! He seeks to steal her away from me, but I will not allow it. I will not!"

His voice, already hoarse from screaming, cracked again as he slammed his fist into the arm of the Iron Throne. Blood dripped from the cuts on his hand, staining the stone beneath him, but the king paid no mind to the pain.

"He thinks he can hide," Aerys muttered to himself, his voice dropping into a low, manic murmur. "He thinks he can take her from me... but I will find them. I will bring her back. And I will burn the traitors—burn them all!"

The final words sent a fresh wave of terror through the court. The burning. Everyone in the hall knew what that meant, what Aerys was capable of when he spoke of fire and blood.

Ser Jaime Lannister, standing rigid near the entrance, looked as if he might be sick, his face pale as he watched the king descend further into madness. He had seen Aerys like this before, but never with such focus, never with such venom. This time, it was personal.

Aerys stormed back and forth in front of the Iron Throne, his hands shaking as he ranted incoherently about betrayal, about fire, about how Rhaegar would pay for his treachery. But in the chaos of his fury, there was one name he spoke with more possessiveness, more obsession than all the rest—yours.

"My daughter..." Aerys whispered, his voice breaking as he stared at the empty space in front of him, his eyes wild and unfocused. "She was meant to stay with me... she is the mother of the dragon. She is mine..."

The madness had fully taken hold, and there was no one left in the room who dared to try and stop it.The court stood frozen, watching in horror as Aerys’ mind unraveled before their eyes, the king consumed by a madness that now had a singular, terrifying focus—you.

And as the madness swirled around him, Aerys made one final, chilling declaration.

"I will find them," he hissed, his voice barely more than a whisper. "And when I do, they will burn. Rhaegar... Arthur... all of them. I will burn them all for what they have taken from me."

The court froze in silence as Aerys continued to rage, pacing back and forth, his robe sweeping the ground in furious movements. His accusations about Rhaegar and your disappearance had sent shockwaves through the room, but no one dared to speak, no one dared to move.

And then, a sound—a deep, rumbling vibration—broke through the stillness.

Behind the Iron Throne, in the shadows that had clung to the creature since it made the throne room its lair, Terrax stirred. The black-scaled dragon, large enough now that his coiled form dominated the space behind the Iron Throne, shifted his massive bulk. His golden eyes opened slowly, glowing in the low light, casting a feral gleam across the throne. His nostrils flared, taking in the scent of the room, the madness, the fear, the fire.

The court froze, every gaze snapping toward the throne. Whispers cut short, breaths held in anxious silence. The dragon’s movements had an immediacy to them, a raw power that was impossible to ignore. His tail, long and heavy, twitched, scraping across the stone with a low, menacing sound. The ground trembled faintly under the weight of his massive form, and the air in the room seemed to grow hotter.

Aerys, caught mid-rant, turned sharply toward the sound. For a moment, even the Mad King hesitated, his wild eyes flicking to the shadowed form of the dragon. Terrax had been quiet for days, as if lying in wait, but now, with your absence so keenly felt, something had awakened in him.

“Terrax,” Aerys muttered under his breath, a smile curling on his lips, though it was edged with something darker, something uncertain. “Yes... you feel it too, don’t you? The betrayal. The lies.”

Terrax’s gaze locked on the king, his slitted pupils narrowing as he raised his head higher, his wings shifting slightly, the sound of scales scraping over stone filling the room. The dragon did not roar, did not snarl, but the tension in his body was palpable. It was as though the creature was on the edge of something dangerous, something violent, waiting for a signal, waiting for a reason.

The courtiers who had been lingering near the walls edged back further, fear etched into their faces. Ser Jaime Lannister, standing guard near the throne, tensed, his hand hovering near his sword, though he knew better than to think a blade could stand against a dragon. Ser Gerold Hightower glanced toward the dragon with a calculating look, but he too remained still, knowing the danger that could unfold if Terrax were provoked.

Aerys, however, stepped closer to the throne, his eyes gleaming with a manic light. “They think they can steal her from me,” he muttered, his voice laced with venom. “But you know better, don’t you? You know she belongs to me.”

Terrax’s golden eyes remained fixed on Aerys, unblinking and cold. His massive chest expanded with each slow breath, the heat from his body radiating through the room. There was something unsettling about the stillness of the dragon, as if he were weighing the king’s words, measuring the madness before him.

Aerys, oblivious to the danger, raised a hand toward Terrax, his voice rising again. “You will bring her back to me,” he declared, his words almost a command. “You will find her, burn them, all of them, if you must! But you will return her to me!”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the distant torches and the low, steady rumble from Terrax’s chest. The dragon remained motionless, his gaze locked on the king, but there was a tension in the air, a charge that made everyone present feel as though something terrible was about to happen.

Aerys stepped even closer to the Iron Throne, his eyes burning with the fire of his madness. “Terrax, do you not hear me?” he hissed, frustration creeping into his voice. “You belong to her, and she belongs to me!”

The dragon’s pupils dilated briefly, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps warning—crossing his gaze. His tail twitched again, scraping loudly across the stone floor, and the sound seemed to echo through the hall, causing several of the courtiers to visibly flinch.

Aerys’ hand, outstretched toward the dragon, began to tremble with rage. “They’ve poisoned you too, haven’t they?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Rhaegar... Arthur... they’ve turned you against me! But you are mine, Terrax. You are mine!”

But the dragon did not move. Terrax’s gaze remained locked on Aerys, and the silence that followed was suffocating. It became clear to everyone in the room—perhaps even to Aerys himself—that Terrax was not responding to the king’s madness. Terrax belonged to you, and with you gone, his loyalty was not so easily manipulated.

Aerys’ face twisted with frustration, and he slammed his hand down on the arm of the Iron Throne, the sharp edges of the swords digging into his flesh. “Find them!” he screamed, his voice hoarse and hysterical. “Find Rhaegar, find Arthur Dayne, find her! Bring them back to me, or I will burn this entire city to the ground!”

The court remained frozen, terror etched into every face as the king’s madness raged unchecked. The guards began to move, hesitant at first, but quickly obeying the command, rushing out of the hall to search for the missing prince, the Sword of the Morning, and you.

But even as the chaos unfolded, Terrax remained still, his eyes still locked on Aerys with an unreadable intensity. It was as though the dragon was waiting—watching—biding his time.

And as Aerys continued to rant, the court could only wonder if, when the time came, Terrax would unleash the fire that burned inside him—not for Aerys, but for the daughter of the dragon who had truly claimed him.

[writingoddess1125]

Gigs

This Fine Lady has been in my drafts for like- 8 Months??? Please excuse grammer issues, i didnt re-read it

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Masterlist

0200 Hours Barrancas Del Cobre

The rhythmic thumping of rotor blades echoed through the open sky as Gigs skillfully maneuvered the large military helicopter through the turbulent skies. TF 141, clad in their tactical gear, secured safely inside and ready for the upcoming mission.

"Ready for quick action Pilot Gigs? May have to make a smooth landin lass" Price called to you, walking to your chair as you glanced back at the man.

"Nah Cap, I' like it slow'~ Especially with Becks Sh's a romantic~" Gigs said with a laugh patting the helicoper stick at the made up nickname for the vehicle, earning a few giggles from the boys in the back.

"Ohh A romantic I see, well a romantic with this many men with big guns? Would mistake for a slag-" Price said earning a loud laugh from Gigs as they went through a mountain pass, the trip had been smooth sailing so far.

However it seemed smooth sailing wasnt a guarantee. Ghost glancing back as he saw two dots coming behind them- Fast.

"Gigs!- Company" He loudly announced, the crew looking back as Gigs clicked her tongue.

"Well Shit! Hold on tight, boy's it’s ’bout to get rough!" Gigs cackled, fixing her helmet as she kicked up the helicopter towards a tighter canon pass, seeing two attack copters getting closer.

"Price! Look in my bag 'eal quick, you need a good shot"

She hollered out, the men preparing for a air attack as Price went to the back of the copter to the pilots coop, reaching in as he couldn't help but raise a brow.

Pulling back a Pila Launcher, With a few rounds of ammo as well. Price walking to the door as he slid it open, the men taking a look at the launcher of choice.

Alejandro looking to Gigs with a terrified laugh- "You keep this on hand!?"

"Oh Bless You Darlin' you shou'd see wha' I keep in my panty dra'er" She said with a wink and smile as she flicked up some keys, Grunting as she saw the two on her tail and flicked up the gas.

Lets Fuckin Go-

As she zips through the canyon, dodging enemy fire, the team bracing themselves hard, holding the leather straps as they felt gravity slamming against them. The enemy helicopters are hot on their tail, as sound of gunfire from them heard- but Gigs is in her element. She dips the chopper into a tight barrel roll, narrowly avoiding a missile that streaks past, exploding against the canyon wall.

"How the bloody hell are we still in the air!?" Gaz shouts, gripping his seat for dear life. Ghost grabbing his vest to keep against the seat as he hissed himself at the harsh movements.

"Cause I’m just that damn good baby!" Gigs yells back, her voice full of adrenaline-fueled excitement. Price loading the Launcher as best as he could, his body slamming into the copter side, Alejandro grabbing him to steady as the doors swung open. Price holding steady as he aimed at the closest helicopter-

"One Down! Need to reload!" Price yelled out as contact was struck, Starting to reload as fast as possible. Gigs glanced around quickly however, knowing the second copter could take them down especially when she saw missles fire- till her eyes spotted the canyon wall.

"Fuck Fuck Fuck!"

Gigs pulls the chopper into a steep climb up the canyon, gaining altitude fast.

"Come on Beck's!, Clime for me sug!" She yelled out as the boys felt themselves go vertical.

"You're Fuckin' Mental!" Soap yelled out with a laugh as he felt his feet dandle from the seat.

"Time for some fireworks, boys!" She flips a switch, and flares shoot out from the helicopter, confusing the incoming missiles that explode harmlessly in the sky perfectly turning the guns on the remaining copter-

"Gotcha You Bitch!"

A whistle of excitement leaving Gigs as she howled and shot down on the copter watching it explode fust a few hundred yards from them.

"WOO!"

Gigs laughed out as she zipped through the canyon to a lower pass, close to the drop off point were she would need to hide out.

The men in the back a bit frazzled by the fast pace combat and worrying excitement from their female pilot.

0600 Landing Spot

After securing their landing the group disbanded from the helicopter, Gaz who was familiar with helicopter trauma seemed ready to simply walk back to London at this point..

"Ill be here waiting for y'all" Gigs told them, The men nodding in understanding as they gave a short brief at the task at hand. However Soap eyes began to wonder over the female pilot specifically her ass.. Seeing how he couldn't tell if he saw attracted to her, attracted to the crazy- or both- however his wondering eye was quickly caught as she looked Soap immediately and locked eyes with him.

Soap felt a bit intimidated by how she looked him up and down, like she was mentally doing math on him.

"What?" He questioned, which seemed to make her smile.

"Youre goin on a date with me pretty boy" She said suddently, Patting his vested chest with a smirk before walking off.

"Pretty boy?" He scoffed, glancing around at the rest of the team staring at him and Alejandro suppressing giggles.

"How it feel Soap getting a date with her?" Gaz said as he slapped the man's back who was just now realizing what happened.

"I got a date?-" He innocently asked, looking to Ghost who nodded softly in confirmation.

"I got a date!?"

[softsoule]

Wide Awake

Cast: You & Jeong Gu-Won

Inspiration: Wide Awake by Katy Perry & Power by Isak Danielson

Trigger Warnings: Self Harm and Slight Religious Remarks

Scene Context: Your standing on a rooftop peering over a ledge.

Demon. An evil spirit or devil, especially one thought to possess a person or act as a tormentor in hell. 

Unfortunately for me, I met my own personal tormentor, and in the end I'll surely pay the price.

The one who poisoned my faith and led me to stray from God. 

Jeong Gu-Won. The man who cursed me for eternity. The man who corrupted my soul. The one I would run to at every beck and call.

During his first few appearances at the Covenant, I remained strong, my faith unbreakable. Whenever I would feel his presence, I would pray to my father for strength and to rid us of this evil.

Unfortunately, my prayers went unanswered, and my faith started to falter. The more he appeared, the more curious I became. He was a shadow at first, just a dark silhouette of a man. 

Until one day, he appeared before me in all his glory. His beauty is breathtaking and alluring. The church warns you about temptation but never tells you how to fight it when it's standing right in front of you. 

His beauty further ignited my curiosity. What is his name? Where did he come from? Why did he choose me? Questions I so desperately wanted answers too.

As he continued to visit, the more confidence I built to speak to him. The moment I heard his sweet, suckle voice, I was enchanted. The way he held my gaze as he spoke so confidently caused me to feel unspeakable emotions. 

His presence became like a drug, and I craved more of it. I was willing to do anything to have my fix, and he knew it too. Once he had me hooked, he would visit less often; eventually, he would begin enticing me to commit sins in order to see him more.

Do you think I was willing? You bet your bottom dollar I was. 

As I look back, I wonder if it was my faithfulness that drew him or my naivety. Maybe it was a test of faith from our father, but how faithful could I have been if I willingly fell into the hands of one of his sworn enemies children?

But maybe he knew that when he saw me.

If only I was aware of the damage this forbidden relationship would cause. Maybe I wouldn't have been lured by his beauty or seduced by his sweet words. So many innocent lives taken, so much blood shed, so much torment inflicted on others.

As I stand on this ledge, I wonder if any of his sweet whispers and love confessions were real. You chuckle at the idea of it. Probably not, but you'll be okay with the idea of them possibly being true even if the chances were severely slim.

The wind kisses your skin, breaking your train of thought—another chilly fall night just like when you first met him. You grab the ledge and put one leg over after the other; you peer down and watch as the street starts to empty. Internally grateful, you'll like to traumatize as few people as possible; selfish, you know it.

Filled with determination, you close your eyes as you let go of the ledge, mentally bracing yourself for impact, but the impact never comes; instead, it's replaced by a hand holding yours to desperately keep you from slipping. You open your eyes to see your former lover, Jeong Gu-Won, heavily breathing, shocked by your drastic actions. He calls your name as if to beg you to stay, to think about what you are doing—emotions in his eyes you have never seen before.

Fear. The sight of you jumping shook his body to the core; in all his years, he never thought he could feel such a human emotion. Death was like a game to him; humans were like cheese pieces for him; he could kick them off the board one by one, but the moment he saw you leap over the edge, he knew he didn't want to play.

The raw emotion on his face makes your heart twinge, yet you refuse to falter; your decision has been made; your love has caused too much turmoil for you to continually live peacefully on this earth. Your dreams haunted with the faces of the innocent lives who were slain for your one-sided "love.".

You smile and let go of his hand; you hear him scream your name as you descend towards the concrete. The feeling of peace overfills you; your mind is no longer clouded with thoughts of Jeong Gu-Won, the screaming innocent, or the broken promises you made to your father.

You close your eyes and let the peaceful feeling consume you—a bright light entrapping you—before you know it, you're wide awake.

[sstormyskyess]

Decompressing

author's note: wrote this because i think it would fix me tbh

cw: hurt/comfort, small domestic fight [like really small], non-sexual bdsm, spanking, aftercare, subspace, dom!price

word count: 1000+

John Price x GN!Reader

Today was bad. Really bad. And you were tired. So, so tired. Even getting home was a chore; you were so irritated that every little inconvenience on your way back to your safe haven of a home had you seething. All you want is your bed—you want to sink into the sheets and not come out for as long as possible.

But your husband, your perfect husband who could do no wrong, has other plans. You know he means well, of course he does. All he wants is to help, but it feels like he's smothering you.

Finally, you snap.

"Just leave me alone, John!" You bark all of a sudden. You storm off to your shared bedroom and the door rattles on its hinges from the force with which you slam it shut. By the time you've thrown yourself under the duvet and buried your face into the pillow, you're already regretting what you did. Your face burns with shame as you imagine what his reaction was, the look that was on his face.

Luckily, he does give you space. The door only opens an hour or so later, once you've cooled off to a simmer. Not a full rest, but not boiling either. You bury yourself further under the sheets to shield yourself from the light that floods into the room from the hallway and then the light from the lamp that John turns on. His weight settles on the bed behind you and you melt under the heaviness of his warm hand on your side. He's silent—letting you think, you assume.

"I'm sorry," You mumble, voice muffled by the pillow under your head. He hums in response and starts to rub your shoulder. "I know, sweetheart." His voice is warm, calm, a perfect contrast to your own choked up tone. "It's alright."

There's a brief pause. It's tense and it causes you to turn over and peek up at him. He's looking down at you with his silvery blue eyes and your gaze meets his meekly. "You know that was inappropriate. You don't talk to me like that," he says, and although you're being scolded, he sounds anything but angry. You still feel terrible for what you did, but you know he wasn't upset with you. It didn't stop you from pulling the sheets over your face childishly.

"Come on, love. Get up," he tells you, firm yet patient as always. You knew what was coming next and it made you shudder with anticipation. You do as he asks and he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. You shuffle in front of him, dragging your feet and still avoiding his eyes. Your muscles tense when he takes hold of your thigh, squeezing it. "Over my knees."

You know he wasn't punishing you. This was anything but a punishment; it was for you, not for him. When you're laid over his legs, your face nuzzled into his side, you know that he's taking care of you and it makes you sigh softly.

His large palm massages the meat of your thighs and up to your ass, then his fingers find their way under the waistband of your pants. He tugs them down to your knees, taking your underwear with them. You shiver at the wash of cold air that breezes across your bare skin and John, ever observant, takes a moment to warm you up with his hand in wide circles over your ass.

When his hand pulls away, you immediately brace yourself, eyes shut tight. He brings it back down with a harsh slap to your ass and you yelp. He smooths over your skin as a slight comfort. "Don't forget to count, love," he instructs. You murmur out a small 'one,' and wait for his next spanking.

You're holding back tears after you reach seven, your asscheeks and thighs burning hot and prickling with pain from the intensity behind each hit he laid upon you. He takes a pause, running his hand up and down your spine. You glance up at him, silently questioning him.

"Tell me what happened today," he says with a leveled gaze peering back down at you. You go back to bury your face in his side, but his other hand takes hold of the back of your head, redirecting you to look up at him again. "I'm not asking," he reminds you with a tight squeeze to the nape of your neck. "Yes, sir," You respond with a nod.

You start recounting your terrible day, telling him everything that happened one after another, all the while keeping count just as he told you. The tears finally fall as you spill all of the feelings that were building inside you all day, everything that was pent up and ready to burst at the seams. You eke out apologies to him between your sobs, and he listens to everything you say intently, reassuring you that things are going to be okay. You squeeze his free hand tightly when he offers it to you and all of it is just so much. It's so overwhelming; it's cathartic.

When you tap his thigh, John knows that you've gotten it all out and you're finally relaxed, lost in a floaty, comfortable state far above the sea of troubles that you were stewing in before. He bundles you up in his arms and totes you to the bathroom, running a warm bath for you to rest in. Your eyes are puffy and rimmed with red while you stare up at him, leaning into his touch while he cleans you up from head to toe. His calloused fingers scrubbed along your scalp, keeping you drifting in subspace.

Once you’re cleaned up and dried off, he lays you on your stomach in the bed gently, peppering your warm skin with kisses. Across your shoulders, up and down your spine on the bruises that were forming on your ass and thighs. Looking back at him over your shoulder, you can see his soft eyes looking back at you, practically glowing in the light of the bedside lamp. Soon enough, you’re lathered up in lotion, cooling your irritated skin enough to let you drift off to sleep peacefully, cuddled up next to your husband. You could talk more in the morning, but for now you just needed to rest.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[inkformyblood]

fight for me (love me) [COD Mermay 2024, PriceGhost]

Pirate Captain Price x Mer Ghost

There is a peculiar kind of silence that descends over the ship at nighttime when they’re on the open water. Not another soul in sight except the poor sod on nightwatch up in the nest and Price himself, his coat thrown around his shoulders against the evening chill and a rationed measure of tobacco in the pouch at his waist. He ducks around the side of his cabin, putting solid distance and structure between himself and any prying eyes before he reaches for it. 

He isn’t just carrying tobacco with him after all. 

The scrimshaw is the same size as his hand, a jagged break along the base where it had been joined to gum, and the scene carved into it is one Price knows well. He’s studied it often enough to memorise every smooth line and every darkened segment that came together to make something beautiful. He also knows what the men think of it, that it’s a talisman of some woman Price has left behind on shore, his perceived betrayal that set a bounty on his head and sent him prowling the ocean like some misguided legend tearing him away from her. He isn’t going to tell them that they’re wrong. His ‘woman’ is much closer to hand. 

Price makes up his pipe, cupping his hand around the bowl as he strikes a match. In the tiny golden flare as it catches, something moves far beneath him, a huge shape disturbing the surface and causing the ship to rock gently. He breathes in smoke, the familiar bitter taste of everything he’s denied burning through him, old anger given fresh life for a moment, and leans over the side of the ship. “Simon? Going to show your face?”

What answers him is divinity made flesh, a behemoth from legend discarded into the ocean and left to wander the world adrift and alone. Until Price had found him. Until he had found Price. 

There’s blood on Simon’s mouth, a scab torn open along the jut of his lip, and it fogs the water sluicing off of his skin as he surfaces. He doesn’t rise far, not as high as Price has seen him go before, but enough that he can curl his fingers over the edge of the ship, keeping himself upright. The water beneath him begins to churn as his tail works, the ship shifting incrementally as Simon works against current and wind and the fragile thread of the anchor to keep himself upright. Barely takes him any effort, Price notes, his expression still as blank as ever, no furrow on his brow like Price would expect from a human or grimace pulling at the jagged corners of his mouth. Simon’s gaze is fixed on Price, familiarity scratching at the base of his skull before Price can place the expression; an old hunting dog he’d owned as a boy, the same rapt attention, the same sense of waiting for a command Price didn’t know at the time, the instruction to kill. He knew it now, after all. Price is too old not to.

“Been fighting, lad?” Price bites on the stub of his pipe, fitting his teeth into the worn-in marks and kneels carefully, bracing himself on the railing. Simon’s left space for him between the cage of his arms and the lingering trap of his teeth and Price sits, swings his legs over the side. Frigid sea water soaks through his trousers, a fresh spray against his face, and Price grits his teeth against it, burns his lungs with another drag as he fits the scrimshaw back into the pouch at his waist. 

Leaning forwards, his boots digging into the growth of algae and barnacles along the side of the ship, Price cups Simon’s jaw. Inhaling brings a fresh glow to cast harsh shadows across Simon’s face, the dark sheen of his eyes still fixed on Price as he shifts his grip to Simon’s chin and extends his thumb to swipe over the pout of Simon’s lower lip. It’s softer than he expects even now, given the wreath of pale scales splashed over Simon’s face, following the contours of his skull into some grotesque mockery of what lies beneath. 

There’s a strong odour of salt as Simon’s mouth parts beneath Price’s touch, older blood caked across the jagged stretch of his lower teeth, and Price breathes through his mouth, filling his lungs with smoke and ash. He presses his thumb against the sluggish bleeding mark, a distance sense of warmth beginning to catch on the frozen pad before Price leans back. With his free hand, he removes the pipe, holding it out to Simon and the other man takes it carefully, his teeth tucked behind his lips. It looks comical, a child outfitted in a man’s shirt that falls past his knees, a hat falling over his eyes and a pipe he doesn’t know the concept of stuffed into his mouth, but then, Simon inhales, the gills along his neck flaring wide, and Price laves his thumb over an offering from a god. 

The corner of Simon’s mouth quirks upwards, the expression drawn sharper by the curved scar that bisects his cheek from the corner of his mouth. “I won,” he tells Price flatly, his voice deep, a whale’s song echoing up from the fathoms. 

Price laughs, reclaiming his pipe from Simon’s mouth. Tastes like salt but everything does after a stretch of time out at sea, hungry mistress that she is, stripping everything one by one from a man sentenced into her embrace. There’s a sharper bite to Simon’s blood compared to Price’s familiarity to his own, a bitter taste that lingers over his tongue even through another draw on his pipe. It would be several days before Price would stop tasting it. “I bet you did, lad. Any trinkets left for me?”

It’s a strange turn of events that had left Price here, a wanted pirate, exiled from the land of his birth, and in an alliance of a kind with a creature from the deep. He wonders, at times, what Simon gets out of their Fasutian bargain. He could sink Price’s ship as easily as any other, break a hole in their hull and listen to them scream as they drown, but he doesn’t, instead letting Price point him at his enemies, shattering every move made against him. 

“Yes.” Simon blinks, a second eyelid drawing across his eyes leaving them milky before it retreats. “Less than a day east. Pulled it closer. Should see the scavengers circling before daybreak.”

Simon would drown him eventually, pull him down into the depths and swallow down his final desperate breath of air, but, before then, Price would rule with Simon at his side, circling the bloody waters at his feet.

“Atta lad,” Price murmurs. He cups Simon’s jaw once more, removing his pipe as he leans forward. It would be easy for him to fall like this, supported entirely by Simon remaining in place. One quick motion from the other man, a harsh wave hitting the side of the ship, and Price would be gone, just another mystery to be discussed when the stars overhead leant in close. He kisses Simon carefully, ever-conscious of the razor-sharp teeth hidden for the moment, his breath fogging against the other man’s cooler skin n leaving an imprint that would only last as long as Price lingers this close. Simon’s scales catch on his moustache, tugging at the skin beneath, and Price retreats, swinging the hand clutching his pipe back to the support of the ship as he pulls himself upright. 

Simon’s grin is wide and full of teeth, hungry in a way Price cannot put into words, the open-mouthed devouring focus of a predator willingly leashed for now. Price’s attention moves to the dark gap in Simon’s teeth, a singular row, each the size of his hand, and coaxes another breath out of his pipe. Smoke clouds his vision for a moment, but he senses Simon retreating, sliding back beneath the waves and Price is alone as he ever is once more. 

[syoddeye]

kinktober - day 15 - jealousy, outdoors

soap x transmasc!reader | 1.3k words cw: slightly mean!Soap, biting, nipple play, fingering, penetrative sex, semi-public sex, italics stan, 1 good boy a/n: the words cunt, cock, and hole are used to describe genitalia of a transmasc reader’s body. reader has a flat chest (can be read as post-top surgery), and brief reference to a hysterectomy. went off list. summary: riling johnny up has fun consequences. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

Playing with fire. That’s what he whispered into your ear as you paused for a drink five or six songs ago. A big grin on his face as if he wasn’t absolutely seething inside.

Johnny’s always had a flair for the dramatic, but playing with fire? Funny. You’re just dancing.

So what if your jacket is abandoned in your chair? Or that your shirt is unbuttoned to a scandalous degree? That you’re in the arms of another man, a handsome one, spinning like a top across the dancefloor?

It’s a wedding. You like to dance. Why wouldn’t you say anything other than yes to an open hand?

But you feel his eyes leading up to the dip. You know he’s watching when you neck your drink and ditch the glass. And when your partner does tilt you allll the way back, eliciting whoops and applause, you hear his chair scrape the parquet above the noise.

One minute, he’s across the hall; the next, he’s beside you.

“Cuttin’ in.” Johnny announces, voice deceivingly calm. There isn’t a moment to protest before the slowed opening notes of the next song fill the air.

Johnny’s muscles strain under his shirt, flexing as he guides you into a clumsier rendition of a waltz. You gloss over the stretched material to his face, taking in his poorly feigned nonchalance. His focus is cast over your shoulder, fixed on some point, like he’s not even dancing with you at all.

You smile.

It takes a minute for him to notice.

“What’re ye lookin’ at?”

“You’ve got something green on your cheek.” He lifts a hand, but pauses at your bark of laughter. “You’re positively green with envy, John MacTavish.”

Winding him up is dead easy. “Not true.”

“Oh, well, now your ears are turning red, so…”

His cheek puffs out as he works over your teasing, brow dropping into a glare. “Alrigh’, that’s it. Outside.”

Abruptly halting your dance, he marches you through the packed dance floor, right past the amused-looking newlyweds. You dig your heels to delay the delightfully inevitable.

“Price, you’ve got to talk some sense into him.” You half-joke, brushing arms with the groom.

John lifts a brow. “Not getting involved. Not today.”

“Traitor.”

Your host chuckles and shakes his head. “Somewhere out of view this time, yeah?”

Johnny’s smug as he reels you in close. “‘Course, Cap.”

“John—Johnny!” Your protests dissipate into giddy laughter as he jams a hand into your opened shirt. You dizzily look over his shoulder for the hundredth time, and he nips at your jaw.

“Nobody’s gonna see.” he grumbles. 

Probably not. Past the garden and a small field, the two of you are hidden within a copse of trees. Though you no longer see the lights from the wedding, you still hear the music.

Your trousers and pants warm your ankles, and your hole warms two of Johnny’s fingers. He impatiently scissors them open, his hand all the way to his wrist dripping with his work. You brace yourself against the tree at your back, knees almost knocking together with how he makes your legs shake.

He twists a nipple and bites the other, tugging until you squeak. The cool air hurts when he releases it, and his stubbly cheek scratches your chest as he works on sinking his teeth into your flat chest.

“I ken ye wanted this. Dancin’ like ye were. With him.” He mutters, yanking another sound out of you by suddenly stuffing his fingers to the webbing. “Ye wanted my attention? Now ye fuckin’ have it.”

His thumb brushes sparingly over your cock. Avoids it if it can. Part of your milquetoast ‘punishment’. His prep is quick and dirty, fingers pulling out after opening you up just enough. You suck in deep breaths, holding his fixed gaze as he makes short work of his kilt. He frees himself, stroking his length, foreskin sliding back and forth as his jaw works.

Just when you start to relax, he moves. On you in less than a second.

He heaves one of your legs, the hinge of your knee fitting to the one of his arm, and presses in a heartbeat later. It’s a stretch in two ways, and pain bursts through the back of your skull as your head thuds against the street.

“Christ on a–Johnny!” 

He doesn’t stop, cramming himself into your hole, shallowly rocking a few times to fit all the way inside. The slight burn is part of what he wants, the impression he wants to make. You know him well, so you let him have it, showing him the few tears all his pushing brings to your eyes.

The way coos at you is mean, but tinged with an edge lacking any real sharpness. Patronizing, but not cruel. He’d stop if you spoke up, you’re sure, but he’s not completely off base with his accusation. You wanted his attention, and now you have it. All of its inches retract, then shoves back in with a filthy groan in your ear. He steadily picks up the pace, and your fingertips dig deeper into the tree with every thrust.

Your body acclimates quickly, walls adjusting to Johnny’s feverish speed, but the friction you desperately need just isn’t there. Your cock throbs, bouncing some as Johnny fucks you with abandon, knocking you into the tree so hard, you know you’ll be sore in more ways than one tomorrow. All you need is a little push, a little more attention to glide off that cliff. You test letting go of the tree with one hand as he pumps into you, but he clicks his tongue.

“Keep ‘em where they are, and beg.”

“Please,” Shame doesn’t exist between you. Even like this. Especially like this. “Please, Johnny. I’m so, so close.” 

He chuckles, lips curling back into a feral grin. “That so?” 

“Please! Johnny,” your pitch rockets up with a particularly hard thrust. “Need to come, sorry for–for–”

“Actin’ out?”

“Yeah, yeah, acting out. Oh god, please, I just, oh–fuck!”

His free hand drops unceremoniously between you, finds your cock, and starts stroking you in time with his hips. His fingers glide along the tender underside, thumb toying with its tip. Every touch shoots an electric buzz from your core, sending warmth down your nerve endings. The trees blur together behind Johnny, and the night air turns thin. Your breath hitches and hitches, the pressure of your oncoming orgasm pushing the air out of you in full-body shivers.

Before they can escape, he pulls his hand away, swiftly smothering them with slick fingers. You watch Johnny grit his teeth, chasing down his own release with a violent single-mindedness. He uses you, keeping your leg up even as it goes boneless, and frees your mouth to plant a palm beside your head. He pistons into you ruthlessly and ignores your babbling about it being too much.

When his orgasm hits, his eyes roll back, and a stream of hissed curses spew out of his mouth as his rhythm breaks into something erratic.

Johnny floods your cunt, shuddering as his cum pumps into you, only withdrawing briefly to guide what’s escaped back in. He presses in as deep as he can, letting go of your leg, making it nice and snug. He lazily mouths your neck, murmuring how you make him mad, how much he loves it. His thumb pets over the long, vertical scar beneath your belly, hidden beneath your happy trail. 

You weakly squeeze him as soon as the phosphenes clear, and your soul reattaches to your body.

“Fuck, that’s–that’s a good–” His hoarse praise stops with a bite of his tongue, but when you meet eyes, he laughs breathlessly and lets it go. “That’s a good boy. Learned yer lesson?”

You wet your lips, finally prying your hands off of the tree. Your fingertips sting as you start to button your shirt haphazardly. “Yeah, sure. I’ll never try to make you jealous again.”

Johnny’s smirk turns knowing when he pulls out, head tilting to watch his cum leak onto your thigh. “It’s a good thing I’m no’ the jealous type.” By the time you return to the wedding hall, Johnny’s arm is tucked around you for support, and the party’s in full swing. Kyle catches your eye across the venue and shoots a wink. You lift your bottle and mouth, thanks for the assist.

[spookypete-94]

Helium

GhostxFem!reader

Super short drabble inspiration from something that happened to me at work.

Soap and Reader prank Ghost, but get caught.

Cw for one f bomb

Soap was trying to sucker Y/N in helping him trick Ghost while in her office together. He had brought in black balloons from a 'Death to Price's Youth' from finally turning the big four-oh.

"Oh, come on!!" He begged, smiling a wide toothy grin. "We won't get caught. Your voice is perfect for it - it's the one closest to sounding like a child."

With a dead pan look, Y/N rolled her head dramatically to look at him. "You're kidding me, right?? It's Ghost. He's gonna figure it out. And how dare you say I'm like a child."

"Lass, ya know what I mean," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'll be right 'ere with ya'." Handing one of the balloons out for her to take.

A heavy sigh left her mouth.

"There is no telling you otherwise is there..." She said quietly more for herself, but Soap heard answering her back anyway. "No way in hell I'm leaving now. Do it, and I'll leave you be."

"Fine," she said, huffing, snatching the balloon from Soap.

To be the perfect accomplice, Soap turned the desk phone around to face him. Fingers on the buttons, ready to dial out to Ghost's office. The dial tone makes it montone sound, filling her office.

"Ready?" he asked eyebrow's lifting, that toothy smile never leaving, showing how excited he was to do this.

Untying the balloon, Y/N huffed in a large amount of helium and then took another hit off it.

"Ready." answering, her voice now many octaves higher making Soap start to giggle uncontrollably as he started to type in the numbers to Ghost's office. The look on her face was that of one of feigned annoyance at Soap. She might be putting on a front for him inconvincing her, but any time she could mess with her favorite lieutenant, she was down.

Sucking in more helium, she prepared herself as the phone trilled.

Soap slipped a hand across his mouth, steadying himself, trying to control his laughing and trembling body.

"Lieutenant Riley." Ghost picked up the phone answering.

"Hi, my daddy is on this base somewhere, and I was hoping i could talk to him."

Soap's body started to vibrate harder from wanting to laugh out loud.

" 'Scuse me?" Ghost's voice completely startled as he thinks he's speaking with a kid.

"My daddy works there. This is the number he gave me."

"He a Solider?"

Y/N quickly took in another short puff of helium.

"Yes, sir." She squeaked, trying to maintain control regulating herself once more. "Is he there? I miss him, my daddy." Trying her best to sound like a small child.

It was silent for a moment before she clearly had pulled on the gruff man's heart strings.

"Who's your daddy?" Ghost finally asked.

Soap roared with laughter, startling Y/N as she covered her mouth with her hand like it would fix the situation.

They both heard the sound of Ghost hanging up the phone... rather aggressively and stomping approaching Y/N's office. Soap could tell Ghost was on his way, the laughter quitting as he turned and bolted out the office.

"The fuck Soap!?" She asked after him. So much for being there for her. Her eyes drifted forward, watching the figure clad in black stand in her doorway. Ghost was watching Soap run away for a second before he swiftly turned into Y/N's office slamming the door.

"Ghost, I'm sorry! It was Soap's idea. He wouldn't stop pestering me to do it!" She said, trying to get Ghost to understand it wasn't malicious.

In the midst of it all, she did not realize Ghost had backed her into the corner of the office, now pinned against two walls and him a door blocking her in.

Meekly, her eyes begging him to forgive her, "I'm sorry, Ghost. It was stupid."

Lowering his head next to her ear, she could hear his grumbling laugh making her gasp in shock. Instead of the ass chewing she was bracing herself for him to give her, he lifted his mask to his nose. His mouth now next to her ear where he asked once more, this time in a cheeky way.

"Who's your daddy?"

Her eyes bounced back and forth from his trying to bring herself to answer.

"You are."

Simon Ghost Riley Masterlist