#floor scale price

[fauvester]

i have an apparb ment for residency

[syoddeye]

sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane. 

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally. 

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

[quarterlifekitty]

I heard “medieval/fantasy” and came sprinting‼️

thoughts and feelings on DragonHybrid!Price? I’ve seen him in monster aus, all good and fun, but a fantasy setting scratches my brain just right. I’m personally imagining it as a sort of werewolf situation where he can pass as a normal mortal just fine, but is forced to retreat to a cave in the mountains for (x reason to transform) (bonus points on if you don’t necessarily know he’s a dragon hybrid)

maybe as his transformation draws closer he becomes more animalistic in nature and appearance. matte scales hidden beneath his shirt and trousers, suddenly he’s looking a little more bulky and running a touch hotter than normal. were his pupils always slightly slit-like? he’s suddenly buying shiny objects, buying you gold rings and necklaces, crystal jewelry. he keeps absentmindedly referring to your home as your ‘den’, trying to keep you in the house more often

I haven’t thought through all the nitty gritty details, but the overall idea drives me insane. hugs and kisses, mwah🎀✨

Ok so. I’m a HUGE fan of the trope of being offered as like a human sacrifice and then getting fucked by the monster lol.

So for Dragon!Price I’m thinking that no one knows the dragon can take human form, and John introduces himself as an emissary for the great dragon of the mountains. He sees all of the potential offerings, pretty girls all done up in white linen, and to your terror, you’re selected.

You try to suck it up for the good of your village— the dragon is the one that protects you from other monsters. His mountain brings your community good fortune and plentiful harvest. But that doesn’t mean people aren’t afraid of him— that there aren’t endless tales of horror about what happens to dragon brides.

John, despite his loyalty to the dragon, is good to you as he escorts you up the mountain. He keeps you fed and rested. When you arrive at the caves there’s a sort of antechamber with many human comforts. John dresses you in fine silks and jewels and gold from a seemingly endless selection. He tells you he has to leave— it’s time to meet your new master and husband. You cling to his arm for a moment, silently begging him to stay with you. He tells you not to worry. That the dragon is fond of you already.

When you’re beckoned further into the cave, you see none other than John— his blue eyes slitted, scales running down his bare back, horns protruding and tail swishing on the floor. Half-transformed— he thought it would be the kinder way to take you on your wedding night.

He caresses the skin of your throat, framed in gold chains, and quietly commends himself for his own good taste.

[tetedurfarm]

get started in meat rabbits masterpost!

yesterday i accidentally hijacked a friend's post and got way more engagement than i expected, which is both amazing and exhausting. so today i present to you: a big post full of resources and answers to the most common questions i've been getting! please refer to this now before dming me with questions <3

information below the cut!

why rabbits?

because they're one of (and in my opinion, THE,) best small-scale meat animal out there. they are relatively small, extremely quiet, can live in cages and therefore do not take up much space, and have a higher feed conversion rate (meaning they make more meat per lb of feed) than chickens, and their poop is AMAZING for gardening! in the footprint of a washer and dryer you can have a trio of breeding animals and space for growing out their litters if you use stacking cages. you just can't beat that.

what do they taste like?

like chicken or turkey. domestic rabbit meat is a very mild, white meat, and can be substituted for chicken in almost every meal. most of my rabbit i grind into mince and use it in place of ground beef. my rabbits, at least, get enough fat to make it unnecessary to cut the mince with pork or beef fat, so even the burgers are really juicy!

will you sell me some meat?

unfortunately in the state of washington it is illegal to sell meat that has been processed at home. at best i could sell you a whole rabbit but you'd have to butcher it yourself.

how much do they cost?

this depends heavily on where you live, though imo they have a fairly low upfront cost relative to other livestock. your biggest upfront expensive will be cages, though you can find good deals on cages and other equipment at livestock auctions/swaps and craiglist/kijiji/similar. the rabbits themselves can be anywhere from free to $100+, though i personally would not pay more than $30-$35 USD for a meat animal (but again, your average prices may vary.) after that, it's all in the price of feed.

feed costs vary from area to area and brand to brand - generally a locally milled feed will be a bit more cost-effective but they can also be lower quality so do your research. depending on your area, you can also feed rabbits partially or even completely on forage or pasture, just make sure you keep an eye on your parasite loads and weights to ensure they are eating enough.

this is a good site that discusses rabbit safe forage: https://riseandshinerabbitry.com/2012/02/26/safe-food-list-for-rabbits/

and this is a good site discussing hay: https://hoppyharlequinsrabbitry.weebly.com/hay-chart.html

this page is focused on other larger livestock but is a decent basic rundown on reading a feed lablel: https://s3.wp.wsu.edu/uploads/sites/2070/2023/03/FS138E_Reading-a-Feed-Tag.pdf

and a basic overview of rabbit nutrition: https://www.merckvetmanual.com/exotic-and-laboratory-animals/rabbits/nutrition-of-rabbits#Pelleted-Diets_v54343534

i do not personally believe that feeding hay is necessary for rabbits to be healthy, which is contrary to what most of you may have heard from online sources. we'll talk about that in a minute. all commercially-available pelleted rabbit feets are made with hay, and the 'long-stem' thing you read about is based on studies in ruminant animals that DO need a 'grass mat' to digest properly...but rabbits are not ruminants. they chew up their hay into fine dust, which is basically what pellets are anyway.

what other equipment do i need?

obviously, your first step should be cages. i prefer cages that are either 24x24 or 30x30 inches depending on the size of the rabbit. you generally want a cage big enough for the animal to lay flat on its belly with its legs out and not touch at least one of the sides (i prefer them to be able to touch none,) and tall enough that they can sit up comfortably. i like to err on the side of larger for breeding does, since their nestbox will take up floor space for a few weeks, and the kits need room to run around and grow before they are weaned. weaned kits need a larger cage or hutch to grow out in until they are eating size.

these cages can be wire bottomed or solid bottomed, just be aware of the hygiene differences between these styles of cages. wire cages are not evil, and will not harm a rabbit's feet provided it has proper density of fur. you can avoid foot problems by buying and breeding rabbits with well-furred feet.

other necessary equipment includes: feeders (j-feefers or pro-b feeders are my favourites), some way to provide water such as bottles, crocks, or an automatic watering system, a hay rack if you want to provide hay, grooming tools such as combs and brushes (if applicable; most rabbits will not need much grooming,) nail clippers, a first-aid kit containing things such as scissors, vet wrap, antibiotic gels and drops, saline solution, fenbendazole (brand name panacur, a dewormer,) gas medications such as simethicone/gas-x, critical care (a specially formulated powdered feed that you can mix into a gruel and syringe feed rabbits that won't eat on their own,) probiotic powder, electrolyte powder, and of course, toys!

make sure any provided toys are edible (so avoid plastic,) and will not get turned into mush and cause dirty mats in the cage when peed on. toilet paper and paper towel tubes are great, as are just chunks of untreated lumber offcuts, wooden baby blocks, or soda boxes. if you have some splurging money, bird toy websites like abirdtoy.com have amazing selections of things that rabbits love destroying. i recommend the refillable skewers!

what about vet care?

this is a fairly divisive topic. most vets do not know much about rabbits, and those that do are typically operating on outdated or simply untrue information that aligns with animal rights groups. therefore, a lot of meat and show breeders do not trust or use vets unless the situations are dire or there is disease testing to be done, and then generally we'll go to our state's ag exstension or college lab. i don't want to come off as anti-vet, i am far from it. but i and most people i know have not had good experiences with vets treating rabbits.

in general, exotic animal vet care (and yes, rabbits are considered exotic pets,) is extremely cost-prohibitive in general, much less when you have multiple animals. like most farmers, rabbit breeders typically handle basic medical situations ourselves.

medirabbit is a great resource for rabbit medical information including illnesses and medication dosages: https://www.medirabbit.com/

how many rabbits do i need?

the average litter size is between 5 and 8 kits, and rabbits can breed montly (though i recommend giving the girls breaks between litters depending on how they kept condition.) a trio of one buck and two does can produce a very good amount of meat for a one or two person household. my spouse and i lived on five or six litters a year for a very long time, using rabbit as our primary meat source!

do they need friends?

no. despite what house rabbit circles tell you, rabbits do NOT need companions and in fact having cagemates can stress them out unnecessarily. rabbits live in warrens in the wild, yes, but that is a survival tactic and the warrens are usually very violent and only work because they can run away when they need to. in capitivity, rabbits that are cohabitated can and commonly will KILL one another. it is much safer and less stressful to keep rabbits in their own spaces. i promise they won't mind.

rabbit colonies, where they are raised together in more 'natural' systems, are becoming very popular with homesteading circles but you should not jump into colonies as your first way to keep rabbits. they require just as much if not even more time and effort to manage than your typical cage setup. plus, you have to have the space to do that, which not everyone has.

can you help me find rabbits?

maybe! if you live in the united states and are comfortable sharing your local craigslist, i can take a look and link you to any rabbits or equipment i think would be worth your time. if you are local to me in western washington's i-5 corridor counties, i may have rabbits i can sell you for the price of feed and gas, but that depends on availability. if you are on the olympic peninsula in kitsam, jefferson, or clallam counties, hit up my buddy ren @buttonbuckfarm for similar services.

arent't they really fragile?

yes and no. rabbits are prey animals with an extremely specialised digestive system. if you are familiar with horses...same deal. if a rabbit stops eating, it will die, and they love bloating/colicking just like horses. there are also a few diseases that are common in rabbits that you should keep an eye out for, especially if you pasture or forage raise.

that being said, rabbits are not made of glass. you can flip them, you can poke them, prod them, put them in a car, drive them across the country, and squish them into weird shapes on a show table. as long as you take precautions during stressful situations and desensitise them to things like handling and transport early, they're shockingly physically hardy despite their sensitive guts.

i'm scared to kill them...what if i mess up?

it's perfectly understandable to fear the end of the process of raising rabbits. and accidents do happen. slaughter is a skill that must be practiced, and maybe you can take solace in knowing that we have all messed one up at some point or another. when this happens, the only thing you can do is try again as quickly as you can until you can confirm the animal is dead. and then take a minute to decompress.

it comes easy to me, but i know that is not true for everyone. but i am a firm believer that if you are going to eat meat, you should know where it comes from and how it gets to your plate. the best thing we can do for our food is to give it a wonderful life, kill as kindly as we can, and use as much of it as we are able.

here is the AVMA's list of approved humane slaughter methods: https://www.avma.org/sites/default/files/2020-02/Guidelines-on-Euthanasia-2020.pdf

and you can find pretty good videos of the various methods demonstrated on rabbits specifically on youtube:

broomstick, choke chain, bunny ballista, hopper popper

please be aware that the above videos show animals being killed. though if you are reading this i imagine you are prepared to see that.

how do i process them once they're dead?

this is another one you can find pretty good videos of online. visiting a local rabbit show may get you in contact with someone willing to teach you in person, as well!

i am working on a big project website that is basically all i think you should know about raising rabbits, which will include detailed slaughter, skinning, and butchering videos, though as of now these are not available. i plan to have this project at least usably done by the end of the year!

ok so what's the thing with pet owners vs breeders

you may have noticed that i've been doing some 'as you may have heard' debunking in this post. that's because there is a very huge divide between the beliefs and practices of pet rabbit owners versus show and meat breeders and owners. why? well, that's complicated, but the big bad evil guy that is the first place to point at is the House Rabbit Society, or HRS.

the house rabbit society is basically rabbit PETA. i am not joking. here is a big masterpost on all their bullshittery: https://www.tumblr.com/o-i-have-too/185596917579/a-masterpost-of-house-rabbit-society-bullshit

i know this comes off as me having an agenda, and i guess i can't say that i don't, but i believe that the HRS' rules and rhetoric are not just wrong they are actively dangerous to follow. i have owned rabbits for nearly a decade and have produced more somewhere in the 1,500 range of animals in that time. i have owned a LOT of rabbits and have experienced all the different ways they can thrive and die and have done a lot of experimenting to find what works. just about everything the HRS says about caring for rabbits is blatantly false according to my experience. proper wire cage floors do not destroy feet. rabbits do not need hay if they eat a good pelleted diet. pellets are not evil or 'fattening' or the main cause of stasis. rabbits do not need leafy greens or veggies. rabbits do not need to be bonded. they are perfectly happy living alone, in cages. flipping a rabbit is not torture and is in fact sometimes necessary for many reasons. meat and show breeders are generally not contributing to the 'overpopulation' problem - if we don't want an animal most of us just eat them. breeding for meat is not evil if it's done appropriately and they are killed humanely.

unfortunately the HRS won the google SEO game and so their website and the sites of others that believe their rhetoric are the only thing that comes up on the first pages of search results. i'm not saying you have to blindly trust me, but i have the experience, and the combined experience of many of my peers both online and offline, that says that basically everything they believe in and preach is just...not true.

anyway that's it, hope this answers most of your questions! i may add to this in the future depending on what other questions i may get. stay tuned for updates on my website project and in general more farm content, rabbit and otherwise :)

[0bticeo]

aemond targaryen | you owe a debt

summary:

you grit your teeth.

you’re a long way from dragonstone. with you plummeting towards the ground, leaving aemond above, you’ve bought yourself a few precious seconds ー not enough. far from enough. your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you, a storm is raging and aemond is catching up.

you still.

he’s there.

wc. 1.6k

tw. unreseolved sexual tension, niece!reader (targcest), mild description of blood and gore, hubris, fix-it fic set in season one epsiode ten.

the rain is cold on your face, like tiny pinpricks of ice piercing your skin. raging wind blowing through your ears, you hear your dragon roar above the thunder. the force of it spreads through your bones. eyes half closed against the storm, fists clenched on the handles of your saddle, you curse. 

sending your younger brother alone, what was your mother thinking? 

he wants revenge. an eye for an eyeーa fair price. he could’ve asked for lucerys’ life. ( he must’ve been itching to do it, to draw his sword, sharp blade slicing your brother’s throat. to watch the blood pour out, spilling on the round hall’s floors.)

you see it, then. the dark mass before you, coming in closer and closer with each beat of your dragon’s wings. vaghar, largest, oldest dragon in the world. a massive, battle-hardened beast, with wrath etched in every inch of her being, begging to be unleashed, held tight behind her master’s iron will. (you think you hear him begging her to stop. )

high valyrian rolls off your tongue, scraping against your throat in a bark. 

faster.

visegar obliges, wings spread out against the storm. your breath hitches with how fast you’re going, strands of hair clinging to your face like you do to your reigns. 

you’re close enough to see arrax now, as small and young and terrified as his rider. 

close enough to hear aemond’s laughter. close enough to hear his tauntsー you owe a debt, boy . vaghar opens her gaping mouth, fangs gleaming under the pouring rainー

this will start a war. this will have your brother dying, torn up to pieces.

you will not let him die.

when you strike, it’s from below. lightning-fast, a blur of black scales, snatching your brother inches away from vaghar’s gaping maw. you feel her heated breath on your skin, the putrid scent of it – how many were left to rot there? 

you meet your uncle’s eye and he recognises you. 

you see it in how that mouth of his twists in a grin, tongue licking his lips in a slow drag. in how his eye traces your frame, sharpening upon noticing your stance.

“and what do you hope to do with that blade of yours?” there’s a flash of amusement in that coy grin of his. “surely, you can do better, niece .”

and he knows you can. he’s seen you in the training yard, wielding your mighty bow. he’s seen you grasping arrow after arrow, pulling them out of your quiver in an inhumanely fast gesture. he’s seen you hit target after target. he’s seen you run out of arrows and switch to the sword at your side, calling out for a sparring partner. 

(he’d been the one stepping forward, lip curling in that coy grin of his.)

now, your mouth is drying.

you’ve left your bow and arrows behind in your haste to get there. at this range, the sword is useless. 

you snarl, poison-laced words ready to strike because you yourself can’tー

your brother is screaming.

you look down and see arrax falling. with him, your brother. both of them, tumbling to the ground, spiralling down. arrax, almost torn in half, holding it together in a gory mess of viscera and torn up bones, wings beating erratically in a desperate attempt at stopping his fall. there’s so much red.

plunge.

plunge towards the ground at break-neck speed, visegar’s wings folding by his sides, almost brushing your arms. your shoulders are set ablaze. from the sheer strength it takes you to remain on your dragon’s back, or from your uncle’s heated gaze, you do not know.

soon you’re within arm’s reach. one look at arrax tells you trying to save them both is hopeless. 

“lucerys!”

he doesn’t look at you. he can’t, not with the wind roaring at his ears, not with arrax’s pain merging with his pure terror, not with the sea and its devouring waves below, they’re pulling him in, he’s going to dieー

you grab your brother’s arm and pull , high valyrian leaving your tongue in a bark. 

“visegar, up! ”

and so he obliges, your faithful dragon, leaving his brethren to crash in the hungry waves beneath. for a split second, you remain like that. floating in a never-ending storm, with your brother clinging to you, legs hanging in the void, hands in a vice grip around his flesh because you must not let him fall . 

so you pull and pull , muscles begging for you to stop, praying to gods old and new that your strength doesn’t fail you, that your uncle doesn’t catch up, not now .

then he’s on your saddle, and you press him against you, arms surrounding him, firmly pressing his hands on the saddle’s pommel for purchase. you do not let him see arrax’s fall. he’s safe. for now.

you grit your teeth. 

you’re a long way from dragonstone. with you plummeting towards the ground, leaving aemond above, you’ve bought yourself a few precious seconds ー not enough. far from enough. your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you, a storm is raging and aemond is catching up.

you still. 

he’s there.

right behind you, hot on your tail. you do not need to turn to see the wide grin etched on his pale features. you hear it in the low baritone of his voice, in the venom of his words. 

give up, niece.

and you can only weigh the odds. you cannot fight him. not with your brother there, clinging to your forearm tighter than one would to a lifeline. not with this storm. not without your prized weapons. you’re bound to lose, and he knows it.

you feel lucerys shift, looking up at you. oh, brave, brave boy with terror in his eyes. 

“it’s me he wants.” he gulps. “if you hand me over to him, you might get awayー”

you bite your lip.

each beat of dragon wing drives you closer to dragonstone. you can get there. you have to. it’s not just a matter of ensuring your brother’s safety ー or yours for that matters. it’s that should the both of you die here by aemond’s hand, war would break out.

greens and blacks have daggers held at each other’s throats. the slightest mishap will draw blood. you will not let your death be the reason a fragile, relative peace is broken.

but you can’t kill aemond either, can you? 

“niece.”

your attention snaps back to him. you find him already watching, hungry gaze never leaving you. he’s waiting, this wretched, cunning beast of a man. waiting for your move.

your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you on his back and a raging storm against his wings. 

but if there was only one rider…

you don’t have a choice. 

beneath you, visegar rises to attention. does he feel it, your fear? does he feel it, your unyielding resolve?

your hand closes around your brother’s shoulder, gently squeezing it. 

“whatever happens, fly home and do not stop .”

visegar moves. faster than all-mighty vaghar can see, faster than aemond can see, spiking above them both.

your brother is screaming.

you’re falling.

you’re falling, and there’s nothing to stop you. the gaping mouth of the sea will swallow you and leave nothing behind. you wonder if you’ll die upon hitting the water, bones shattering with the impact. you wonder if you’ll drown, if the fall doesn’t kill you. you wonder if you’ll taste arrax’s blood. 

you’re falling, and everything blurs before your eyes, storm grey and rain and a blue so dark it’s almost black. there’s lightning streaking the sky above, waves crashing down below ー and you do not know what’s up and what’s down anymore. the wind is merciless, splitting your ears with its force.

you’re falling, limbs spread out, gasping for air, and it feels like thousands and thousands of hands are pressing down on your heart and you can’t breathe ー

you think the wind roars your name. you think you see a great, black void coming from above, like the meteors the maesters weaved tales about for your entertainment. 

you feel as though you’re floating. you’re flying without a dragon. does that make you a god? you think you’re laughing.

you’re falling and it’s a gamble .

you’ve seen aemond’s stare. felt it burn like dragon fire on your skin, felt its pull down to your core as you fired arrow after arrow in the training yard. you’ve seen his signature half-smile widen just a tad bit as your swords clashed, felt the heat radiating off him as you pulled him closer, close enough for your dagger to brush against his jaw. 

(close enough to see his eye dart to your lips, pupil dilating for a brief second. close enough to feel his warm breath on your cheek. close enough to feel the lean muscles of his chest beneath the black leather of his clothes. close enough for him to bend down, lips brushing your ear in a low voice that left you with a hollow ache and clenching thighs.

“surely, you can do better, niece.”) 

you intrigue him, at the very least.

so when he comes, when he catches you mid-fall and cradles you against the warmth of him, with your name on his lips and what surely cannot be fear but is, you cannot help but smile. 

your grin flashes, as sharp as your blade.

“is that better, uncle?”

[milksuu]

ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, mention of blood/violence, mention of death

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

A gleam of orange blazed in the bleakness of night.

You watched from your hilltop window—the thatched roofs off the eastern slopes of Berk twisting and writhing in flames. Even from a distance, you heard the breaking moans of ceilings, the cracks and bends of collapsing wooden structures, and the piercing wails of scales met with sharp edges of iron. Despite The Red Death’s fall, dragon raids still plagued the lands.

Perhaps it was all a sign of retribution. 

You were told to stay within the safe confines of your home. Your father hadn’t wanted to risk your life, considering how precious you’d become. The next Seer in line after Gothi, gifted with spiritual wisdom, healing, and authority of officiating the next chief.

But the price to pay had been steep. 

The house was dark, not even the smallest candle lit. Nothing that would draw a glimmer of attention to the home. A creak ached the roof above, and you flitted your nose up to the rafters, drawing lines across the ceiling. Nothing but your shallow breaths filled the silent dark. 

The hearth then erupted with flame and spark, jolting you from back to neck bone. Had you any voice, a strangled scream would’ve ripped from your throat. Twisting, you had almost forgotten to breathe. A figure shrouded in shadow and leather stood beside the crackling firewood. Light and dark danced in an undulating battle across the strangers’ features.

Revealing a horrifying familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind if I warm this place up a bit.” That voice, boy-ish in tone, lacked any hint of innocence or niceties. He stretched a gloved hand towards the licking flames, doing nothing to warm the ice coating his insides. “Couldn’t help but notice you looked a little cold and...alone.”

A snap of wood made you flinch; addressing him with quivering lips and dilated eyes. Your long-lost greeting didn’t forebode well.

Every piece of leather tightened around his body as he shifted. Turning to ensnare you within his talon like stare. When embers casted a sheen across his face, you braced against the sight. Soft features long since abandoned, reforged into a visage of cold iron. Carved and littered with scars and nicks across his furrowed brows, cheeks, and clenched jaw line.

“Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Wait, no. That’s not the word I was looking for. More like—disappointing. That sounds like a better fit. For you and everyone else here.” Hiccup stalked forward, a contraption of metal clanking and scratching against the splintering floors. Each step clanged through you, until he stood one heartbeat away. “After all these years, I’d thought you’d have a bit more to say. And you want to know something else? Every night, I dreamed about how this conversation would go. Just like how I dreamed things could be better than what they were. Funny how you can plan for things to go a certain way, but then…”

He pressed his hands at each side of your head, the glass window behind begging to crack from the pressure. His scent permeated, forcing you to swallow. Once smelling of spring honey and rolling glades, now sundered to singe your senses like bone ash and lightning storms. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s a little different.” He placed a calloused finger into the dip of your clavicle. He dug and dug until your pained gasp fell deaf to his ears. Tilting his head, he curled the lip of his mouth. “So, just like Gothi, you gave up your voice. Good—great, actually. This works out better for me.” 

The smile that crept over his lips never made it up to his eyes. Not like before. Those vibrant meadows sullied into a sickly, muddled green. Thick and ichorous, and dared you stare long enough, you could never trudge your way out. Afraid of being stuck within them, your hand slipped silently into the pocket of your dress, where your fingers brushed against the hilt of a dagger. 

You drew it a mere inch before his hand captured yours, twisting until he pried it into his possession.

“Come on. We both know you were never good at fighting.” He chuckled, wagging the sharpest point between your trembling eyes. “I’ll admit it. I wasn’t either back then. That’s something we had in common…until I had to be. Guess that didn’t work out in anyone’s favor on this wet piece of rock. Now, did it?”

Your vision blurred. Screams of the village roared in your ears. Screeches of dragons pierced through the air, engulfed in smoke and fire. Having consumed so much in its wake, you felt the heat of chaos leech into the glass. Searing your back pressed against it.

“Woah. Hey, don’t cry. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He swept a rough thumb over a fallen tear stain. “Not all of them will die tonight. I mean, just think about it for a second. Can’t be chief and rule over a bunch of burnt corpses. How counterintuitive would that be?” 

“As for you though…” he continued, and your heart stalled as he traced the cold metal down your flush cheek and neck, pausing just above your breastbone. “I’m only standing here, watching everything and everyone turn to ash around us, all because of you. And don't tell me you don't remember. When you mended my leg. Somehow kept me from bleeding out. Just before the entire village abandoned me.” His clouded eyes narrowed down. “Including you.”

Releasing you from his pinning weight, your legs wobbled. As if he hadn’t just snatched your foothold underneath. Terror kept your feet webbed in place, watching as he twirled your dagger in his fingers like a child's play thing. Crouching near the fire, he mindlessly poked and prodded at the stoking wood. He picked away a scrap of charred chipping, before plunging the blade into the flank of the burning log. You gazed at him, chest tight, aching. How he hadn’t flinched when the fire slicked around his hand like oil.

He dragged the smoldering stump from the hearth, creating a scorched line. When the licks of fire seeped into the house floors, he rose, one vertebra at a time. 

“If I’m being honest, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

He unhooked a masked contraption from his belt buckle and tightened it over his face. The eye sockets were of yellow stained sea glass, and the mouth of it appeared like a muzzle of iron teeth.

“Leave something already weak, then crippled to survive on its own. Gambling on the high-stakes of death. So sure of the outcome, no one bothered to turn over a shoulder.” Hellfire rose and swelled in the reflection of his mask. “Maybe they should’ve.” 

The rapid hunger of the hearth fire blazed and curled across the floor of the home. Heat lapped towards your skin, drawing out sweat from your pores. Dense smoke began filling the wooden death chamber. You inhaled the black snowflakes, searing your lungs once they melted inside you. You slapped a hard hand over your mouth, coughing and shuddering against it. A pang of panic willed your body to move. You attempted to open the window behind you, but to your horror, it had been welded to the frame. 

Your eyes watered, hugging the wall as you traced it to the door. When the handle clattered against your pulls and tugs, a ghostly laugh floated around you. The metal was bolted shut from the outside. A bout of nausea cramped your stomach. Fear darted your eyes toward the stairs, where the flames hadn’t yet reached—but soon. Perhaps the window of your room hadn’t been tampered with. 

You darted towards the steps, and before you could place one foot up, a black beast stalked from the darkness of the second floor.

The floating embers danced hauntingly over the onyx scales, and gashes rippled in the firelight. Revealing wounds healed twice, perhaps three times over. That body of night perfectly reflected it's master’s outward appearance.

And as you drowned in those feral slits of pure abandon, it was apparent they also shared the same broken, unmendable soul. 

“Oh. You remember Toothless, don’t you?” Your face paled, backing slowly as the Nightfury slithered down the steps like black ink. A predatory growl rumbled above the snapping and collapsing wood around you. Hiccup sauntered to the dragon’s side, patting the thick of his neck, pulsing with power. Another laugh at your expense. “Looks like he remembers you.”

You fought the claw of unconsciousness raking over every part of you. Choking, straining against your hand pathetically covering your mouth.

“Since you did me a favor back then, I’m going to give you one last chance to make it up to me.” The mask muffled his voice, but the wickedness screamed, rattling your veins. “You can either choose to stay here and burn with the rest of Berk or…” he lifted a hand, hardly an invitation, but a devilish bargain. “You can choose me.”

In the thick of your pounding head and chest, you considered burning to death was the wiser option of the two. All that he was—what he’d inevitably become—held no promise of a life worth degrading yourself for. Nothing about you would be spared. And it wouldn’t be long till you dropped on hands and knees, begging for him to take your life. To end his drawn out game of torture. One he’d carefully crafted for years and years. 

Just for you, only for you.  

Still, you clung to life. A measly mortal thread. Your shaking hand lifted, painfully reaching for his fingertips. One step forward, and the world spun in wisps of red and black. Your lungs and heart throbbed, practically seizing. A calculated arm caught you, cradling you wholly, close as any lover would. 

“Good choice.” 

You heard the waning words of approval, and through the fading light of your vision, something fastened over your face. Your last conscious breath had been clean, airy—a pleasant contrast to the toxic fumes. 

Then, nothing.

[alexanderwales]

Recommendations for societies with mixed halfling/human races follow. The average halfling is assumed, from demographic estimates, to weigh 30 pounds (14 kg) and stand approximately 3 feet (1 meter) tall.

All public places where people are expected to be seated need a mix of regular/small seating. Ideally, all chairs and tables will be adjustable, but this comes with cost considerations.

All doors must be accessible for people of all sizes. This presents a challenge for doorknobs and door handles, and the recommendation is a long vertical bar accessible for both, along with low "minimum force" levels for opening and closing. Problems with locking mechanisms remain, and while floor bolts are height-neutral, they're more suited to secondary locking mechanisms.

All restaurants, cafeterias, and vending machines should stock two differently sized portions. The average halfling consumes roughly a third the amount of food as a human. Because of various frictions (packaging, labor), prices are expected to be more than one third for a halfling portion. Because of this, it's best to have systems in place that allow splitting human-sized dishes, or bringing home leftovers, or making packages resealable.

Housing presents a serious problem. A single-family dwelling for a halfling family requires roughly one fifth the volume as for a single-family human dwelling, though costs do not scale down at the same rate. However, if built to halfling scale, the interior of the dwelling will only be accessible to halflings, which presents serious problems for e.g. police, firefighters, social workers, repairmen, or anyone else who might have cause to go into the interior of the home, to say nothing of friends and coworkers. Building for halfling scale is attractive for a variety of reasons, with cost being one of the biggest, but this might result in de facto segregation, and puts considerable strain on civic infrastructure and city markets due to duplication. Another social concern is that all interactions might, by default, take place inside human homes which have worse accommodations for halflings. Special note should also be made of mixed-species couples, who suffer extra burdens within the household. These problems are intractable, as some trade-off must always be made.

Tools, household goods, and clothing are naturally split into two markets. For clothing, near-complete segregation is expected. For everything else, partial segregation is expected: a halfling cannot effectively use many human tools due to differences in grip strength and grip circumference, to say nothing of brute strength. However, many consumables can suit both species, and it's expected that cost reduction efforts will inevitably result in a single offering for both in cases where that makes remotely makes sense. Purchases using refillable containers from bulk are encouraged, as each person can determine what's best to fulfill their own needs.

Due to lower costs (housing, food, clothing), halflings can in theory work for lower wages. For certain jobs, particularly those requiring physical strength, humans are more capable on average, and for others, particularly those requiring manual dexterity, halflings are more capable on average. For jobs which do not have significant differences, wage discrimination is recommended by contentious, and is an ongoing conversation.

There are a number of "segregationist forces" in society, driven by convenience, culture, and market forces. Once segregation has become, there is every expectation that it will snowball: a neighborhood which is inaccessible to humans will have businesses that cater only to halflings, and once halfling business is concentrated, any "mixed" business has less incentive to cater to halflings. Legislation can counterbalance these forces by requiring that all businesses be able to service both humans and halflings, and accommodate both human and halfling services, but this admittedly comes at enormous cost.

Overall, there are certain recommendations that are nearly costless and can be implemented as best practices immediately, and more complicated, costly reforms that will take significant political will and budgetary consideration. Beyond that, there are questions of social engineering and the level to which it is important or preferable that these things be done.

[altbite]

Incorrect Quotes *mw2 x reader*

Alejandro: Rudy and I are having a baby.

Y/n: That's gre-

Alejandro, slamming adoption papers on the table: It's you, sign here.

_

Price, driving y/n and Soap: So how was your day?

Y/n: We almost got surprise adopted!

Price: What?

Soap: We almost got kidnapped.

Price: Oh, okay.

Price: *slams on the breaks* WAIT WHAT?!

_

Ghost: Y/n... Why did you draw a pentagram on the floor?

Y/n: Your text told me to satanize the house before you returned.

Ghost:

Ghost: I wrote sanitize, Y/n.

_

Y/n: *Stubs their toe* FUCK!

Rudy: Mind your language!

Y/n: What else am I supposed to say, “Woe is I”???

Rudy:

Y/n: You have to accept that swear words are necessary sometimes.

_

Y/n: Am I going too far?

Gaz: No, no, no. You went too far about seven hours ago. Now you're going to prison.

_

Soap: Truth or dare?

Y/n: Dare

Soap: I dare you to kiss the hottest person in the room

Y/n: Hey Graves

Graves, blushing: Yeah?

Y/n: Could you move? I’m trying to get to Alejandro

_

Y/n: On a scale from “damn Daniel” to “fre sha vaca do”, how are you feeling?

Gaz: In between “it’s an avocado, thanks” and “how did you defeat Captain America”, but as a solid answer I would say “I don’t need a degree to be a clothing hanger”. How about you, Ghost?

Ghost: Probably “road work ahead”.

Price: I speak many languages, and this is none of them.

_

Price: Listen, I can explain...

Ghost: You’re making $500,000 and you’re only gonna pay me $30,000?

Soap: You’re getting 30 grand? I’m getting $1,000!

Y/N: You guys are getting paid?

_

Price: Just be yourself.

Y/n: 'Be myself'? Price, I have one day to win Alejandro over. How long did it take before you guys started liking me?

Gaz: Couple weeks

Soap: Six months.

Ghost: Jury’s still out.

Y/n: See, Price?

Y/n: 'Be myself'. What kind of garbage advice is that?

_

Soap: Alejandro... How do I begin to explain Alejandro?

Rudy: Alejandro is flawless.

Ghost: I hear their hair's insured for $10,000.

Gaz: I hear they do car commercials... in Japan.

Y/n: One time they punched me in the face... it was awesome.

[corroded-hellfire]

Okay this is random but I work at a daycare and this little boy who’s about two years old looks exactly like his dad and their eyes are just so blue and distinctive but he has his mom’s hair and I was just wondering if you could write something like that with Eddie x reader, I just think it would be so cute to see their little mini me ! I love your work so sos much no pressure if you don’t want to of course:) 

Eddie as a father? If only I had some experience writing that 😜 I hope you enjoy your and Eddie’s little mini me!

Words: 900

“Can you believe it?”

“No. I mean, it’s been two years and no.”

Max and Dustin sit on the floor of your living room, watching your son rummage through the toy box on the other side of the deep brown coffee table until he finds something suitable to play with his babysitters.

Bret settles on his Fisher Price Rescue Hero action figures and tries to collect as many of them in his tiny arms as he can. A few curly strands of hair fall into his eyes which he shakes out of the way as well as he can manage in this position. Satisfied with the haul he’s gathered, he lugs himself out of the toy box and toddles back over to his favorite aunt and uncle. At least that’s what Max and Dustin tell themselves. 

“He’s like their clone,” Max speaks softly as Bret sits down and spreads the toys around his small body to get a better look. “Dad’s hair curls. Mom’s hair color.”

“Dad’s eye color, Mom’s skin tone. Jesus, I’d swear Eddie grew him in a lab if he knew the first thing about science.”

“Technically, Bret is here because of biology,” Max teases as the two-year-old in question hands the redhead a construction worker action figure.

“The one aspect of science Eddie’s willing to experiment with time and time again,” Dustin says. 

“Hmm?” the little boy asks Max, having heard her say his name.

“Huh?” Max asks, looking down at the youngest Munson. “Oh. Um, what game are we playing?”

“We playin’ heroes!” Bret announces, having the firefighting action figure he’s holding fly in an arc over his head. 

“Are they superheroes?” Dustin asks. He lays flat on his stomach to be more on an equal level with the toddler. Action figures of every occupation are spread out in front of him on the plush navy blue carpet. 

“Not all,” Bret says with a shrug, which is the spitting image of one of your usual quirks. 

“Which one do you want to be?” Max asks. 

Bret’s eyes scan the variety of toys laid out around him, his small tongue peeking out from between his lips as he thinks about it. Max can’t help but chuckle at the familiar image in front of her, just on a smaller scale. 

“I don’t know!” Bret pouts, his lower lip jutting out. He slumps down on the carpet, his head coming to rest on his Uncle Dusty’s shoulder. 

“Aw, come on, Mini Munson.” Dustin rolls onto his back and lifts Bret over his head. The two-year-old giggles wildly and starts to kick his feet as if he’s trying to swim away. The laughter is so loud and piercing that none of the three hear the front door opening.

“Careful,” Eddie says as he walks into the room, you trailing just behind him. “He had a few waffles for breakfast, and I don’t want to see them come back up over Uncle Dusty’s face.”

Bret giggles—slightly evilly—as if this would be hilarious.

You set your purse down and slip your shoes off, throwing Max a smile.

“How was the troublemaker?”

“The usual amount of trouble,” she tells you.

“So, nowhere near as much as his father. Got it.” 

Your husband walks towards Dustin, ready to scoop your son up out of his grip, but the little boy squeals and dodges his hands.

“Hey,” Eddie pouts, which only makes Bret giggle. “Bret Michael Munson. Are you trying to escape your old man?”

“Yeah!” he replies cheerfully, making Dustin laugh. 

Eddie softly kicks his best friend’s shoulder with his socked foot. 

Across the room, Max accepts the glass of water you hand her.

“How was your afternoon date?” she asks.

“It was fun. The weather’s really nice and I beat Eddie by three points because he couldn’t hit his ball through the little windmill,” you say with a giggle.

“You’re definitely going to have to be the one to teach Bret to play mini golf,” Max says. 

The two of you look over to your son, where he seems to be the object of a game of keep away between Eddie and Dustin. Bret giggles wildly, his face scrunching up in a way that makes the tip of his nose wiggle.

“It’s so crazy how much he looks like you when he scrunches his face like that,” Max says, shaking her head in amazement. 

Bret must’ve caught his aunt’s words because he looks over at the two of you, a tiny furrow between his brows.

“But Mommy’s a girl!” he protests. 

You blow him a kiss and he’s quickly sucked back into whatever game he’s playing with the guys. 

Once Bret is tuckered out from the roughhousing, he plops down on Dustin’s chest and Eddie makes his way over to you. He catches wind of your and Max’s conversation of how your son looks just like the two of you. When Max slips away to grab her things, Eddie places his hands on your hips from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. 

“Wanna make another one and see if they look more like you or me?”

Just the thought sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“You’re on, Munson. Meet me in our room. Nap time.”

“Bret’s or mine?”

A snort of laughter bursts out of you, causing Eddie to smile and only hold onto you tighter. 

[diejager]

Okay so this is a character I have in the works but I'd love your interpretation.

What about a BunnyDragon!reader being introduced into the monster!141? Long drooping ears, a friendly temperament, spewing green flames that bring life and heal things rather than destroying them. But their claws and teeth just as sharp and deadly as any other dragon.

Rabid Cw: reader being a menace, fire, pyromaniac, tell me if I missed any.

Laughing, you dashed off, away from the mess you four created out of sheer boredom, green flames sparking and lingering on the corner of your lips were the only proof people had to link you to the few burning heaps around the base. Your ears flopped as you ran and hopped away, a skip in your feet and a bright smile splitting your face, flashing sharper than usual teeth at people who stood in your way. They all parted, little chuckles leaving their lips when they saw you, all used to your little pranks, the sly and mischievous gleam in your eyes when you got bored and the loud steps that followed you closely, either Price, Laswell or another superior chasing after you to scold you.

“Spread out!”

You separated from the others, taking your own path from the fork. Spreading out meant that it’d take more time to catch each and every one of you to bring to Price’s office, wasted time meant that you stalled your punishment and burned through Price’s anger and disappointment. You would rendezvous back on the roof or the airfield once you’d waited out long enough, or Price would hound you back to his office for a verbal lesson on behaving and not giving him and Laswell paperwork.

Which seemed to be your situation after he sent the others to find you, Soap brought back by the scruff by Ghost, Gaz by a stalking Horangi, Rudy by a snickering Alejandro and you by a touchy König. You sat on the armrest of the worn couch, giving space for your wings to breathe and flutter behind you, occasionally moving to soothe the small ache; and your tail to sway, moving back and forth on the floor like a dog wagging it’s tail. There was a slight excitement in your body, to see how Price would react to this stunt you pulled, bigger in scale and more obnoxious with the bright flowers and lively faun that bloomed after your flames died down.

“Want to explain it to me before we start?”

You all shared a look, seconds spent staring to convey a silent message that you all agreed on and that left you to work your magic. You gave him a cheeky grin, watching his eyes narrow and his arms cross before you stared your little explanation, going onto the blandness of the base, the sheer boredom you all felt and having to find something to occupy yourself with. You could feel disappointment ooze off Price in waves, his furrowed brows and shaking head to the small snickers and laughs from the men who caught you.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Price sighed, stepping away from his desk and moving towards you with big and quick strides.

You only smiled up at him, gazing at him through squinted and amused eyes, head perked up to his bowed figure, face nearing yours with a stoic expression.

“But you love me,” you let slip out, feeling especially cheeky and proud of your work, bringing life to a grey area.

“But I love you,” he agreed with a small smile, hitting your horns with his, a display of love and affection for dragons, “Doesn’t mean you’re not getting punished, any of you.”

Taglist : @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts

[heartfullofleeches]

Man imagine bustomer walking in and just seeing a bigass human monster long arm legged cat with a zipper??? Just staring.

Customer: *pays for item and rudely hands the money*

Lynel: *whispers behind them menacingly* …Say keep the change.

Customer: *shits their pants and on the brink of tears* mommy…

Lynlas tricks/enjoys messing with customers by pretending to be a statue propped up in Witch Reader's lobby/living room. In a normal household, a cat human creature held together by zippers may seem like an outlandish choice for decoration, but it feels right at home in the witch's possession.

-

"What a peculiar figurine...."

Aged fingers map the teeth of the zipper scaling the length of the statues face. They trail to its mouth, curled in a wide grin - unsurprised by the give of its teeth given the zipper's impression of there being something else underneath. The illuminated iris of its singular visible eye pokes through the shroud of darkness that is its sciera. Curiosity blossoms a new as attention is directed towards their right eye. A tab dangles from the sealed lid - small, hole circle scars in the skin indicating some of of former injury. The point of a needle, perhaps?

"Pardon me...."

The collector stiffens- Entering from the kitchen, floorboard's creak with each tap of your advancing steps. Standing before the older gentleman, you present him with the cup of tea requested from your lists of refreshments for guests. A smile dawns your face, yet it does not reach your eyes- They point away from the man, knowing and calculating. The watchful gaze of someone waiting for another to misbehave.

"Do you like them? Lynlas has been with me for some time now. They are the best companion one in my line of work could ask for."

The name of the figure lingers on the collector's tongue. "Lynlas....I beg you- I'll pay ten - twenty times more than what I came here for. It would be a marvelous addition to my collection."

Your face tightens, smile shrinking into something akin to a grimace. "I'm afraid they are not for sale."

You stumble - grounding a foot backwards as his hands perch onto your shoulders.

"Money is not an issue for me. Name your price, I insist!"

Your eyes once again dart towards the figure - a flicker of panic flashing over your otherwise relaxed expression. "Sir, please refrain from putting your hands on me. They do not want you-"

"Surely you can bare to part with it! You can fill your home with similar novelties with the money you'll gain-"

"Agh!"

Scolding white pain shoots through your hands, bleeding down your arms as scorching liquid seeps into the sleeves of your shirt. The tea cup crashes to the floor with a loud crack - your body falling to its knees along with it. The agony is fleeting, hurt morphing to terror as the tear of a zipper racks through the walls of your living room.

"Lynlas.... It was an accident."

Nails scrape along the wooden floor, bones snapping and cracking into place as the statue reaches its full height.

"Lynlas.... He is a senile old man. Do not attack him."

The collector turns as hot breath fans the nape of his neck. A long, greyed tongue unfurls from the backs of pointed teeth.

"Didn't you hear, old man.... I'm not for sale."

"LYNLAS!"

-

The feline's ears press flatly against their skull as they scrub blood out of your prized rug. Sniffling, it looks up at you - eye wet with tears.

"I'm sorry for ruining your favorite rug again, Master... Can I still sleep in your room tonight?"

[gremlingottoosilly]

werebear!price getting extra adamant on feeding you as winter approaches. Gotta stock up before hibernation.

I bet he’d enjoy an extra sleepy pet if he went pet shopping

One of the main reasons he picked you in the human pet shop is because you proceeded to sleep through whatever he was doing. Price isn't the most subtle being in this building - he is heavy and imposing, even if his human form, and he by no means is trying to make himself smaller. It doesn't bother little sleepy you - not even when your cellmates are pushing and screaming, either trying to get away or as close to a possible ticket to freedom as possible. You were...sleepy. Always tired and exhausted, you're no match to his boys - especially to Soap's bursts of energy and Gaz's desire to hunt for his mate through the woods. They still adore you, obviously, they love to tease and to make you scared of them, but you eventually fall into this sleepy hazy state, and now you belong to your big bear. Fully. Price makes sure to bring you the best blankets he could find - he digs up scales and weight you before the hibernation starts because he is scared of you being starved back in the shop, that you need to take on a bit more kilos until you can be safely tucked away under his arm. He loves to just make you hang out in his office, you're chained to the floor on a warm, fuzzy carpet - you're so sleepy when you just lay next to his thigh, snoring softly, a warm blanket draped over your shoulders. He doesn't keep you on his lap because he wants to be able to go out of the room without disturbing sleepy little you - you're always so weak and pathetic after you wake up, your poor attempts at hiding from your new life aren't working because you wake up and it's the same people, all over again. You wake up and you're still his pet...so you just fall asleep again.

[back2bluesidex]

Dear Darling - JHS [Masterlist/Prologue]

Pairing: Serpent king (imoogi)!Hoseok X Human!Reader

Theme: Angst, dark romance, smut, fantasy au.

Wordcount: 1.5+ for the prologue

Summary: After his bride flees from his clutches and reaches the realm of mortals to reunite with her lover - Hoseok has no choice but to chase her. Upon his arrival to the land of obnoxious humans, he crosses paths with you. You are a small, driven mortal who walks with a load of despair on her back. You are nothing but a delicious meal to him and he wants nothing more than to suck your life out of you, find his runaway wife and return to his kingdom. But much to his dismay, you ruin his plans, make him do what he never imagined doing in 600 years of his life - like making him fall in love and keeping him bound to you.

Warnings: Hoseok is cruel, there maybe some mentions of blood but nothing too crazy, eventual smut, heavy themes, quite dark actually (more will be added with each chapter). NSFW!!

Accepting Taglist Requests.

A/N: Got this idea in a dream.... that's all:')

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue

Masterlist | Patreon (Early access to the chapters)

Jung Hoseok. 

The name was enough to shake the core of dark creatures with terror. Even serpents like him would not dare to cross paths with him. 

He is an ominous creature of the night, rules the realm of darkness. He stays under the shadow and attacks when his preys are at their weakest. 

He is powerful, cruel, horrendous and everything that can be one’s nightmare. And to climb at the peak of his power, to rule the underworld with more and more ruthlessness - he must get married. 

He was about to be completed with the coupling ceremony by now only if - his bride didn’t run away. 

“Do you think I believe you, sir?” Hoseok speaks with a voice so cold that he can clearly see the shiver that runs down the subject's entire body. 

The old man - or more likely - an old serpent is sitting on his knees in front of him. His head is hanging low, palms conjoined with each other to beg the king. 

“You- you must believe me, my lord. I know n-nothing of the lady’s departure.” his voice is trembling but he keeps lying regardless. 

Does he not know Hoseok can see him through? 

“Really? I must believe you?” he laughs, one that prickles on your skin in the worst possible way, “then.. Would you be able to pay the price of my trust?” 

The old being doesn’t say anything. One of Hoseok’s guards pushes the tip of his sword further in his side. That coaxes a reply out of him, “what- what price must I pay, my lord?” 

Hoseok smiles, “I heard you have a freshly transformed son? Only a year old, if I am right. I was wondering how enjoyable it would be to rip off his very new scales one by one and then behead him in front of the entire kingdom?” 

The old man jerks at that “My-My lord. No. I beg you no. I- I will tell you as much as I know.” 

“That’s good. So tell me, where is the soon-to-be queen hiding? Down the sea or up the mountains?” Hoseok bends one of his knees to come face to face with his prey. His heavy cloak falls on the ground as if to make a carpeted floor for the king. 

“She… she has fled to the realm of mortals. My- my brother, who- who is half human has helped her out. I heard that her lover, a gumiho, is settled there. But I swear to my kids, my lord, I don’t know where she is, how she fled. I only helped her in contacting my brother. That’s all.” 

“What? What did you say? Realm of mortals? Her lover is a gumiho?” Hoseok roars, stands abruptly. His anger flares like a ring of fire and as a result dark clouds start swinging in the already dark sky. 

The storm starts raging just as Hoseok’s anger, “Guards! Behead his entire family right this instant! And make sure he watches them die before having the pleasure himself.” 

He ignores the pleas of the old serpent as he walks away. And even if he didn’t ignore those, what could he do? 

The blood that runs in his veins is cold, there is no heart that beats inside his chest. Even monsters call him a beast. He is just that bad. 

But he is even worse to the ones who betray him - like his wife-to-be, who has managed to flee from his grips, who also has fallen in love with the enemies of his kind. 

Only if she wasn’t the chosen one - the one who can increase his powers by tenfold. He would have killed her right the moment he found her. 

However, he can’t do so, not at least now. Before everything he has to find her. He has to visit the realms of humans, whom he loathes so much, to pull her between his clutches again. 

“How are the Mins doing?” Hoseok’s dark eyes focus on the goblet of dark red liquid that sits atop the table. 

On the other side of the table sits his trusted advisor Kim Seokjin. He is probably the only serpent in the kingdom, whom hoseok as a speck of trust on. 

“Thanks to you, my king. They have been running a very successful business on the land of humans.” Kim Seokjin states. 

“Tell them to prepare a comfortable stay for me there. I will be finding and bringing my bride back myself.” Hoseok orders. His fingers curl underneath the goblet in the meantime. 

“My lord, it will not be wise for you to visit alo-”

Hoseok slams the goblet on the table interrupting his advisor, “Mr. Kim, do you perhaps doubt my capabilities? I assume you already know I am more than capable of destroying the entire mortal land all by myself.” 

“Yes, my lord, I am well aware of that. I will convey your message to Min Yoongi.” Kim Seokjin stands on his feet and bends down on a deep bow before leaving the room. 

Hoseok feels a buzz in his cold veins. He is eager to find out how love can be more important than the power he was going to provide Soojin with. 

She could be the queen of this kingdom but she chose to fall in love with a gumiho instead. 

Love? Huh! He scoffs to himself. He is proud that he can feel no such emotions. And he would rather have his scales rip off than falling in love with another creature. 

Extravaganza. 

These lowly human beings know nothing but extravaganza. 

From the full glass buildings to the noisy music on the streets, they overdo everything and anything. 

Hoseok’s eyes scans each and every corner of the mansion that the Mins have organized for him to stay. This, too, is extravagance in every way. 

Min Yoongi, the head of this generation’s half-serpents, sits on both of his knees in front of Hoseok. 

“My king, it is a reward to have a chance of serving you personally. Just name what you want, I will have it presented right before you.” he speaks like the obedient servant that he is.

“A job. I need a job.” Hoseok speaks absent-mindedly. 

“My lord, forgive this lowly creature but did I hear you right? You need a job?” Min Yoongi’s confusion makes Hoseok smirk. 

“Yes, Mr. Min. you heard that right. I need a job to blend with these mortals. I am certain my wife-to-be has put the tigerlilies at work. You might already know, inhaling the pollen of those flowers once is enough to be transformed into any other creature for two nights. And even the King, as I am, is unable to defy its power.” Hoseok comes to stand in front of Yoongi, his hands are kept behind his back. 

His dark eyes find the pale man amusing and quite obedient. 

“Yes, my lord. I am well aware of the magical powers of the flower. About the job - thanks to you, my business here is running well. I can arrange an executive position for you at the company, if you’d like.” 

“Executive?” Hoseok raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows, “what kind of work do they do?” 

“They don’t have to do anything much, my lord. I will take care of whatever work your position might be responsible for, you can invest your sole concentration on your task.” Min Yoongi bows lightly. 

“I like your proposition. Tell me how to get to your company.” Hoseok takes a few steps back towards the staircase. The intricate designs of the railing catches his eyes. 

“I will have a car ready for you, if you want to visit now.” 

“I would like that.” 

Hoseok climbs out of the car and stands in front of the large building that the Mins have been ruling with the power of wealth that he had gifted them, some hundred years back. 

He scrutinizes the glass walls. His gaze zeros on his own reflection and he devilishly smiles at the way he looks so human. 

Min Yoongi has arranged some clothes for him. Some black silk pants with a silk shirt and a short cloak that they call a blazer. 

Hoseok has always been proud of the way he looks. But he must admit - he looks even better and more eye-catching in human clothes. 

His, now invisible, scales rise under the material of his clothes when he senses someone else watching him from a short distance. 

He projects his eyes in that direction and finds a woman with petite form, big pebbly eyes and a beautiful face. 

It’s you. 

With just one glance he sees right through you. He can see your breath getting stuck in your throat at the sight of him. He can see the cogs of your brain working and your heart leaping inside of your chest. 

He knows you are getting attracted towards him. And that’s good for him. Having a human right on his foot as a servant can help him in tracing Soojin faster. 

It’s one of his powers to attract his prey, like how a pitcher plant emits a sweet smell to attract insects only to eat those up when those near it. 

But with those innocent eyes, that alluring face - it’s a waste that you are just another moth driven to the flame.

Permanent Taglist:

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[bzurk]

what gets dirtier the more it cleans?

series masterlist: cw: DUBCON, verging on NONCON, oral (m recieving), soliciting, coersion, slapping, bullying (fr it's mean) tuesday, week one:

You were given three rules when you accepted this job.

Don’t make any loud noises. Leave the lights on when you’re in a room. And most importantly, don’t get in their way.

It seemed straightforward enough. You were prepared to be as inconspicuous as a mouse if it meant securing your paycheck.

You could sympathise. A group of retired veterans reacclimating to civilian life. It couldn’t have, can’t be, easy, transitioning from the battlefield to the mundane. The constant vigilance, the hyper-awareness, must be ingrained in them.

The uniform you’re forced to wear by the organisation that found these potential clients is stiff and uncomfortable, but neat and agreeable. You drag your fingers across the embroidered logo adorning the breast pocket of your collared shirt, tucked neatly into tailored black slacks. The household had wanted to meet you before agreeing to let you into their home unsupervised as their maid, and you had to look perfect for it, had to make a good impression. Your rent was relying on it. You tie your hair back tidily, smoothing any flyaways. Your makeup was minimal and clean, professional. You looked put together.

The drive there is nerve-wracking, but you keep it together. You watch as your humble, working-class neighbourhood gives way to a parade of mansions, one after another, the gentrification painfully obvious. You feel out of place immediately in your modest car, almost as if you’re committing an offence by defiling this pristine street with your humble ride. You slide your car into park and stare at the house you’d researched prior, though seeing it in person puts its sheer scale into perspective. It’s enormous, with landscaping meticulously groomed and clearly maintained by professionals. You eye the clock, and the time is right, regretfully. You force courage into your chest and climb out of your car, the slam of the door sounding like funeral bells in your mind.

The sight of the expensive house gives you pause, the amount of square footage suddenly seeming like too much, an impossible task for one person.

The front of the house is a quintessentially British two-story home, exuding both luxury and comfort. The exterior is a blend of red brick and white stucco, with ivy climbing gracefully up one side, giving it a timeless charm. Tall, mullioned windows framed with dark wood sit symmetrically on either side of a grand, arched front door painted a deep, inviting green. The door is flanked by stone planters overflowing with vibrant flowers, a riot of colour against the muted tones of the house.

A cobblestone pathway, meticulously maintained, leads up to the entrance from the driveway, bordered by perfectly trimmed hedges and blooming roses. The front garden is a masterpiece of landscaping, with a lush, manicured lawn and a variety of shrubs and trees artfully arranged to provide both privacy and beauty.

After scanning the exterior of the house for a few minutes and picking your jaw up from the floor, you return to the very polite message from its inhabitants, even though you’ve already scanned it five times, to solidify the expectations that you’ve so readily agreed to.

Toilets, tile scrubbing, vacuuming, kitchen duty, laundry, organisation, dusting, pool cleaning, take out trash…

The list goes on and on. As your eyes scan the neatly arranged list, you begin to wonder why you’d accepted the job in the first place. While some of these tasks are certainly something you’d performed before for yourself, the high expectations make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Then, you read it.

...A completely satisfactory compensation equal to or surpassing your listed asking price.

Four years of tuition and rising rent loom down at you from your aching savings account, and you’re reinvigorated. These people are obviously well-off and willing to pay you handsomely. You would just have to be careful not to undersell yourself; after all, you can always negotiate.

You have to muster even more strength to ring the doorbell. Your hands shake before you politely clasp them together in front of you, awaiting their arrival. When you hear the mechanisms of the door rattle, you force a smile onto your face that you’d only just then realized was missing.

The first thing to greet you when the door swings open is a blinding smile.

"Hi there! You must be the new maid. I'm Kyle Garrick," he says, extending a hand warmly. His grip is firm but friendly, rough with callouses, and your brain immediately thinks capable, dependable. He is intimidatingly tall and athletic, his posture speaking volumes about his background, shoulders and back straight. His dark hair is neatly trimmed, and there's a spark of genuine interest in his eyes. Worst of all, though, is that he’s gorgeous.

"That’s me!” You chirp out with a wide smile before giving your name. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Garrick," you reply, trying to steady your nerves as you shake his hand.

"Please, call me Kyle. No need for formalities here," he insists, his smile widening further. "Come on in. I’m sure the place can seem a bit overwhelming at first, but it’s not so bad, promise!"

You step inside, the cool air of the house a sharp contrast to the warmth outside. The interior is just as grand as the exterior, with polished wooden floors, high ceilings, and tasteful decor that speaks of both comfort and sophistication.

"So, tell me a bit about yourself. How long have you been working in housekeeping?" Kyle asks as he leads you through a spacious foyer adorned with a large chandelier and a sweeping staircase.

"Well, I've been doing this for about three years now. Started part-time while I was studying," you explain, trying to keep your voice steady. "I enjoy the work, and it’s always interesting to see different homes and meet new people." Your brain was working overtime to send words to your mouth, and your cheeks hurt from holding the cordial smile. While it’s true you’ve been working at your job for a while, you did not enjoy seeing different homes and meeting people.

But hey, at least it isn’t retail.

Kyle nods thoughtfully. "I can imagine. We’re a bit of a unique household, as you probably know. Your boss told us great things about you, though. We’re happy to have you here."

"Thank you, that means a lot," you mumble, running your clammy palms across your pants. Beautiful, and nice? Your heart may as well give out now.

He gestures towards a doorway leading into a large, open living area. "Here’s the living room. We spend a lot of time here, so it can get a bit messy. Just a heads up," he adds with a chuckle.

You take in the room, noting the plush sofas, a grand fireplace, and a large bay window overlooking the garden. It’s clear that, while the house is grand, it’s also very much lived in and loved. Opposite the fireplace is a giant television flanked by bookshelves, brimming with titles you couldn’t make out. The stand beneath was home to multiple game consoles and controllers and a mess of cables. A plush rug covers the floor beneath the couch and coffee table, and blankets rest haphazardly over the arm of the couch.

"We'll head to the kitchen next," Kyle says, guiding you through the house. Despite the grandeur of the mansion, there’s a warmth to it, largely thanks to Kyle’s easy-going nature.

But you know you are completely out of your element because the kitchen alone is the size of your entire apartment. The idea of scrubbing this place clean fills you with more anxiety with each room that he shows you, but you keep it together enough to maintain a confident facade.

Mostly.

As Kyle led you down yet another dimly lit hallway, a behemoth of a man suddenly stepped out ahead of you.

And oh my God, he's huge. He fills the entire doorway from which he emerges, phone to his ear, glaring down at the source of the apparent bothersome noise that interrupted his call. With a wave, he acknowledges Kyle, hardly sparing you the dignity of a glance. Kyle quiets down immediately. The man's piercing, dark eyes say everything he doesn't need to, shadowed by the jut of his brow. For a moment, you're certain no one else on this Earth could be as intimidating. The sheer breadth of his shoulders and chest strikes a primal fear into you, making you question your faith and leaving your lips pursed shut in complete silence, your body snapping into utter stillness lest you be a bother. Prey frozen in front of a predator, hoping to remain unseen.

Satisfied, he returns to the room from which he emerged, shutting the door behind him as his deep, guttural voice rumbles an apology into the phone’s receiver. It's so deep, so guttural, you swear it reverberates in your chest.

After the pleasantries are over, there are just two rooms left to discover: the one that Dark-and-Scary emerged from and the door opposite.

“Don’t worry about Simon’s office,” Kyle dismisses. “He’d probably rather you not go in there.”

As if the guy couldn't get any scarier. You decide to avoid the room like it's radioactive, an easy decision to make. You eye the closed door as Kyle knocks on the other.

“Come in,” a deep, gruff voice grants permission from within.

Kyle opens the door, revealing a room that exudes authority and wisdom. The space is lined with dark wood panelling, and the air carries the faint scent of tobacco and aged leather. A large oak desk sits near the back, its surface meticulously organized with papers, a laptop, and a small lamp. Behind the desk, an imposing figure stands, looking up from a stack of documents.

"Captain- er, Price, this is the new housekeeper," Kyle introduces, his voice slightly more formal than before, his posture straighter.

Captain Price, a man with a rugged face and a neatly trimmed beard, offers a nod. His eyes, a steely blue, assess you with a mixture of curiosity and scrutiny. "Nice to meet you," he says, his voice gravelly yet warm.

You muster a smile, hoping it doesn’t come across as nervous as you feel. "You too, sir. Your house is lovely."

Price gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat. 'M sure Garrick has given you a lot to think about already."

You nod and sit down, the leather chair creaking slightly under your weight. Kyle takes a seat beside you, his presence reassuring.

"So," Price begins, leaning back in his chair. Seated and relaxed, he still seems to take up the entire room, authority lingering in the air like the scent of cigar smoke. He's intimidating, but not in the same way Simon was - a hulking behemoth. Not that Price isn’t a large man himself; his shirt stretches across a broad chest, pulled tight over sculpted biceps and shoulders. Even slouched in a plush leather desk chair, he towers over you. "What do you think so far?"

Price is intimidating because there is a magnetism about him. His beard is trimmed and neat, speckled with greys, and creases tug at his eyes whenever his expression changes. In his right hand, he spins a pen over his fingers, thick and scarred and rough. He’s a man of experience, of hardship, but it’s concealed by a calm and composed veneer. He demands respect without having to open his mouth.

You pause, carefully considering your response. "I think your house is beautiful," you say, hoping it sounds convincing. You fold your hands over your lap to hide the shaking. "A bit intimidating, but I’m up for the task."

Price nods, seemingly satisfied with your answer. "Fair enough. We value hard work and dedication here. As long as you do your job right, we'll get along just fine." He leans forward, his gaze intensifying. "But understand this: our privacy is paramount. What happens in this house stays in this house. We have our reasons for being particular about who we let in."

The ice from his eyes pierces through your veins, flooding your blood with cold. You nod quickly, "I understand, sir. I’m here to clean, nothing more, nothing less."

Price leans back again, his demeanour softening slightly. "Good. Then I think we’ll get along just fine. I hope you find everything to your liking. When would you be able to start? Our old schedule was Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he smiles again, placating, and you’re grateful that this is almost over.

“Most weekdays we’re on base,” Kyle adds. “But our schedules aren’t consistent.”

“Tuesday and Thursday are fine,” you confirm, knowing full well that today is Sunday. Your mind races with the laundry list of responsibilities that you would need to get together by Tuesday.

“Fantastic. Now about your compensation…” Price continues, drumming his fingers atop the desk.

Your ears perk up.

“How about $200 for the travel and $300 for the work?”

You’re glad that he’s the first to throw out some numbers, considering you didn’t know they’d be covering your travel times as well. Still, even with the bonus, it seems low. “$300 per day?”

Price’s eyes crease as he raises a brow. “Per hour, love.”

You startle at that. You must look like a deer in headlights considering Kyle’s sympathetic pat on your knee.

“Su-sure! Yes, that is um…” you stutter, knowing you look like an idiot but helpless to do anything about it. “Agreeable.”

He nods in affirmation. “Excellent. I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday. Just let yourself in through the garage, the code is 5768. There will be a list on the counter of your duties. I’ll be home around six, but it’s alright if you’re not done by then. Don’t burn yourself out on the first day.”

You memorize that number like your life depends on it. You exchange contact information with Price and Kyle. You want to ask if Simon will be home on Tuesday, but you resist, not wanting to ask too many questions with a promised salary over your head.

Finally, once you’ve exchanged your goodbyes pleasantly, you’re free to go. Outside, you take a deep breath, glad that the meeting went as well as it did. Cleaning this place must take at least a few hours, and at that rate, you’ll be paying off your loans in no time.

You focus on the suddenly attainable dream of financial freedom as you make your way home to prepare. 

—

Tuesday comes far too quickly for your liking.

Getting into the house feels more scandalous than it is. Your heart drops at the sight of a car still in the garage, though you suppose that doesn’t mean anything for certain. Rich people usually have multiple cars, right? You hope that you’re alone, away from the scrutiny of an overbearing homeowner, as nice as they may be.

You remember Simon with a shiver as you make your way inside the house, the memory making you close the door quietly behind you, recalling the home’s layout and making sure to check the kitchen counter for the list. You find it with ease, and the amount of tasks is shorter than you thought it’d be.

You collect the supplies you need and set out, starting with the living room. The TV is so massive that you could mistake it for a wall feature. You blink away the disbelief and start dusting, arranging the decor that adorns the surfaces and arranging throw pillows across the expanse that is the couch that wraps around the room.

You make quicker work of the room than you’d thought. You save the vacuuming for last when you’ll do it for the entire bottom floor as the note specifies. Stepping back, you take in the big picture of the room and you’re quite pleased with yourself. You suppose you weren’t lying when you told Kyle you were detail-oriented. You were good at what you did.

You turn back towards the kitchen to assess the note and hopefully cross off some tasks, and your entire soul leaves your body.

You startle back, a sharp gasp bursting from your chest, terrified. Jesus Christ, where did he come from? Was he always there? He’s just standing there, mug in hand, leaning against the counter, but his sheer presence was enough to spook you to your bones. You clutch your chest and almost laugh nervously, dissuaded by the stern look on his face, somehow making a black henley menacing. Shit, he’s ripped.

“Mr- Mr. Riley,” you regard him, taking a moment to remember his last name. Simply calling him by his first name is too informal, even if that is how Kyle introduced him to you. “My apologies. You scared me.”

“Hmph,” he dismisses, taking a sip of his tea before regarding you again. You take the brief time to force your heart to stop pounding in your chest. “Usually the maid comes around two or three.”

“I’m sorry,” your voice shakes as he regards you. How long was he standing there watching you? “I can come back at another time?”

“’s fine,” he nearly rolls his eyes before laying his sights back onto you. “Jus’ make sure you use the shit that smells like pine.”

“Yes! Yes sir,” you nod hurriedly. “Pine-scented-”

“Are you doin’ the beds today?” he asks before you’re finished speaking.

“Yes,” you blurt before swallowing. “After I wash the sheets.”

Simon swirls the tea around in his mug with a few controlled rolls of his wrist. “Use extra fabric softener, but not with Johnny’s. And make ‘em tightly.”

“Of course. Yes,” you are anxious to get this conversation over with. Simon makes your every muscle taut with anxiety. His stern words are all business, and you’re rather thankful for that in a way. There’s no second-guessing.

He glares at you through the furrow of his brow before turning towards the foyer. He speaks to you again without turning back around to face you, “Did you close the garage door?”

Shit.

“N-no, sir,” you answer honestly. You don’t consider lying to him for a minute.

He doesn’t move. Your heart speeds back up regrettably.

“Always close the garage door,” he insists darkly before approaching the entry door to do so himself.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” you convince, wishing you got a better look at exactly how he did so. He closes the entry door before you have a chance to see, and you definitely don’t have the balls to ask.

“Don’t make too much noise, either,” Simon demands, raising his voice to ensure you’ve heard him despite the increased distance between you. 

“Of course,” you chatter, drilled into place as if he’d filled your shoes with lead.

You hear a door shut, and suddenly you can breathe again. Still, the minuscule noise of the air through your nose is too loud, you decide. You try breathing quieter despite the dizziness plaguing your head, only to give up a few moments later. You wait for him to come back and yell at you again for a few minutes before mustering the bravery to continue to the kitchen to retrieve the list.

Suddenly, it’s a mile long.

Since Simon mentioned the beds, you figure you should start there. You hurry up the stairs, tiptoeing to avoid making them creak, and quickly strip the beds of the surprisingly sparse amount of bedding (like seriously, only one pillow? Psychopaths) before carrying the bundle downstairs and into the laundry room. Getting the cycle started is a bit like rocket science given the high-tech nature of the machine, but you figure it out, extra fabric softener in place as ordered. You allow yourself to take a breath as you recall the master bedroom, as extravagant as you’d expected it to be. Daydreaming about a king-sized bed and a fireplace in the bedroom distracts you from Simon enough to accomplish a few more tasks, crossing them off the list as you go.

The last thing to do as you wait for the bedding to dry is clean the bathrooms. Kyle so kindly writes that you “don’t have to go crazy with it”, but you will anyway. You collect your supplies, rubber gloves donned, and head towards the first bedroom adjacent to the foyer.

“Oi.”

His voice sends needles down your spine. You’d almost forgotten he was there, naught but a peep to be heard from beyond his office door. Now, he stands in the doorway of it with his arms crossed to address you. He’s so tall that he has to bend his neck to look at you, lashes long and dark as they cast shadows across his features. His scarred, mangled features that rocket fear up your spine.

“Yes?” it comes out as a wheeze, your lungs robbed of breath.

“I spilled something in ‘ere, can you get it? Have a call in ten minutes, make it quick,” he explains, the most you’ve heard him speak. Even though he phrases the request as a question, it’s anything but; you are to report to duty immediately. You mentally salute him.

“Of course,” you prattle before shuffling your supplies in your arms. He makes way for you, sticking close by intentionally, his arm raised above your head to hold open the door, a lion’s paw about to come down on a mouse. He’s never been scarier than he is in that moment, brushing past him to get into his office, the difference in size between your bodies starkly and embarrassingly apparent.

You arrive at a sparsely decorated office with a deep mahogany desk at the very centre. Your eyes scan the floor but find nothing out of place, unsure if you should enter the office further to investigate or just wait for Simon to point the mess out to you. 

He steps past you to return to his desk, sitting in a tall chair before swinging his legs up onto his desk. He narrowly avoids the computer there, and you notice that his boots pretty much dwarf it, before a smash.

His thick-heeled boot knocked right into an empty glass perched precariously on the corner of his desk. It comes crashing down onto the expensive carpet beneath, shattering into countless sharp shards in a messy circle. You watch this happen with your own eyes, but you’re not sure it really happened. It’s not until Simon removes his feet from the desk to cross them normally that you understand what’s happening.

“Whoops,” he mutters sarcastically with a dismissive wave of his hand before tucking his arms into a cross. He never once breaks his stare at you while doing this, especially now. He waits for you to make eye contact before blinking. It’s long and slow, like he’s showing it off. Like he’s telling you just how relaxed he is while you’re a complete mess.

“I-” You’re stunned, insulted, and frankly frustrated.

“There’s a mess. So clean it,” he states plainly.

“Of course,” you swallow your pride and every curse word that bubbles up into your throat. You sink onto your knees, and the movement almost sickens you. You remember a time when you wouldn’t give an ounce of your pride to rich assholes like this, back when circumstances were different.

The loans, just think of the loans…

You use a small brush and dustpan to sweep up the glass shards, the sharp fragments catching on the fibres of the carpet like stubborn burrs. Simon's legs stay in your peripheral vision, an unyielding presence that looms over you as you work on your knees. You try to ignore the weight of his gaze, focusing instead on the painstaking task of collecting each sliver.

"I- I think I need the vacuum," you murmur, your voice barely more than a whisper. You pour the shards into a small container, a brittle symphony of tinkling glass, and rise to your feet, clutching the dustpan like a lifeline, as if it could protect you.

“Vacuum is too loud,” Simon scoffs. “Figure it out.”

You hold back a grimace, your eyes lifting to meet his, searching for any sign of leniency. But his expression is carved from stone, cold and unyielding. Defeated, you drop your gaze and return to the task, plucking out the smaller bits of glass with your now bare fingers, each prick a tiny sting of defiance against your skin.

Halfway through your meticulous work, Simon's desk phone rings. The sound slices through the tense silence, and he forgets about your presence, lifting the receiver to his ear.

"Now's fine. The maid's here, but no matter." His voice is stripped of its usual menace, a disconcerting change that sends a shiver down your spine. "No, s’not Faith. New one. Knocked over a glass.”

You scowl, your fingers pausing as his words sink in. The other line responds, and Simon smirks, a cruel twist of his scarred lips.

You clench your jaw, the glass shard embedding itself deeper into your finger. You hiss between your teeth. The words you want to hurl at him burn like antifreeze, bitter and corrosive in your throat. The money on the table feels like a shackle, binding you to this humiliating role. Any protest would likely cost you this job, and you can't afford that.

Simon shifts to business talk, and you tune out, the fumes of your rage and indignation fuelling your efforts. The fear you once felt towards him dissipates, replaced by a simmering resentment. He’s not as terrifying as he first seemed; just another arrogant, condescending douchebag. Still, you don’t dare rise until every speck of glass has been meticulously collected.

You stand, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere. Gathering your supplies, you head for the door, your steps hurried.

"Hey," Simon's voice halts you, and you turn to find him pointing at the floor by his side. Your heart sinks as you assume you missed some glass, and you crouch at the side of his desk chair. Before you can react, he moves with startling swiftness, swivelling his chair and knocking you off balance with his boot. You wobble, falling forward onto your knees and scraping them against the carpet, your hands landing on his thighs, and your brain short-circuits, hitting factory reset in your fear. You scramble to push off of him, to crawl backwards and create some space, but Simon grips your hair with a vicious tug, forcing you to remain between his legs.

The pressure on your scalp is excruciating, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You can smell the faint scent of his cologne, mingling with the bitterness of your fear and anger. It clogs your throat, shame and embarrassment and disgust all boiling in your gut. The shock feels like the shards of glass you collected pouring over your head, tickling and slicing against skin.

He holds you there for a moment, his grip tightening just enough to make you whimper, cheek pressed against his thigh until you can feel the warmth of his skin through his jeans, abrasive against the sensitive skin of your face. You can feel the way his thigh flexes when he leans back in his chair, all muscle and brute strength. His grip moves from your hair to the nape of your neck to hold you still when you struggle again.

You bite your tongue, literally, to keep yourself from losing the only job that you’ve been able to get.

Loans, loans, loans… Bills, bills, bills…

For a moment, he’s just staring at you, smirking, and you realize he’s finally placed the phone back on his desk, yet his grip remains ironclad around your neck. The rage builds, and your hands ball up into fists, and you take a breath to will yourself into silence.

You’re shaking now, a quick glance towards the door securing your escape plan. Simon notices, but he doesn’t move. Your eyes flick to the dustpan of glass next, too far for you to reach, and you know deep down that you would never be quick enough to slice Simon. He’s ex-military, for fuck’s sake. You know he’s followed your gaze when his thigh flexes again under your cheek, his boot coming to rest between your knees, ready to knock you back down if you so much as flinch.

“Mr Riley…” You cower, your voice muffled against his jeans, weak and snuffy. He merely tilts his head at you. “I need to get back to w-work.”

You flinch away violently, and he forces your head further into his leg as he opens one of the desk’s drawers. He could be reaching for a knife, or a gun, and you’d be completely useless to stop him, scruffed like an unruly cat and sat at his feet like a pet. You choke back a sob, hands gripping around his calves.

He wields a stack of cash, rolled together with a rubber band. You can’t help but stare at it, bright, crisp bills nestled in the palm of his giant paw. He tosses it up and catches it above your head, as if it were merely a baseball, and smirks at your wide-eyed reaction. Your eyes follow it like a baby to a mobile.

“So predictable,” he murmurs, snapping the rubber band off to stack a few of the bills atop his other thigh, right in front of your nose. A puff of breath from you would be enough to scatter it to the floor. 

You force your eyes from it and compose yourself. A few hundred dollars is hardly worth selling your dignity for. You’re not entirely sure what he’s getting at, anyway. 

“What- what are you talking about?” you finally decide to ask, much less confidently than you’d hoped you would.

“You’re pretty useful around here. You should show me just how useful you can be,” he croons, leaning down and curling over your head, your proximity to him keeping his voice perfectly audible despite the quiet, deep nature of it. You meet his shadowed glare with furrowed brows and watery eyes, lips taut, as you finally realize what it is that he’s asking of you when he rubs your face against his jeans again.

With his free hand, he grabs the few bills he placed on his knee and slides them under the waistband of your slacks. You can’t stop the squeak that eeks past your lips.

“What? No!” you resist, trying to throw your head back and out of his grasp when he lets go suddenly, and the back of your skull knocks into the desk painfully, ornaments jostling from the impact. You’re glad nothing falls, not wanting to deal with that at the moment. Not with your dignity apparently for sale. “You’re- No, no- Price would have my head!”

“And he isn’t here, is he?” Simon interrupts before you can make an even bigger fool of yourself. He leans in further, caging you between his knees and the desk until the distance between you is negligible. He grabs your chin this time, his pointer and thumb panning from ear to ear across your jaw, and slips anther bill down the front of your shirt until his abrasive fingers tuck it into your bra, his touch searing against the sensitive skin.

“You can put up with a lot, love,” Simon coos deeply. He slides another bill into your bra, tucked under the strap, as you start to feel dizzy, unsure if this is really happening. There’s at least $500 tucked into your clothing at this point.

You stare into his chest, the calculated rise and fall of it doing little to slow your own. God, he’s just so huge, and you’re cornered, your escape plan evaporating with his presence. You’re not sure you could squeeze past him even if you tried. An immovable object.

When he slides another bill against your skin, you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. This is so reprehensible that you struggle to find the appropriate words to describe just how disgusting all of it feels. The money burns, sears, branding your shame into your skin permanently. A tattoo in the shape of your weakness, your gullibility. Your gut twists and aches, your hunched shoulders so tense with the pull of your muscles that you might make yourself faint.

Another bill, another moment of terse silence. Tears finally spill over your lashline.

Shit… how much is that, now?

This has to be some sort of test, right? Simon has made it perfectly clear that he enjoys messing with you. This has to be one of his games. One that you so happen to have fallen hook-line-and-sinker into.

Another bill. Your bra struggles to hold them. You’re pretty sure he brushes them over your nipples on purpose.

Well, if he’s going to play a game, maybe going along with it is exactly how you get out of it.

“What are you asking me to do?” you utter, squeezing your arms against your breasts to keep any of the cash from spilling out. You can hear the way it crinkles.

“I’m not asking,” Simon murmurs, his voice a rumbling bass given the closeness to his chest. You can feel the vibrations of it deep in your ribs. “You’ll do it eventually. We all have a price.”

Your eyes flutter closed at that, with his breath ghosting over your face. You feel – you are - completely stuck. You force your eyes open, but still can’t muster the balls to meet his gaze. He taps your nose with another bill, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap driving you crazy until you swipe his hand away. Are you really someone who has a price? 

Yes.

“Suck me off,” he demands plainly, and the words completely steal the breath from your chest. You don’t breathe, you can’t breathe, the absolute ridiculousness of it all weighing heavily on your conscience. He starts the tapping again, though it’s slower, now. You blink away the tears, completely preparing yourself for the verbal onslaught that you want to inflict upon this fucking creep for insisting you do such a thing.

The taps slow into an excruciating rub across your cheeks before Simon simply lets the bill flutter to the floor, discarded like trash before trying again with another one.

Well… It is a lot of money…

You swallow, almost rolling your eyes as you close them again. If this is a game, it’s a really fucking sick one. He tosses that bill to the ground too and repeats the movement, this time sliding the bill across your cheek, over your nose, tracing it down to your lips before letting it flutter to the ground.

“Just- just a blowjob?” you utter, voice as weak as your moral convictions.

That makes him chuckle, the noise of it sinister, more akin to a deep growl than a laugh. He knows he’s won, this little game that he indulged in. He leans back, proud, to assess his work: you, flustered and flushed and way too hot, avoiding eye contact with him at all costs as you crunch the bills in your hand. “Just a blowjob.”

He leans back in his chair smugly, arms resting against the armrests and his fingers drumming against them. You’re not sure if you can get out of this by citing your inexperience, or if that would just intrigue him further, so you keep your mouth shut. No, he had ensnared you long ago, and you were just along for the ride. Simon was taking his position as your superior with delight. Or, well, whatever it is that Simon can experience that might be considered delight by any standards besides sadistic.

You stuff the cash from the floor in your pocket, along with your pride, and finally look him in the eye. He simply waits for you, as if you knew the first thing about these sorts of situations. He must enjoy watching you fumble with yourself internally, piercing brown eyes like daggers into the gears mashing around in your head, jamming them in place.

“Well?” Simon lilts.

You obey his unspoken command, swallowing thick spit and frowning deeply. You crawl closer on your knees, the plush carpet suddenly suffocating. Simon has that stupid expression again, spreading his legs wider to encourage you between them. You’ve seen things like this in bad pornos, but you don’t have the first clue how to handle any of this.

“’m not paying you to stare,” Simon derides. You know that you should be doing something, anything, but with the flood of thoughts and doubts and impulses flying past you, you simply can’t piece together what he wants from you right now. He’s jammed the gears in your head, his derision a knife between cogs.

You watch his hands fumble in the fly of his jeans. Your eyes widen with the sudden spring of flesh that makes itself very apparent, his cock bouncing towards his belly. The idea that he’d gotten hard from messing around with you is repugnant and vile, and you wonder just how depraved he is. You’d seen a few cocks before, mostly in college during some bad decisions, but his is just so foreign. Developed in a way that only age could afford; huge and heavy, hindered by its own weight. He presents it so unceremoniously, so matter-of-factly, that it catches you more off guard than you thought it would.

He pats his knee twice, as if he were summoning a dog. From your place at his feet, you felt like one.

You rise on your knees, placing your hands over his thighs for balance. You can’t help but keep your eyes locked on his cock, towering, framed by a plush covering of dark hair.

He grabs the base of it and jiggles the flesh, inviting you impatiently. “Open up.”

Your jaw trembles as you oblige, just barely parting your lips enough to expose your tongue. Simon waits for you to inch closer on your knees, really nestled between his legs now, and there’s no going back. You don’t like when he tells you what to do, but at the same time, you’re completely lost without his guidance. You give it your best shot, licking a stripe just beneath the head of his cock. You wince, the taste off-putting and the smell of him unusual.

He surprises you, grasping the back of your neck with his free hand. You startle and whimper, reflexively clutching his knees to keep your balance. He isn’t particularly rough, but the sudden nature of it scares you.

You are impossibly in over your head.

He keeps your head in place as he angles the tip of his cock between your lips with his free hand. He sighs when you instinctively close your mouth around it, tongue wiggling beneath the pulsing flesh as you try to swallow. A tear creeps its way from the corner of your eye, sliding down your cheek with shame.

“Suck.”

You close your eyes as you give that your best shot, cheeks hollowing around the intrusion in your mouth. Your tongue is more useful, here, given the increased friction. You lather it around languidly, unsure if that would even feel good, but Simon doesn’t tell you to stop. You just want to get this over with as quickly as possible. You open your jaw ever-so-slowly with each tentative suck to accommodate the girth, spongy veins pressing along the heat of your tongue.

He squeezes the back of your neck again, and you know what you need to do. You start to bob your head to the fullest extent of your limits. Just when you think that Simon is fully hard, he gets even harder, the size of it quickly becoming difficult to handle. You start to choke when the tip prods the back of your throat, but when you try to back off, Simon’s firm hand across the back of your neck keeps you in place. You break the suction to force a breath, gaping your lips to puff out a breath around the intrusion in your mouth. Simon didn’t seem to like that, pushing you farther down towards his groin.

You wince and more tears come, either from the activation of your gag reflex or the sheer mortifying pain of doing something like this with someone like him. You feel like a filthy enabler, giving him what he wanted so easily.

Simon pulls your head back, his cock slipping from between your lips with a wet noise. You cough, though your little pity session is interrupted by him slapping the meat of his cock against your cheek. Now that it’s out of your mouth you can really size it up, brows furrowing at the intimidating bulk of it as he drags it across your face. You’re not ashamed to admit that you’re intimidated by it, as arousing as a cock of this size would be in any other circumstance. You scowl at the wet heat of your own spit slathered across your face and the degrading nature of it.

“You better figure this out before six o’clock,” he gripes, and you squeeze his calves with fear. You know exactly who would be getting home around then.

You open back up after he jerks himself haphazardly against your cheek a few times, glaring up at him for a split second. He lets you do it, relaxing his hold on your neck as you take up a quick rhythm. Being reminded of the impending consequences speeds up your motivations, bobbing messily around his cock until you manage to earn a heated groan from his chest. His hand trails to the back of your head, more of a cradle than a hold, fingers embedded in your mussed hair.

You grasp his thighs instead, using his body to adjust for the recoil of your rhythm. He gradually presses on the back of your head, a gentle insistence that you take more than just half the length. You force your throat to relax as best you can as you try to accommodate him, tongue draped across your lower teeth. You’re deathly afraid of scraping him, especially with the increased depth. He gets thicker towards the base, too, tempting the limits of your mouth and your ability to keep your lips clamped around the length of it.

He grunts when he meets a resistance that you truly wish you didn’t have. If this is what he wanted, so be it. But you can’t, your eyes clenching shut at the intrusion, trying to compensate with more half-hearted dips of your head. Simon’s fingers curl into your hair, suddenly holding you still, stinging your scalp with his grip. Your attempts to placate him apparently aren’t enough.

“Take it,” Simon growls, his upper body curled over you for leverage. You manage to take a short breath before he plummets back inside, fighting the sideways turn of your head as you try to resist it. He ploughs into your throat like a battering ram, fucking it deeply, uncomfortably. You feel your sinuses sting, bile creeping into them as you try to flail away. “Fucking take. It.”

You try your hardest. It’s much easier said than done.

Simon keeps you firmly planted between his legs, both hands now clasped around the back of your head, his weight pinning you down, a calf slung around your back. Your neck aches with the angle, your chest burning with the lack of air. What does he get out of this? Is it simply to make you suffer? You wouldn’t put it past him.

Your tongue lingers across the base of his balls where sticky spit begins to accumulate, strands of mess connecting your chin to his balls. You claw into his thighs, tapping, anything to get him to stop. You swear you hear him snicker, the noise dampened by the blood rushing past your ears. Your eyes open just to roll back, searching for any sense of empathy no matter how shrivelled it may be.

Finally, he releases you, just a moment before you either throw up or pass out. You throw yourself back, falling onto your ass, coughing and crying. You swipe the mess from your face and force deep breaths into your aching chest, too distracted by your misery to notice Simon standing to approach you.

“Stupid cunt,” he spits, taking your hair back into his grasp. He forces you to look up at him, and you’re not sure why you expected to be treated any differently than this. 

You burst into a startled scream when he tugs, wrapping your now loose hair into his fist. Before you can even cry, he’s quick to shut you back up. 

He cranes your neck back uncomfortably to stuff his balls along your chin, dragging the length of his cock across the bridge of your nose. He’s more forceful with it now, rutting his balls against the exposed meat of your tongue as it peeks from between your lips. His hips roll, back and forth, mushing your face around with his cock. The salty taste downturns your mouth, a bitter mixture of skin and sweat.

Now that he’s standing, he has greater leverage over you. You feel even more powerless than before, impossibly, held in place by the sheer power of Simon’s grip. Your mascara was running before, but now it’s coated your under-eyes in a haphazard, dripping mess. Remnants of other bits of your makeup dredge Simon’s cock, his hips finally reared back.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he growls, more of a whisper than any command he’d given you before. He barely waits for you to obey before thrusting his length back into your mouth. He hisses through his teeth when your own scrape against it, the affront enough to invigorate him into a hurried and brutal pulse of his hips. 

You give up on breathing. If you’re going to pass out, you’re going to pass out, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Your nose burns from the scrape of his pubic hair across it, and your little whines are suffocated by the bulk of his cock pounding into your throat. He’s much quicker now that he’s standing, having given up hope of letting you take any semblance of an active role. Your throat makes embarrassing, wet, choking noises as he pummels in and out of it, nothing more than a hole for him to take advantage of.

He slides out just to slap your cheek, spit flying from the impact. He doesn’t hit hard, but he’s accurate, the reddened shadow of his hand starting to blush across your cheek. He’s quick to get back to work with a grunt, craning your neck back again to stuff his cock back inside. You gag, but he doesn’t care, pushing past the resistance once more to enjoy the tightness of it. 

You give up knocking against his muscular thighs, simply grabbing hold of the hem of his shirt as he fucks your face relentlessly. You’re dizzy, snot streaming from your nose, spit flying from your chin and onto the floor. Simon, who once seemed all too concerned about cleanliness, seems to relish in making an absolute mess of you. You try rising from your knees in a last act of defiance, but his hold on your head keeps you in line, stuffing your nose into his groin as if to mock your attempt at escape.

“Fuck,” he groans, little pumps of his hips taking full advantage of your throat now that he’s buried inside it. Your eyes roll back, the crinkle of money sharp in your bra. You focus on the feeling of it as Simon grates the abused interior of your throat, your chest quivering instinctively as it struggles for a breath. “Look at me.”

You force yourself to look up through the sticky mess of your mascara, tears blurring your vision. Still, past the trail of hair leading from his groin to his belly, you can see the beginnings of his face. His jaw is tensed, lips parted with exertion, beads of sweat dotting his forehead as he glares down at you with what you can only interpret as rage. He’s angry, pulling your hair just that much tighter when you dare to blink or try to look away.

Finally, finally, he relents. Even though he pulls out of your mouth, he keeps you firmly planted exactly where he wants you. You clench your eyes shut to avoid watching Simon jerk the length of his cock against your face, his hot breaths sticky as he looks down at you. Heat spurts onto your cheek and you grimace, having little time to enjoy your precious breaths before snapping your mouth shut. His heavy balls bounce against your face with the rhythm of his jerking, scraping your cheek with the hair across them. Your body still forces some coughs through your suppression of them, erupting from your throat with disjointed, garbled noises, and your lips part just barely. Threads of cum breach the space between your lips, the bitter taste seeping into your mouth against your will.

Simon, in a new low, adjusts his hold on your head to spread his fingers across your face. He rides out his orgasm with your face at his disposal, globs of cum marking your forehead, cheeks, chin, and everywhere in between.

He sighs, a long, droning noise that is as much a relief for you as it is for him. You sob quietly to yourself, hands raising to wipe the mess from your face as best you can. His body, warm and stocky, glistens with a sheen of sweat. He throws his head back as he releases yours, caring not about where you end up now that he’d discarded you. He wipes the tip of his cock across your lips in a final bid to clean it. 

You can’t believe that you’ve just done that. You curl into yourself on the floor, still trying your best to keep your uniform unsullied. When you’re able to open your eyes again, you realize how silly that aspiration is; ropes and speckles of cum, spit, and sweat stain the delicate fabric. You may as well stay on the floor… it’s where you belong.

You’re not sure how much time passes before Simon speaks again. His words are muffled by something.

“Towel,” he utters, suitably calm now. 

“What?” your brain simply doesn’t comprehend the word.

“A towel,” he says more sternly this time. “You know where they are.”

You’re not sure you can even stand. Nevertheless, after staring at him in disbelief for a few moments, you force yourself onto your feet. You watch him flick a lighter and ignite a cigarette, the smell out of place given your once-pristine surroundings. You’re shaky, suppressing a few coughs and cries, looking away from the fresh plume of smoke to head towards the bath down the hall. You drag your feet, seeking support from the doorway to keep your balance. You grab the closest non-decorative towel that you find, sending a stack of them cascading to the floor. You don’t care, barely regarding the heap as you make your way back to the bedroom.

The smell of smoke stings your abused sinuses and throat. You hold the towel out to Simon, who so graciously opens one eye for you before smiling, cigarette dangling between his lips.

“Your job is to clean, so clean.”

He mirrors a previous conversation, and it sickens you, your hands shaking with a mixture of exhaustion, rage, and fear as you grasp the towel. Apparently, your mouth didn’t clean him well enough. Well, this is hardly the worst thing he’s asked you to do, at least…

That fact obliterates any shred of self-respect that you have left.

You bend down to attend to his needs, spit and cum cooling quickly in the dustings of his hair. He hisses, slapping away your hand with a sudden disapproval.

“Gently,” he scowls. The hypocrisy of the request settles heavily in your gut, but you have no option but to oblige. You simply have no idea how to handle a cock with your hands, what pressure is appropriate. His cum slicks your face, but of course, you need to be concerned with the integrity of his balls before that of your own face.

It takes some doing, but you get there. He’s as clean and dry as you can get him, only to be rewarded by a thick puff of smoke in your face. He smirks at your indignant frown and the way you turn away for fresh air, the cigarette glowing red as he takes another long inhale.

“‘S fine,” he murmurs, smoke billowing from his nostrils. “Clean yourself up and get the fuck out of here.”

You use the same towel despite the disgustingness of it, desperate to get the sludge cleared from your face. You’re half as successful as you’d like, a nice hot shower sounding better than the fistful of hundreds bundled in your pocket. You collect the few bills scattered on the floor without a word, shameless, lightheaded from the exertion of it. You sigh with relief, dropping the towel where you stand and sauntering towards the door without a word. 

“Oi,” he cajoles as you grasp the door handle. You turn back just enough to regard him, eyes rimmed red and face painted black with mascara. “Did you do the dishes?”

You merely nod twice, and it’s enough for him, apparently. He dismisses you with a huff and a wave before letting his upper body lean back against his chair. “See you next week.”

Next week. Not Thursday.

A sinking feeling settles in your gut as you realize this won't be the last time. Come next Tuesday, if Simon is here, he'll have another bonus for you. You’ll just have to make sure you’re well out of his way.

You finally leave a little past four o'clock. The day has slipped away, a surreal blur of time. The sharp scent of Simon’s cologne and the taste of bile burns your sinuses, as painfully persistent as your wounded pride.

The shower you take once you get home is hot, but not hot enough. There isn’t water hot enough in existence to burn the shame from the deeply embedded streaks across your face, scouring you from the inside out.

You worry that perhaps Simon swindled you and snuck some singles in the stack of bills that he gave you, but he didn’t. The “bonus” just barely covers your credit card bill. But hey, at least it doesn’t overdraw.

Silver linings.

[hyperactively-me]

king!ghost x reader -- war

soooo. yeah! this part is so 'simon "only soft for his girl" riley.' but, this is where shit gets seriousss lol ALSO WORD COUNT IS OBSCENE I'M SO SORRY (i'm not sorry), with this part being about ~8.4k words total. HAVE FUN I GUESS! warnings: LOTS OF SMUT, (unprotected sex, but there is no pregnancy resulted from this here because its ~fantasy~!), mentions of death, talks of war

You remember exactly what you were doing when the news was broken to you and Simon. 

You and Simon were lounging on your plush couch, your feet propped up in Simon’s lap, sitting before an open fireplace as he read to you. One of Simon’s hands held your ankle as the other held the book open. You had cuddled up with a blanket, slightly dozing off as Simon’s deep voice drawled through the story. It was peaceful, serene…domestic. 

The door to the chamber swung open, revealing a solemn-faced messenger. Simon’s gaze hardened as he shifted from the book to the intruder, a subtle furrow forming on his brow. Walking in without knocking was extremely uncommon, and just as Simon was about to reprimand them, the messenger spoke. 

“Your majesties, forgive my intrusion, but I bring news from the southern borders. The Southern Kingdom has launched a full-scale invasion. War has come to Kastron.”

The world seemed to move in slow motion as you took in their words, an icy chill running up your spine despite the fireplace a mere few feet in front of you. The tranquility of the moment shattered, and the book slipped from Simon’s grasp, its pages rustling as it hit the floor. The shock of the message echoed through the room, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

Simon’s grip on your ankle tightened involuntarily. The flames in the fireplace now seemed to cast ominous shadows on the walls. You sat up, the blanket slipping off your shoulders, and shot a worried glance at Simon. Simon’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. 

Simon’s jaw clenched, his gaze hardening with a sense of duty and determination. You withdrew your feet from his lap, now sitting up straight, wordless. You swallowed thickly, your throat felt dry. 

“What?” Simon’s voice is urgent. “Are you certain?”

The messenger nodded, his expression grim. “The information was just passed along to me from a few witnesses, your majesty. The Southern Kingdom’s forces are advancing rapidly. Our scouts barely had time to send word.”

A weight landed on your chest, a sudden heaviness that made it harder to breathe. Simon immediately shifts gears, rapidly standing up, his eyes never leaving the messenger. 

“Prepare the council. We convene in the war room immediately,” Simon commanded, his voice unwavering. The way he switched so quickly from domestic tranquility to a stance of solemnity and command was a stark reminder of the kind of ruler he was — impenetrable, stoic, and ruthless. 

The messenger hastened out of the room, and you and Simon followed suit.

As the three of you made your way through the corridors, tens of strategists and other high-ranking military officials added to the growing assembly. The tension in the air was palpable as you reached the war room, its doors swinging open to reveal a scene of controlled chaos. Maps adorned the walls, lanterns flickered on the large table, and the hum of hushed conversations filled the room.

Simon took his place at the head of the table, his presence commanding immediate attention. Simon refused a chair, pressing his hands onto the table as he leaned over. General Price stood by his side, ready to translate the unfolding crisis into a coherent plan of action. Commander Garrick is clutching rolls of paper, already prepared with possible battle strategies. 

The council members acknowledged your arrival with nods, but the gravity of the situation left little room for formalities. Simon wasted no time and addressed the room, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

You felt numb, seated in a chair that had to be pulled up for you to sit near to Simon. It felt as though you were underwater, spacing out as Price debriefed the room on the unfolding situation. 

General Price stepped forward, unfolding a detailed map that showcased the contested territories. His finger traced the movements of the Southern Kingdom’s forces. As he spoke, you tried your best to pay attention, still caught up in the immediate shift in tone. Not even two weeks had passed since the ball was held in your honor, and approximately two months since you were stabbed, and somehow war was officially declared on Kastron. This is what you were afraid of having to deal with as queen, yet you knew it would be inevitable, knowing Kastron’s history. 

“The Southern Kingdom’s forces are advancing on multiple fronts. Our scouts report significant numbers, and their progress is faster than anticipated,” General Price explained, his tone steady despite the concerning information.

Simon’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. The room fell into a focused silence, broken only by the scratching of quills and the occasional whispered discussion among council members.

“And what are their intentions?” Simon asked, his voice sharp.

“We’ve gathered that, since the tensions experienced a few months ago, it is most likely their primary aim to steal our resources and the silver-rich lands, your majesty. They also seek to dismantle our military power by taking over Kastron,” Gaz speaks confidently, motioning to the notes in his hands. 

Responsibility weighed heavily on your shoulders, and you could feel the collective gaze of the council turning to you and Simon for guidance. Simon looked back at you, a silent exchange of shared determination.

Simon turns back to face the rest of the room, his gaze fierce. “We cannot let the Southern Kingdom broach any villages. We will defend our lands, protect our people, and ensure the security of Kastron. But, Price, I also want you to mobilize our forces. We need to establish defensive positions and buy time for additional reinforcements. General Price, what are our immediate options?”

Price outlined a series of potential strategies, ranging from fortifying key locations to launching counterattacks to sending diplomats. The council engaged in debates, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of each approach.

Amidst the planning, you felt a surge of responsibility. You couldn’t merely be a passive observer; the fate of Kastron rested on the decisions made in this very room. Gathering your resolve, you spoke up.

“Um, maybe we can explore diplomatic options first. It’s clear the Southern Kingdom wants resources and power. If we can negotiate a compromise, we might avoid unnecessary bloodshed,” you suggested, meeting Simon’s eyes with a hopeful yet determined expression.

Simon considered your words, the furrow in his brow softening. Diplomacy wasn’t his first instinct, but he recognized the potential benefits. The room fell into a contemplative silence as everyone weighed the idea.

After a moment, Simon nodded. “You’re right. We’lll send envoys to open a line of communication. General Price, prepare a delegation. Make it clear that we are willing to negotiate, but also ready to defend our kingdom.”

The tension in the room eased slightly as the council shifted its focus to the diplomatic approach. Three delegates were selected, messages were drafted, and plans were set in motion.

That was a week ago. Two days after you had made your suggestion and the council voted, the bodies of these three delegates turned up near a village close to Kastron’s southern border. 

When the news of the delegates’ fate struck the war room, Simon was beyond infuriated. Diplomacy had been brutally rebuffed, and the Southern Kingdom’s intentions were now crystal clear.

The warmth of the crackling fire from that night seems worlds away from the chill that now permeates the air. Looking back now, it all felt like a distant dream. 

Now, you’re sitting in an empty bed, trying your best to think positively despite the inner turmoil you’re experiencing. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the distant sounds of preparations echoing through the castle. You glance at the empty space beside you, the absence of Simon leaving a void that no amount of positive thinking can fill. The shadow of your personal guard stands outside your bedroom door, a constant reminder of the heightened security measures now in place. The once-familiar comfort of the castle feels alien, additional guards posted throughout the halls. The sense of confinement within the walls was palpable, a stark contrast to the freedom and celebration of the ball held in your honor two weeks ago. The events of the past week replay in your mind like a haunting refrain. The failed attempt at diplomacy, the loss of the delegates, and the inexorable march of the Southern Kingdom's forces toward Kastron—all of it hangs over you, a dark cloud blocking out the sun. 

Simon has been stuck in the war room for nearly 16 hours every day for the past week, tirelessly strategizing, receiving updates, and making crucial decisions. As Simon remained confined in the war room, you took on the role of overseeing domestic affairs, ensuring that the daily functions of the kingdom continued despite the looming threat of war. The once-familiar routine now carried an undercurrent of tension, and you found yourself managing not only the logistics but also the emotional well-being of the people within and outside the castle.

The past week was a blur of meetings with advisers, coordinating with servants to maintain order, and responding to the concerns of citizens. The castle buzzed with an anxious energy that mirrored the uncertainty of the times.

Because of this arrangement, you and Simon would really only see each other in the morning while waking, and even then, that was only for a short time. Your morning routine has become a brief respite from the relentless demands of the impending conflict. Simon would wake up, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. You would roll into him, squeezing him tightly. As you both rose from bed, the weight of responsibility descended once again. Simon would dress in his regal armor, the emblem of Kastron emblazoned on his chestplate. You, too, would don the attire befitting a queen, the weight of your crown a constant reminder of the duty that now defined your days. Breakfast was always hurried, yet a brief pause in the chaos. Conversations were punctuated by updates from the war room, and from there, your day began. 

A few more days pass, and one evening, Simon returns to the bedroom the earliest he has in the past few days. The look on his face is extremely solemn, and extremely sorrowful. 

“Dove, we need to talk.” 

You’re immediately pushing yourself off the bed, twisting your hands in your grip. 

“Of course, what is it?” Your heart races at the caution in Simon’s voice. The somberness in Simon’s expression deepens your concern. You take a step closer to him, your eyes searching his for any clues.

Simon’s gaze is heavy with sorrow, but yet a hint of determination crosses his features. He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for what he’s about to say. Your hands clasp tighter, a silent plea for reassurance.

“Dove,” he begins, his voice steady but laden with emotion, “the situation has escalated. General Price and I have made a decision. An important decision.”

Your heart skips a beat, anxiety tightening its grip on you. The air in the room feels charged, and you hold your breath, waiting for Simon to continue. He averts his eyes to the ground. 

“I... I’m going out into the field,” Simon says slowly. 

In that moment, it’s as though the air in the room was swallowed whole. You feel as though you can’t breathe, knees buckling slightly. Are you hearing him right? He looks back up at you. 

“Price, Gaz, and I have discussed the strategy, and my presence on the front lines is necessary. We can’t afford to leave anything to chance. I’m highly trained, highly capable, and my place is with our soldiers on the battlefield,” Simon continues, his voice confident and firm. 

You’re frozen in place, the room spinning as you process the words. A lump forms in your throat, and you struggle to find your voice. You shake your head vigorously. 

“But… no. No. No, no, no, you can’t go. I won’t let you leave.” 

Simon steps closer, grabbing your shoulders and holding them firmly. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cold dread settling deep in your chest. “Darlin’, I have to go. I didn’t take this decision lightly. I’ve been to war more times than you know, and all before I even met you.” 

You look up at Simon, desperation in your eyes. “But Simon, this is different. I’m here, and I’ve… I’ve never been alone here. And, what if…” 

You swallow your words, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. 

Simon approaches you again, his touch gentle as he turns you to face him. “You’re not gonna be alone. I’ve asked Soap to stay here, he’ll be with you most days; and I’ll be in communication.”

Simon’s gaze softens as he continues to hold your shoulders, studying your frowning face. “I know. I know this is incredibly difficult, but I need you to understand. The kingdom is in need, and my duty as king demands that I lead our forces. And, I have nothing but full confidence in your abilities to lead Kastron.” 

You don’t say anything, your bottom lip quivering as you try to keep yourself together. 

“I need you to stay here, love,” Simon murmurs, his voice a gentle plea. “The castle needs a leader, and you’ve shown that you are capable. You’ll be out of harm’s way.”

A sense of helplessness washes over you, and you pull away from Simon’s grasp. Turning away, you wrap your arms around yourself, as if trying to shield yourself from his admission. The room feels smaller, the air heavier, and you wish that this was all a terrible, terrible dream. 

“Can’t someone else lead the military? You're too important to risk on the front lines.”

Simon takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving you. “Price and I have considered every option. My skills and experience are essential. It’s the best chance we have to protect Kastron.”

The tears in your eyes now threaten to spill over, and you pace across the room, breathing picking up. “But, there has to be another way, Si. Sending you to the battlefield is too risky. What if something happens to you? Don’t you understand?”

You’re crying now, breathing labored. Fat tears now start to roll down your cheeks, and Simon watches you with a heavy heart. “I understand, love. I do. The last thing I want to do is leave you. Can’t even fuckin’ bear the thought. But I have to do what is necessary to protect our kingdom.” 

Simon reaches out, gently cupping your face, his thumb brushing away some tears that escapes your eyes. “I cannot promise you that everything will be alright. War is unpredictable, and I cannot guarantee my safety. And you know better than anyone that I have the training, I have the capability to go to war. But I need you to understand—I'm doing this for Kastron, for our people, and for you.”

You smack his hand away, instantly regretting it the moment you see his face morph into pain. 

“You’re not leaving! I won’t let you!” you start to sob, your body trembling with every cry. 

You start to hit his chest, your fists pounding against the armor that shields him, as if trying to break through the iron. Simon endures the blows, his hands remaining at his sides, absorbing your hits as his heart shatters. 

“I’m not letting you leave!” you practically scream, and the guards outside your door wince. You smack his chestplate harder, hating the way he’s just standing there, unmoving. 

“You can’t go, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t,” you plead, voice choking with desperation and vision blurred from your tears. 

Simon feels as though his heart is being shredded slowly and painfully with each strike, but he lets you vent, understanding the pain that grips your soul. The sound of your sobs reverberates in the room, echoing the helplessness that has settled upon both of you.

He finally catches your wrists gently, his touch firm yet tender. You collapse against him, your strength waning, and Simon wraps his arms around you. His armor feels cold against your hot cheek, a stark contrast to the usual warmth of his embrace. Your tears flow freely, a combination of fear and frustration. 

“I love you, and it tears me apart to see you like this,” Simon whispers, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “Kastron needs me, and she needs you. I’ll do everything in my power to come back to you, I can promise you that.”

You finally look up at him, your tear-stained eyes searching his for any hint of revocation, but you know deep down that he’s firmly set. You cling to him, as if your touch alone can tie him down to this room. Simon gently wipes away your tears with the pad of his thumb, rubbing soothing circles on your back. You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself in his embrace.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t.” Simon holds you tighter, the pressure soothing you, grounding you to the room. “I don’t want to lose you either, dove. But I need you to stay strong. Lead Kastron in my absence. I have complete faith in you.”

“When will you... leave?” you manage to ask, your voice cracking. 

Simon takes a deep breath, armor pressing into your chest as he inhales. “Two days, at dawn.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the finality of his words. You tilt your head up slightly, looking up into Simon’s eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any glimpse of doubt. But all you find is resolve.

The room is enveloped in a heavy silence, unsettling you to your core. Simon tilts your chin up higher, looking into your eyes with an intensity that pierces through you. His lips find yours in a tender kiss, a bittersweet exchange as his hand weaves itself through your hair. The taste of his kiss lingers as he pulls away, his eyes searching yours for patience. You nod, a silent understanding.

Simon doesn’t let go of you, insteading walking you backwards until your knees hit the bed, forcing you to lay down. 

. . . 

The next day had come and gone, the moon now rising high in the sky. You were on your way back to your room from your final meeting of the day, the castle now quiet. 

You had hoped Simon would be in bed already by the time you arrived at your chambers, but instead you were met with a dark, empty room. You don’t even bother slipping into your sleepwear, a pang of sadness settling in your chest. Sighing, you slip back out of your room, waving off the guard at your door who tried to follow you. 

You already knew where Simon was. 

You knock gently on the doors to the war room, pushing it open when you hear a muffled, Yes? filter through the wood. The war room is dimly lit, the strategic maps on the walls difficult but not impossible to decipher from the flickering light of the lanterns. Simon is hunched over the large table, poring over several documents and a detailed map of the southern borders. His worn armor sits discarded beside him, and the room carries the scent of parchment, ink, and a hint of something metallic.

Simon glances up, weariness etched on his face, as you step into the room. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the weight of the world seems to lift as a small, genuine smile forms on his lips.

“Hey, love,” Simon greets, his voice softer than usual, a stark contrast to the authoritative tone he’s been exclusively carrying the past week. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, crossing the room to stand beside him. “No, I needed to see you.” The dim light emphasizes the exhaustion in his eyes, and it tugs at your heart.

Simon straightens up, putting down his quill gently. “I was just going over the battle plans. Price and I want to make sure every detail is accounted for before…”

An awkward silence settles between you two as you study Simon’s face. The lines of stress, the fatigue in his eyes, and the tight set of his jaw speak volumes. You reach out and trace a gentle finger along the side of his face, an intimate gesture. 

“I hate seeing you like this,” you admit. “You’re carrying so much on your shoulders.”

Simon leans into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment. “It comes with the job, dove.”

You lower your hand, exhaustion welling up within you. “Everyone is asleep. Come to bed.”

Simon sighs, looking back at the papers spread about the table. 

“Soon, darling.”

You step closer, your fingers finding his. “Simon, you’ve been at this for days. Please, you need to rest, relax. The plans will still be here tomorrow.”

The glow of the lanterns casts a shadow along Simon’s face, highlighting the shine in his eyes. His fingers close around yours, and he brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing an open mouthed kiss on them. You shiver, heat arising in your stomach. Simon pulls you into him, pressing his chest up against yours as he cradles your face in his hands, slotting his mouth over yours. You respond with a fierce passion, your fingers threading through his hair, eliciting a quiet groan from him. 

As the kiss deepens, Simon gently guides you backwards until your lower back hits the table, the maps and plans long forgotten. Simon breaks the kiss as you gasp, the heat in your lower body growing stronger. 

“This is helping me relax,” Simon breathes, hot and heavy on your cheek. His hands slip down to your ass, pinning your hips to the table with his own. “Jus’, let me take care of you.” 

You swallow thickly, gliding your hands up and down his chest, feeling his muscles contract slightly at your touch. 

“Take care of me, then,” you whisper, and that’s all he needs to hear before hauling you up onto the table, papers shuffling and scattering onto the floor, but neither of you care.

Simon follows you as you lay down on the table, pressing a deep kiss into your mouth as his hands shoves more papers out of the way. The rustling sounds of papers and maps hitting the floor fade into the background, replaced by the rhythm of your shared breaths. Simon’s touch is both gentle and possessive, his hands exploring the curves of your body with a familiar intimacy. As his hands roam, a soft moan escapes your lips, muffled by the heat of the kiss. 

Simon then pulls you forward on the table, adjusting you until your hips are on the edge, legs dangling in the air. You look up for a brief moment, watching as Simon drops to his knees in front of you, and the sight alone makes you dizzy, wetness pooling in your panties. He looks so reverent and his eyes lock with yours, looking up to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. You bunch up the fabric of your dress, pulling it up high until the fabric pools around your waist.

Simon spreads your legs wide, hot breath fanning against your sensitive skin. You open your mouth, but before you can say anything, he’s pressing wet kisses to the insides of your thighs. You shudder, legs twitching as your desire mounts, aching for his mouth on your wet cunt. Simon doesn’t waste time, throwing your dangling legs over his shoulders to get closer to you. 

“Simon,” you groan quietly, needing him to touch you now. He doesn’t respond, instead pressing two digits against the fabric of your panties, just barely teasing your clit. Your breath catches in your throat, swallowing thickly as he runs his fingers up and down against the gusset, circling over your clothed clit with a feather light touch. 

You shudder, thighs trembling ever so slightly at the teasing, wetness surely starting to soak through the thin layer of cotton. 

“S’ wet already,” he murmurs, eyes mesmerized by the sight before him. His light touch now turns into something stronger, using the fabric over your slit to build friction in the most delicious way. “Feels good?”

“Yes,” you whimper quietly, hands clawing at the surface of the table.

He chuckles to himself, barely audible over the sound of your racing heart and quiet whimpers. Your arousal seeps through the fabric, and Simon seems to revel in the effect he has on you. He squeezes your thighs tighter, fingers pressing into the plush, doughy skin as he presses more kisses on the insides of your thighs, moving closer and closer to your center. 

You involuntarily buck your hips as his finger starts to circle your clit more forcibly over your panties, using the fabric as leverage to create more friction. You let a few moans slip out, eyes blinking a few times to steady your dizziness. 

Simon's movements become more purposeful, his fingers working magic over the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the fabric. The sensations send shivers through your body, and you can feel the growing wetness between your thighs. Each stroke of his fingers, every graze of his lips along your inner thigh, adds to the building tension. Unable to withstand the torment any longer, you arch your back, pleading for more. 

“Fuck, Si,” you whine, high-pitched and needy. “Please.”

“What’s got you all worked up, love? Hmm?” he teases, moving to press his tongue into the soaked fabric, teasing your hole. 

You moan in response, thighs moving to clench his head. He simpers at your reaction, calloused hands pushing your legs apart. 

“Tell me what you want,” Simon coos, his voice low and husky. His fingers continue their ministrations, dancing over your clothed heat. 

“I want…” you begin, your words catching in your throat as Simon applies more pressure to your clit, the sensation almost too much to bear. “I want you, Si. Need you right now.”

A smug grin erupts on Simon’s face as he abandons the fabric barrier.

“Good girl.” 

Unable to resist any longer, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down with deliberate slowness until they slip off your ankles. He stuffs the material in his back pocket, a small, teasing smirk playing on his lips. 

With your panties discarded, Simon returns his attention to your exposed core. His breath is warm against your skin as he leans in, studying the way you’re soaking, and the anticipation is almost unbearable. The first touch of his tongue against your clit has you gasping, the pleasure intensifying with each slow, deliberate stroke. He dips his tongue into your hole, then slides it back up to your clit, sucking on it firmly.

“Like this?” he murmurs, teasingly trailing his fingers along your slick entrance. 

“Yes, yes,” you plead, aching for him to just have his way with you. “Please, Si.”

Without further hesitation, Simon dips a finger into your wetness, the slickness making the intrusion seamless. You gasp, your back arching off the table as he begins a slow and deliberate rhythm, each stroke making your legs feel as though they’re on fire. 

Simon watches you intently, his eyes flicking up to your body every so often. He relishes the way your body responds to his touch, smirking to himself that he’s the only one who’s ever seen you like this. 

Your moans grow louder, echoing in the room as Simon expertly works his tongue up, down, and around your vulva. When he comes to suck harshly on your clit, your thighs instinctively close around his head, and Simon groans at your reaction. The vibration adds a layer of pleasure, a deep seated moan pushing past your lips. 

“Sound s’ pretty f’ me, darling,” he mumbles, refusing to fully remove himself from you. 

He adds a second finger, stretching and filling you, the sensation pushing you closer to the edge. 

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, a familiar warmth spreading in your abdomen. 

The table beneath you creaks with your movements, but neither of you pays it any attention.

As Simon’s tongue continues to lap at your vulva and clit, your grip on the edge of the table loosens, instead finding purchase in his hair as if to egg him on. The sensation of his tongue and fingers build to an almost unbearable peak, toes curling as he hits all the right spots. You’re teetering on the edge of release, every touch sending shockwaves through your entire body.

“S- Simon, I... I’m so close,” you gasp, your voice strained with pleasure.

Simon, ever attentive, reads your body’s responses with precision, adapting his movements to heighten your pleasure. He doesn’t relent; instead, he quickens the pace, determined to push you over the edge. The oh so familiar coil tightens in your abdomen, and with a sharp cry, you succumb to your orgasm. Waves of pleasure wash over you, legs shaking at your release, leaving you trembling and utterly spent. Simon laps up your wetness, groaning at the way your walls clenched his fingers at your release. 

“Such a perfect girl,” he praises, thriving off the way you shudder and moan as you orgasm. 

As the aftershocks of your climax subside, Simon withdraws his fingers, a satisfied glint in his eyes. He pushes his soaking fingers to his mouth, sucking off the remaining juices. 

“Always tastes so perfect, love.” 

Heat rises in your face as you watch him, still panting from your orgasm. He rises to his feet, a pleased smile on his lips as he leans down to capture your mouth in a lingering kiss.

“You alright, love?” Simon whispers against your lips, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.

You nod, still catching your breath, a blissful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “More than alright.”

He chuckles, a deep and melodic sound. “Good. Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

You nod fervently, pushing yourself up to sit on the edge of the table. Looking over the edge, you forgot about the various papers and maps that had…fallen to the floor during your heated moment. 

“The papers…” you say quietly, warily eyeing the amount of things that had been brushed to the floor. 

Immediately, Simon is picking up the strewn papers, muttering to himself about how they were all in his way. Your legs are still vibrating as you push off the table, now standing on the floor. You brush your dress back to its original place as best you can. When you move to help him pick up the maps, he stops you in your tracks.

“No, no, love. I’ve got it,” Simon insists, a fond smile on his face. 

You watch as he efficiently gathers the papers, arranging the documents back onto the table, the strategic maps finding their places among the scattered sheets. Once satisfied with the order he’s restored, Simon turns to you with a grin. “There, good as new. Shall we?”

“My, uh, my panties…” you trail off, face burning. The slick between your thighs is definitely still there, reminding you of your lost garment. 

Simon shoots you a mischievous look, and he retrieves your discarded panties from his back pocket. Holding them up, he smirks, a teasing grin playing on his lips as he quirks his eyebrows.

“For safekeeping,” he quips, a playful tone in his voice. “Wouldn’t want anyone stumbling upon them, ‘specially here.”

You roll your eyes, a combination of embarrassment and amusement heating your cheeks. Simon takes a step closer, then bends down on one knee, tapping your ankle. 

“C’mon,” he says, motioning for you to step into the fabric. Steadying yourself by clutching onto his shoulders, you relish the way his hands brush up your thighs as he pulls the fabric up under your dress until they’re snug around your body. With a final playful squeeze to your ass, he stands up. 

“Now, we shall,” you giggle lightly, brushing stray hair from your face. 

Before you fully leave the room, you press up on your toes to whisper in his ear. 

“Can’t believe you ate me out in the war room of all places,” you giggle, clutching onto him. 

He shrugs nonchalantly, a hint of pride crossing his features. “It’s our castle. Gonna have to christen every room at some point.” 

You try to suppress your laugh, knowing deep down that he’s not joking. 

Linking your arm with his, you follow Simon out of the war room and through the silent corridors of the castle and back to your shared chambers. Your legs are a bit shaky, still not fully recovered. 

Simon gives a curt, silent nod to the guards standing in front of the bedroom doors, before stepping inside with you. The moment Simon shuts the door to your bedroom, he’s kissing you fervently. It’s both possessive and tender, a silent acknowledgement that tomorrow is the day he leaves. He guides you toward the bed, the cool sheets welcoming against your heated skin. 

As Simon deepens the kiss, hands wandering over each other’s bodies, the weight of the day’s responsibilities melts away even further.

Simon breaks the kiss, his eyes locking onto yours with nothing but pure adoration and love. “I love you,” he says, the sincerity in his voice echoing through the room.

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “I love you too, Simon.”

With a gentle touch, you start to brush your hands under his tunic, guiding it up and off his chiseled frame.

The room is filled with a quiet intimacy as your fingers trace the contours of his chest, each touch causing the man to shiver. You enjoy the way he trembles from your touch, noting his more sensitive regions. The burden of your impending separation lingers in the air, but in this moment, you choose to ignore it, basking in the warmth of his presence.

You reach for the waistline of his pants, following the fabric down as you let him step out of it. Finally, when your hand grazes his lower abdomen, right above his crotch, he hisses, hand clutching onto your wrist. You don’t stop, yanking down his boxers until he’s fully nude in front of you. The moonlight filters through the balcony window, casting a soft glow on Simon.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” you praise, standing back to admire your husband in all his glory. “So gorgeous, so strong.” 

Simon blushes, redness creeping up from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. A grin appears on his face, pride seeping into his skin. His eyes never leave yours as you slowly undress, removing your garments in a languid fashion, desperate to savor this night.  

He steps closer, hands reaching for the sleeves of your dress, fingers deftly working to free you from the fabric that separates you. The dress falls to the floor in a gentle cascade, and you hear Simon’s breath catch in his throat. You slip off your undergarments, until you’re finally exposed before him. Simon’s eyes roam over your form, and the intensity in his gaze makes your skin tingle.

You step out of the discarded dress, standing bare in front of each other. Simon’s hands find the small of your back, pulling you close, and you melt in the warmth of his touch. He presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head, then slowly guides your jaw upwards to catch your lips in a kiss. The kiss is a slow burn, a sweet mingling of your breaths, as Simon explores your mouth with a gentle reverence. His hands roam over your back, pressing you closer into him, as if he was trying to bury you into his chest. You can feel his erect cock pressing into your stomach, and he gently bucks his hips against you. 

Breaking the kiss, Simon trails a line of tender kisses down your neck, igniting a trail of goosebumps in their wake. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he leans into your touch. “Promise me you’ll come back,” you whisper, the vulnerability in your voice bared for him to see.

Simon slows to a stop, keeping his face planted in your neck. He then presses a tender kiss to your skin, squeezing you as tight as he could in his embrace, knocking the breath out of you. “I promise, love. I’ll come back to you.”

You nod, swallowing thickly as he straightens to his full height. Without breaking eye contact, Simon guides you to the bed, the cool silk sheets a sharp difference to the heat radiating off your bodies.

As you lay down together, Simon hovers above you, a mixture of tenderness and hunger in his eyes. The moonlight bathes the room in a soft sheen, your husband looking like a being that descended from heaven.

“You’re ethereal,” you say breathlessly, and Simon’s eyes sparkle with gratitude and affection.

“Says you,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. Simon trails his fingers down the curve of your body.

“I mean it. Don’t brush it off,” you whisper, your fingers gently tracing patterns over the scars on his chest. 

“‘M not. Thank you, dove.” 

You lean up and capture his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. As you kiss him sensually, you reach your hand down to wrap around his cock, pumping your hand up and down his length. He groans into your mouth, body twitching above you as you stroke his hard cock, bucking into your grip as you set an even pace. 

Simon’s hand finds its way to your hip, fingers digging into your flesh as he pants above you. He breaks the kiss as you apply more pressure, his breaths heavy and labored.

“F- fuck, lovie,” he moans, head fuzzy as your hand squeezes his cock just right. “God, y’know how to drive me mad.”

You hum in response, swiping your thumb across his slit. Simon gasps over you, body threatening to fall on top of you with every stroke and touch you administer on his cock. Bringing this behemoth of a man down to a trembling, quivering mess in your hands has your heart racing. 

Simon then moves to explore your body with a newfound hunger, his lips tracing a path of heat and need. The sensations send shivers down your spine as he kisses and nibbles his way across your collarbone, down to the curve of your breasts as you continue stroking his cock. 

“T- that’s it, need you, now, right now,” he pants, his voice desperate and needy. You release him, and Simon wastes no time yanking your legs apart, caressing your thighs. He shifts his weight, positioning himself between your legs.

You whimper as he drags his cock through your slick folds, his tip catching on your entrance after a few strokes. Simon gazes down at you, his expressive eyes full of a potent mix of desire and love. Without breaking eye contact, he guides himself into you, and a shiver runs down your spine. Moans spill from your lips, your back arching as his cock slides into you inch by inch. 

“Takin’ me so nicely, so pretty,” he murmurs, clutching onto you. 

Simon’s movements are deliberate, his cock stretching you open to accommodate his size and girth. His size makes you see stars every time. Finally, as he bottoms out, you both let out a sharp breath. 

“Simon, ‘m so full,” you murmur, grinding your hips against his. In response, he silences you with a searing kiss, pressing you into the mattress. 

“I know you are.”

When he finally starts moving his hips, you have to bite back a sob. His thick shaft drags against your walls at an agonizingly slow pace. He buries his face in your chest, tongue lapping at your supple breasts and hardened nipples. 

You claw at his shoulders as he pumps his cock into you slowly. You’re still sensitive from when he ate you out, whimpering and wheezing as he pumps his cock into you slowly. When he starts pressing into your clit, you writhe underneath him. 

“Please, please,” you wheeze, feeling every little ridge and edge of his cock inside you. 

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he coos, chest rumbling as he studies your face twisted into pure pleasure. He thrusts slowly a few more times, his hips meeting yours with each movement. 

He starts to move slightly faster, needing you to cum around his cock. You gasp when he starts to pick up the pace, your slick soaking the base of his cock. The faster pace allows him to push into you deeper, his pupils blown wide with lust as you cup his face in your hands and pull him into another kiss. You arch your back into him as you kiss, bucking your hips as he circles your clit faster, harder. 

His lips leave yours, breathing hard and open-mouthed against your face. His hands explore every inch of your body as if committing it to memory, fingers tracing every square inch of your skin. You reciprocate, running your hands through his hair, feeling strength and vulnerability coexisting in the man you call your husband. 

Simon turns to bite your shoulder, his cock feeling absolutely, perfectly stimulated by your tight walls. You cry out in pain and pleasure, yanking his hair to elicit a response from him. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. The room is filled with the sounds of your moans and the slight creaking of the bed as Simon takes you with a primal intensity. His movements become faster, each thrust pushing you both closer to the edge.

You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Simon responds with a guttural groan, his grip on your hips sliding down to your ass. 

“I love you,” Simon murmurs against your ear, his words sending shivers down your spine. “Always, only you.”

“I love you forever,” you stutter out, tears threatening to run down your cheeks. 

Your walls flutter around his shaft, causing Simon to groan, making his mind sink further into his primal desire. He feels the familiar tightening of his orgasm creeping up on him, but he refuses to cum before you. 

Simon starts to circle your clit faster, hitting all the angles and spots that he knows will have you screaming in pleasure. 

“Oh, oh fuck,” you moan, thighs trembling. “You- you’re, so good—”

“I know, I know, darling.” 

He takes your hands in his own, pinning your hands to the mattress by your head. His fingers lace with yours, never once daring to let go. He looks down at you, his gaze tender and caring, something he saves especially for you, yet there’s an intensity in his eyes, a desire that you know can be seen in yours as well. His hips move faster, slamming deep and hard into you, your body shaking as your moans and cries fill the room. You know you’re on the brink of your orgasm, your hold on his hands intensifying. 

“Cum with me,” you moan, arching into Simon again. He groans at the thought of cumming at the same time as you, his cock twitching with the need to release inside of you. “Please, Si. Need you to fill me up.”

Simon’s pace increases impossibly faster at your excitement, pressing and circling your clit in the spot that makes your toes curl. 

“Pretty girl, my pretty girl,” Simon growls, seizing your hips and dragging you closer to him. His undeniable need to cum reaches his cock as you mewl. 

“‘M gonna cum, ‘m gonna—” you sob, the familiar heat of an impending orgasm traveling from the tips of your toes to the tops of your thighs. 

Finally, you orgasm hard, your walls squeezing around his cock as you cum. Simon cums not long after, rocking into you repeatedly as he releases. His cheeks are flushed from exertion, gasping and groaning as his cock twitches with his release. Your name falls from his lips like a fervent prayer as he cums inside you, wrapping his whole being around you. 

You try your best to slow your breathing, focusing on the way Simon lets his whole body fall loose, covering yours. The breath he had been holding came loose with a deep sigh, arms coming to wrap around your frame. It took a few moments for you both to collect yourselves, catching your breaths and shivering from oversensitivity. 

You swallow the thickness in your throat as Simon pulls out of you, both of your releases trickling from your cunt. He grips your jaw possessively, pressing a kiss to your jawline then to your now swollen lips. You both lay there in the afterglow, nothing but pure love coursing through your veins. 

“I love you, Si,” you sigh, scratching his back with your nails. 

Simon buries his head against your shoulder, each exhale tickling your flesh. After a few minutes, Simon shifts to lie beside you, his arm draping over your waist as you both lay in a tangle of limbs. You stroke Simon’s hair, your fingers running through the short strands with a certain tenderness. His breathing gradually steadies, and you feel his muscles relax against you.

“Promise me again,” you whisper, vulnerability returning to your voice.

Simon turns to look at you, a serious expression crossing his face. “I promise, lovie.” 

Content with his reassurance, you snuggle into his embrace, feeling the comforting warmth of his body. After all, this would be the last time in who knows how long you’d have him in your bed. 

The world outside your chambers may be uncertain and dangerous, but here, in the embrace of your true love, you find peace, if only for a fleeting moment.

. . . 

Morning comes all too soon. 

The sun wasn’t even up, yet you knew the clock was ticking before Simon had to depart. 

The moment you both woke up, you were on top of him, aching for him to fuck you one last time before he left. 

In the quiet aftermath, as the two of you lay tangled in the sheets, the reality of the separation settled in. Simon’s fingers traced delicate patterns on your skin, a silent reassurance that lingered between you two. 

“I wish I could stay,” Simon confesses, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You tighten your hold on him, unwilling to let go just yet. “I know, but we have to.”

He nods, his eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. 

“Dunno what ‘m gonna do without you,” he mutters, pulling you into a comforting embrace, savoring the feeling of being close to him. 

The first hint of sunlight starts to peek through the windows, signaling to you both that it was time to get ready for the day. 

As you both dress, the atmosphere in the room shifts. You help Simon pull on his military regalia, buttoning his shirt and pinning his crests and ribbons to his chest. Finally, he pulls on his armor, settling the heavy iron and silver pieces on his frame. Simon’s armor clinks softly as he secures it, an unwelcome contrast to the tender moments you had shared just a while before. 

Once dressed, you stand before each other, eyeing the door warily. It could be months until either of you saw each other again. Simon cups your face in his hands, his touch tender yet firm, as if burning the memory of your features into his mind.

You watch Simon’s throat bob as he swallows thickly, taking your hand in his as you cross the threshold of your chambers. You walk together through the corridors, hand in hand, the acceptance of his departure finally at peace within you. You would always worry, every day, but you knew that he would come back home to you safely. It was just a matter of when. The castle felt different—a place that would witness the ache of longing and uncertainty in the days to come.

As you reach the front courtyard, the air is crisp, and the first rays of sunlight illuminate the stones of the castle. You’re met with the sight of hundreds of soldiers and knights, Commander Gaz, and General Price. Soldiers bustle around, preparing for the journey ahead of them, their gazes giving respectful nods and bows to Simon as he passes. The castle gates loom ahead, a threshold between the safety of the castle and the dangers that lie beyond. 

Simon straightens his posture, walking with purpose, his stride unwavering as his armor clinks softly. You stand by his side, a pillar of support in the face of duty. You steal a glance at Simon, his jaw set, eyes focused on the path ahead. The tender moments you shared in your chambers just hours ago feels like a distant dream, replaced by the harsh reality of war.

Commander Gaz approaches, his expression stern yet sympathetic. “Your majesty, it’s time,” he says, a subtle nod indicating the urgency of the moment. 

General Price jogs up to Simon, leaving some of his soldiers to speak to him. “We’re ready whenever you are. The men are looking extremely optimistic this morning.” 

Simon nods, a silent acknowledgment of the journey he’s about to embark on. Price’s gaze then shifts to you, and there’s a rare softness in his eyes. “Take care of yourself, your majesty. I’ve left trusted knights and guards here to ensure you’re taken care of.” 

“Thank you, General,” you reply, your voice steady as you flash him an appreciative smile.

As you reach the castle gates, the mood shifts. The soldiers form up in disciplined ranks, and Simon turns to face them. He raises his hand in a solemn gesture, a signal for silence. The courtyard stills as all eyes focus on their ruler.

“Today we march not as conquerors, but as protectors. Our duty is to defend our homes, our families, and Kastron as a whole. We stand as a collective, and no force can break the bond that ties us together. For honor, for justice, for Kastron!”

A resounding cheer erupts from the soldiers, their spirits ignited by Simon’s words. The castle gates creak open, revealing the vast expanse beyond. Hordes of soldiers and knights begin to move through the gates, led by Price and Gaz. 

Simon turns to you, and for a fleeting moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. He cups your face, pressing a tender kiss on your forehead. “Wait for me,” he whispers. 

You offer a brave smile, masking the tears and sorrow that threatens to consume you.

“I will,” you reply, your voice carrying the strength and resilience needed for the days ahead.

Simon’s fingers press into your cheeks, guiding you to his lips for a final kiss. You grab onto him one last time, wrapping your arms around his neck, not caring that everyone can see you both. When you finally break apart, his eyes search yours for a moment, a silent exchange of admiration. 

“I love you, Simon,” you say, your voice firm despite the emotions churning in your gut.

“I love you,” he replies, a promise. 

With a final, tender kiss, Simon pulls away, his hand lingering on yours for a moment longer before he joins the ranks of the soldiers. The sound of marching fades into the distance, leaving you standing alone in the entranceway, watching the love of your life vanish into the horizon.

You watch as the castle gates close behind Simon and his troops, separating you from your husband. The morning sun climbs higher in the sky, casting its warm embrace on the now deserted courtyard, where the echoes of Simon’s departure linger.

Now alone in the courtyard, a breeze carries brushes past you. The castle feels emptier, and the weight of your responsibilities as the queen of Kastron settles in. Soap approaches you tentatively, his eyes full of concern. 

“Ye’re majesty, is there anything I can do for you?”

You turn to him, sighing appreciatively. 

“I… I’m not sure. But, I do want to thank you for staying here with me. It means a lot,” you reply, a small smile breaking through the somber atmosphere. 

Soap nods respectfully, his gaze steady. “If there’s anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. I’ll be at your service.”

You jump up to give him a hug, and he returns the embrace. After a moment, you pull away, wiping away some stray tears you had let trickle down your face. 

Turning back to face the castle, it seems different—colder, emptier. Yet, in your heart, your love for Simon and Kastron still burns, a beacon that will guide you in the coming months in the hope that he will return home to you safely. 

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[tmwcs]

The Little Mermaid

Part One

Warnings: None…yet.

The surface of the sea presented a contradiction between logic and beauty. It was both calm and raging, the smooth glass reflection of the rolling waves was like a mirror for the Gods residing above the clouds. The seagulls swoon and swirled, admiring the glistening shine of the sun’s rays reflecting off the deep blue. Your body rests on the flat top of the massive rock. It was warm and mostly dry–only the ocean spray graced its mineral surface and quickly dried under the warm light. The scales of your tale was a blend of Pear green, sky blue, lavender, and blush pink. They shined like diamonds and looked more precious than the jewels found on the ocean floor. The strands of your locks reflected a similar pastel blend, just brighter thanks to the unique silver and gold coating that graced each layer. Like tinsel, they reflected a shimmering hue that made your hair sparkle. Your eyes–much like all mermaids, reflected rainbow tints under heavy lashes.

Mermaids were never allowed to cry, it was a customary trait that became innate–since the very first mermaid swore off tears after accidentally slaying her only lover. Atargatis became the goddess of fertility, but her sadness was too much to bear. Once her beautiful legs transformed after she threw herself into the sea, she forbade all descendents of the sea to ever shed tears, so that no one would ever have to relive the sadness she endured. Therefore, all mermaids of her descending bloodline inherited the rainbow eyes–too beautiful to ever shed tears, and forever fulfilling Atargatis’s decree. However, just because you were not capable of doing so, it didn’t mean you wanted to. After longing to inherit those beautiful stilts that the humans would flare whenever they pounced and leaped upon the wooden board of the ships. They looked so joyful and happy–the way they could move and looked as if they flew in mid air each time they jumped.

If only…

You longed for legs of your own. Which is why you took up on the sea witch’s offer when she approached you during a delightful swim to the surface. She claimed that all she wanted was the Pearl you wore on your hair, it was a gift upon coming of age and your sisters all received the same. Despite being the youngest, you received the largest pearl. You cherished it, however, when you were tempted with the thought of frolicking through the dry sand with legs of your own, you gave it up–even if it was just for one day of being human. You didn’t care if you had to face hundreds of years facing the consequences and lectures from your family, so long as you could live out a dream that every mermaid yearned for. You take the miraculous potion from her hands. You couldn’t help but notice the abnormal structures of her fingers–then again, her entire form was abnormal. As you took the spiral conch shell that contained the elixir of her own recipe, you noticed the large gold ring that graced her index. It had a scripture in the human language–something that was unique to any creature that resides in the sea. “My—that ring is interesting, madam sea witch.”

She chuckles deviously. “Ah yes…it would be interesting to the likes of a mermaid, wouldn’t it? After all, you and your kind only witness the language engraved on ships and speak it through tales of song.” Her voice cackled and sounded as dead as driftwood. “A new piece that I am quite fond of. I’m sure once you inherit your beautiful legs, you’ll be able to see many languages, won't you?” she spoke in a demeaning tone. You neverminded her words and handed over your pearl. A seldom look takes over your soft face. You developed a sense of attachment to the pearl–the same one your grandmother wore during her coming of age. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the price to pay for a day of something you’ll never again be able to experience. Everyone knew that the sea witch never does anything free of cost, and she was known to demand the most endearing treasures in exchange for a wish. In your case, the family pearl.

You beached yourself–just hundreds of feet affront the dark marbled castle. You drank the potion that the witch presented. Its taste did not match its appearance–what with the smooth and metallic purple liquid looking like satin, you figured it would taste similar to the essence of coral marrow. However, the taste was rather poisonous. The bitterness was too unbearable, even by immortal standards. You gripped your throat and moaned in pain as you felt yourself choking–it became harder to breathe. Not long after the consumption, you fell into a state of unconsciousness.

You felt the warm air hit your skin—you felt so dry and almost dusty. The debris of sand dust coats your skin along with satin. You inhaled the scent of dark licorice and velvet as you slowly opened your eyes–and there you saw…

“You’re awake?”

His voice was as deep as the Mariana Trench, yet the smoothness and delicate features of his face did not match. He was so beautiful–more than any God you’ve read about in the old tales scripted on stone pillars that were once residing above the ocean ground. He looked as light as air and as gentle as the shallow water. “Can you speak?” His voice goes lower as he presents a softer and more gentler tone. It wouldn’t seem possible except with you witnessing it first hand, you became a believer. How could a human look like this? Was he even human?

“M..mmm…” you moaned in pain as the after taste of the potion rests in your esophagus. Finally, you managed to spill out broken words. Out of habit, the words came out sweet and in tune of a song. Mermaids were always singing and it was the only time when your kind communicated in human languages. “My…name…”

His eyes widened for a second at the beauty of your voice soothing his ears. You tried your best to refrain from singing out your words, and barely managed. “My name is y/n.”

He couldn’t find the words to respond–at least not right away. How golden was it to hear such a voice paired with a visual sight of something as remarkable as you. “What a pretty name.”

You shyly nodded. He breaks eye contact and looks ahead as he breaches the long stairway to the grand entrance. Immediately, the court staff all greeted you and the handsome stranger. “Your majesty! Where have you gone off to? And–”

An elderly gentleman who led the group displayed a look of shock as he questioned your carrier. “Who is this?”

You watched as the handsome man raised an eyebrow and presented a strict look over to the staff member. The elder quickly bowed and lowered his sight to the ground. “My apologies to your majesty!”

“Just get her to a spare room and have the handmaidens help clean her up.”

The elder raises his head. “As you wish for your majesty.” He turns around and snaps his fingers over to the remaining crew “Quickly! Take the young lady into the castle and cover his majesty at once!”

Two women rush over and open their arms welcomingly as they watch the man lower you. From what you understand, this man was of noble blood and was rendered with only the highest respect. You’ve never seen anyone garnish such instant obedience with just a single look, it was as if they were terrified of his presence. It made you wonder if he was a cruel ruler or just overly authoritative. Your mind snaps back once you find yourself falling. “Oh my!” one of the ladies gasped as they both knelt down to aid you back up. They had good intentions, however, they presented puzzling looks when they realized that you kept falling—you couldn’t stand.

“Your majesty, is she injured? She can’t manage to stand on her own.”

The royal man merely kept watching your pitiful attempts with his hands placed firmly on his hips. He did look strict, despite being so incredibly handsome. However, once again you were caught off guard as he softly chuckled and spoke softly. “I don’t think she can walk.” his hands remained on his hips. Paired with his smirk and that deep chuckle, you found yourself feeling something deep in your gut. He was leaving such an impression on you. You suddenly felt the need to try and impress him. You looked over to one of the handmaidens with pleading eyes and grabbed her arms as you pulled yourself up. Once you felt stabilized on flat feet, you slowly released your grip. Overcoming the challenge of standing, you felt a sense of accomplishment and was too joyful to notice as the oversized satin shirt fell off your body. You didn’t think of it as odd, after all, mermaids are always presenting bare skin above the hip line. Naturally, when the handsome stranger carried you it didn’t seem abnormal for him to be shirtless. Yet, you were puzzled when the handmaidens quickly covered you and repeatedly apologized to the man for your display. He merely chuckles again and dismisses it with a subtle wave of his hand. “She’s fine. Take her to the grand room–closest to my chambers.”

They nod in obedience and quickly help you up each step. It took a while for you to gain the momentum of walking, however, the handmaidens were ever so patient. Fortunately, after repeating the motions of placing one foot in front of the other, you caught on and found yourself enjoying the simple sense of walking. “Slow down, my lady. You’ll fall again if you lose your balance!” they warned, yet that didn't stop you. This was everything you dreamed of! You walked, ran, and even jumped on occasion. The satin shirt fell off once more, yet you paid no mind. You kept going ahead with the handmaidens quickly following after begging you to come back to them to provide proper coverage.

After the adventure of the stairway, the staff collected all around–hundreds of them. The castle was enormous, considering it was on land. It was natural to find palaces underwater, since mermaids used the aid of large creatures such as whales and even mythological ones that rarely appear above the surface. But on land, there were no creatures you saw that were large or strong enough to aid in the architecture of such a grand castle. The room you were taken to was lavished with coral pink silk and satin wallpaper. A large bed and vanity rests side by side, with graceful antique furniture decorating the entire room. Large vases filled with land flowers that reflected many colors—just like the coral reef.

After submerging you in a large marbled area that they called a ‘bath’, you were dried and prepped. Every second was an experience worth looking back to when you return to the sea. You chuckled as the handmaidens combed through your hair, remarking the beautiful colored strands. They bickered over trying to ascertain which color fabric looks best with your eyes, since the rainbow hues made it difficult to pick out one solid color. Finally, they settle on a silk threaded dress adorned with floral patterns in gold, blue, green and purple. The base color was a peach and beige stain that complimented your pastel features. They fashioned your long hair with loose waves and adorned it with beautiful flowers and jewels. You sparkled and looked glamorous, and wondered if your dear sisters would ever believe this moment when you tell them.

“My! She looks more beautiful than any princess or queen I've seen.” The handmaid's all whispered around, completely amazed by your grace and polished beauty. Mermaids are known to have an ethereal appearance, however, you wondered if the tales of your kind died off and if this was the first time these humans ever saw a mermaid. You felt compelled to speak and tell them, but refrained. You reserved your tranquil voice for when you converse with the royal man who found you. He piqued your interest and you felt a sense of excitement of seeing him again.

Part Two coming soon.

Taglist: @strxwbloody • @nshmrarki • @aquariushiiiii • @addictedtohobi • @nuriicata • @lilyuwon • @aanniikkaa •