#how is it any more dangerous than if you just had them in your back yard??

[justmymindandstuff]

your beloved Fury - Cregan Stark x TargaryenReader

based on this ask.

summary: Cregan meets your beloved Dragon Vermithor for the first time. He is more than scared, he is terrified. Not that he would ever admit that to you.

words: 3.281

warnings: none I think, just a bit fluff

a/n: English is not my first language// Reader is Rhaenyras daughter and described with dark hair // Not proofread// No use of Y/N.

Have fun 🧡.

requests are open// main masterlist// hotd masterlist

Excitedly, you run ahead of him and pull on his hand. Happiness and joy radiate from you, your steps are light, you almost bounce off the ground. Cregan follows you laughing through the gardens of the Red Keep. At the sight of your happy state, his heart beats faster and he can't wipe the smile from his face, even though he would prefer to hide today. Your destination is your dragon, Vermithor. The last few days Cregan found excuses, but today he really couldn't come up with anything.

With wide eyes, you had looked at him. "But My Lord, how can you become my husband in three days without knowing my dragon?"

Cregan had to acept defeat. What could he say against this? That he is terrified to meet your Dragon? Not an option.

When he rode south to keep his word and support the queen, he never expected to fall in love.

Cregan arrived just in time to prevent a riot in King's Landing and to stop the storming of the Dragonpit. It took a few days for Queen Rhaenyra's rule to be secured, but know everything starts to settle down.

The only thing for Cregan to do know was going home to Winterfell. But not without you.

Cregan had just come from a council meeting when he saw you for the first time. Jace had mentioned a twin sister back then, and he knew that all Targaryens are good looking but as your eyes meet, he had to pause in his movement. Gods, you are beautiful.

"You must be Lord Stark." you slightly lowered your head before him. "A hero, I have heard. It is an honor to meet you."

Your voice is like music to his ears, and when you smile at him, his heart skips a beat.

"The honor is entirely... entirely on my side... Princess." he had stuttered. Cregan doesn't know when he last stuttered. He falls in love at that moment.

The gods were on his side, because you apparently feel the same as he did. You asked your mother for her blessing to your betrothal and the queen agreed.

So Cregan and you will marry in three days and after that you will join him on his journey back north. And wherever you go, your dragon Vermithor will follow.

For the last few days, Cregan has been able to avoid getting too close to the dragon. Unfortunately, today he doesn´t find a excuse. The thought of facing the dragon alone brings sweat to his forehead. Northman or not.

Not that he would ever admit that he is afraid. He wants to impress you. And besides, neither you nor your siblings are afraid of dragons. Your little brother Viserys is barely a toddler, but he still treats the fire-breathing monsters like they were puppies. Cregan can be just as brave as the little prince.

Arriving in the castle courtyard, two horses are already ready for you. Cregan hesitates again, watching you mount elegantly.

"Are you ready, My Lord?" you ask and look at him. The sun makes your skin shine, the strong contrast between your light skin and your dark curls, the deep violet of your eyes. Cregan's body begins to tingle. You are a sight for sore eyes. And when you call him my Lord with your beautiful voice, Cregan's heart explodes every time. Your voice is full of affection and love. Cregan can hardly believe his own luck. He enjoys the sight of his future bride for another heartbeat before he nods and also mounts his horse.

You turn your horse and ride off, as the guards prepare to follow you, you address them.

"No need to trouble yourself, Ser. I don't need any guards today."

"But my princess, you cannot ride out alone, it is still too dangerous."

"Don't worry, Ser. I have the honorable Lord Stark by my side." you grin at him and Cregan has to concentrate on not turning as red as a foolish boy.

The guards stay behind, and you ride side by side through King's Landing. When you don't steer your horse towards Rhaenys's Hill, Cregan stops briefly.

"We're not riding to the Dragonpit?"

You shake your head slightly, your dark hair blowing around you. You quickly swapped your Targaryen braids for northern hairstyles. A fact that filled Cregan's heart with warmth.

"Vermithor is too large for the Dragonpit. He lives in the Kingswood."

Cregan has to suppress a sigh. Of course, your dragon is too big for the Dragonpit, what else. With a cramping stomach and sweaty hands, Cregan rides on again. Quickly, you leave the city behind and ride into the forest.

The Lord of Winterfell takes a deep breath and relaxes a little. Now that the loud city is behind you, Cregan realizes once again how much he misses the peace in Winterfell. Not even a week more and he would be on his way home. And you will already be his wife.

"Why are you smiling?" you tiltel your head slightly and look over at him, your horse trotting along the path relaxed, seeming to know exactly where it needs to take you. Cregan didn't even notice that a smile had crept onto his lips.

"I was just thinking that you will very soon be my wife," he replies honestly. Your smile widens, the sparkle in your eyes intensifies, and Cregan thinks you become more beautiful with every passing second.

"I am looking forward to being your wife." you say. Although a slight blush creeps into your cheeks, you hold his gaze. Cregan would most like to lean over and kiss you, if only for the briefest moment. But he would never dishonor a princess. He just has to wait three more days and then he can kiss you as long and as often as you allow him. Cregan can be patient. "But first, you will meet Vermithor." you speed up your horse, excitement radiates from you, but Cregan's fear is stronger. Nevertheless, he speeds up his horse to catch up with you.

He has to swallow before he can speak again. "I thought dragons bonded with riders who resembled them," the young lord recalls from the few lessons he received about dragons long ago.

You slightly furrow your eyebrows. Did Cregan say something stupid? Or did he upset you? But when you respond, there isn't a trace of anger in your voice.

"Why do you think Vermithor is not like me?"

To his own surprise, Cregan has to laugh. "I heard they call Vermithor the bronze fury. And my Lady, please don't be angry with me, but you don't seem like a person who harbors much fury." if Cregan is honest, you are one of the gentlest people he has ever met. In this viper-infested place like King's Landing, you seem to him like a beacon of gentleness and grace.

Now it's you who is laughing, the sound makes Cregan's skin tingle pleasantly. "You have never seen my wrath because I have never been angry with you, my Lord. You should be glad about that."

Cregan's lips curl into a grin. "Should I?" he asks challengingly. He can hardly imagine you ever being truly angry. It doesn't seem to suit you at all. But he knows himself that he shouldn't underestimate your Targaryen temperament.

"I have five younger brothers, My Lord. Don't think that a charming smile and a little teaser could unsettle me. And believe me when I say I can stand my ground very well." you laugh and in the next moment you gallop your horse. Cregan hears you laugh and follows you. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you find his smile charming.

Its not long before you slower your horse again. You ride slowly into a clearing, looking up into the sky, Cregan follows your gaze. But he only sees blue sky and clouds.

You stop your horse, whistle loudly between your fingers. Then you turn to Cregan and beam at him. He can't help but smile with you. Excitement and anticipation are in your eyes.

"Don't worry. You will like him." your voice is full of love, as if you were talking about your oldest friend. You are indeed talking about your oldest friend. Cregan is captivated by your beauty, losing himself in your radiant eyes. Warmth spreads within him and his heart begins to beat faster. He can hardly wait to take you as his wife. Suddenly, the sun is obscured, a dark shadow falls over you and him. The horses begin to fidget nervously back and forth, and when Cregan looks up again, his heart sinks into his stomach.

He has read stories about the Targaryen dragons, he has watched Vermithor and Silverwing from his window in the Red Keep. Cregan even saw Vermax up close when Jacaerys landed in the courtyard of Winterfell back then.

Nothing could have prepared him for that. The gigantic body of Vermithor completely blocks the sun, the light catches in his bronze scales. His wingspan is gigantic.

As closer the dragon gets, the more uncomfortable Cregan feels. Vermithor lands just a few steps away from you, the entire ground trembles. Cregan's horse rears, the stallion can probably sense Cregan's unease.

Vermithor turns his head towards him, opens his mouth, and reveals a row of teeth, almost as long as sword blades and probably a hundred times sharper. In an instant, he could swallow Cregan along with his horse. It would only take a second, and his flames could turn Cregan into a pile of ash.

He has to swallow, his hands clenching around the reins. Why couldn't it have been a smaller dragon like Vermax being one? Or a hatchling like Morning? No, your soul bonded dragon had to be a damn war dragon.

Cregan has to take a deep breath to calm his heart a little. It beats so loudly that he is already afraid you will hear it. The air smells of smoke, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His body reacts automatically to the danger. His hand wants to reach for the sword on his belt, neverless he manages to prevent the almost reflex.

You don't seem to have noticed his fear at all, have already jumped off your horse and are now approaching your dragon. Valyrian words roll off your tongue with ease, your voice sounds calm. Cregan doesn't understand a word of what you say to Vermithor, but the foreign sound of High Valyrian in your gentle voice sounds like the most beautiful song he has ever heard. Cregan watches closely as you raise your hand and stroke your fingers over the dragon's nose. He snaps his mouth shut, blowing hot air into your face. You giggle, turning to Cregan.

"You can come closer." Again, that sparkle in your eyes. The sun catches in your dark hair, Cregan has to take a deep breath, drinks in your beauty, and feels the fear slowly release its grip on his heart.

In the next moment, Vermithor lifts his head, raises it above you, and pushes his large body closer to you, this time smoke coming from his nostrils. You stretch out and place your hand under the dragon's chin, stroking him as if he were a cat. Fear burns in Cregan's stomach like a metalball, cold sweatbeads forms on his forehead. Nevertheless, he dismounts from the horse. When his feet touch the ground, his stance is not as firm as he would like it to be. Everything in him screams to turn around and run away.

Cregan had thought the scariest thing he would ever have to do was stand on the edge of the wall and look 700 feet down. Getting close to your oversized lizard today is so much worse.

His stomach tightens, and he has to hide the trembling of his hands by gripping the hilt of his sword. You reach out your hand to him.

"Come on. You really don't need to be afraid. Vermithor is really sweet."

Cregan takes a few steps towards both of you, Vermithors eyes flash, and "sweet" is the last thing Cregan would think of to describe this dragon. He has to force himself to keep going. But when Vermithor lets out a dark growl, Cregan flinches and stops. You turn a little to Vermithor and speak a few Valyrian words to him. Cregan understands his own name and Winterfell. A moment after you finish, Vermithor shakes slightly and then lowers his body down to his knees, while his wings fold tightly against his body and he lowers his head so that his eyes are at Cregan's height. Cregan stares in shock from you to your dragon. Did he really listen to you?

"I understand that you are scared..."

"I am not scared" Cregan interrupts you quickly, too quickly. A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth as you catch him lying. But you extend your hand again. Cregan takes a deep breath and forces himself to take the last steps. Gods, he has stood on battlefields, won wars, even had to fight for his place in Winterfell. He would describe himself as brave, but taking those steps onto your dragon costs him all his courage.

The air around Vermithor's body is warm and smells of sulfur. The Lord of Winterfell is by no means squeamish, yet he has to pull himself together not to wrinkle his nose. He is afraid of angering the dragon.

He reaches for your hand, your fingertips closing around the black leather of his glove. The touch of your fingers grounds him a little and he manages to take a deep breath and calm his heart a little bit.

You don't pull at him, giving him time until he stands directly in front of your dragon on his own. Vermithor doesn't move, only his eyes blink. Cregan has the feeling that the dragon is inspecting him closely, its eyes far too intelligent for a lizard. It sends a shiver down Cregan's spine.

"Do you want to pet him?" you ask, your gaze vigilant on Cregan and Vermithor as your fingertips glide over the scales beneath the dragon eye.

Cregan wants to shake his head and say no, but instead he carefully takes off the glove. He notices that his palm is sweaty, but he can't wipe it on his shirt, you would notice that. Slowly, Cregan raises his hand he cannot supress the slight trembling. He looks at you once more, you nod quickly. Cregan places his hand on the dragon's nose, the scales are hot and hard. Vermithor does not move, his breath steady while Cregan held his breath. Carefully, his fingers glide over Vermithor's nose, he endures it exactly four heartbeats, then he withdraws his hand and takes two steps back.

His heartbeat is fast, his breathing is unsteady and he notices the blush rising in his cheeks. He is sure that by now you know that he is panicking with fear. Nevertheless he looks at you.

You meet his gaze with a warm, proud smile "I told you, he is really sweet." you say and press your cheek against Vermithor. The dragon blows air out of its nostrils again, then gently nudges you and makes a humming sound, almost like a melody. Cregan is surprised that a hundred-year-old dragon is as gentle as a kitten.

Cregan grumbles in agreement, his fear still lingers in his stomach. "Can we go back now?" he looks at the horses, a few steps away. He did touch the dragon, but that doesn't mean he feels comfortable now.

You start to giggle. "Still scared?" you ask in a teasering voice. He looks at you, a smile dances around the corners of your lips. Vermithor nudges you lightly in the side, then straightens up a bit and takes a step towards Cregan. The ground trembles, the trees around sway, leaves fall to the ground.

Cregan has to swallow, needs all his courage not to run away. Vermithor slowly moves his head towards him, hiding you behind his body. Cregan's heart begins to beat faster, once again he has cold sweat on his forehead.

"Stay completely calm." he hears you say, not a hint of worry in your voice. Cregan isn't even surprised by how much trust you place in your dragon. Vermithor's head slowly comes closer, he sniffs the air around Cregan and then gently nudges him with his snout. The touch isn't even strong enough to make Cregan take a step back. He would never have expected such caution from the giant. The bronze Fury seems more like a kitten right now.

The dragon exhales, the air is so hot that Cregan's eyes begin to burn. Suddenly, Vermithor rises to his full height, his head hovering a few feets above the ground before he lets out a loud roar.

Cregan flinches in shock, the deep tone makes his bones vibrate, his muscles tense up, ready to run as fast as he can. Still, he remains where he is, looking at you.

You smile at him, pride in your gaze. Suddenly you run past Vermithor and throw yourself in Cregan´s arms. The Lord of Winterfell wraps his arms around you, catching you und pressing you close to him. Your warm laughter reaches his ears, and for a moment, he can forget the dragons three steps away. Still laughing, you take a step back from Cregan but reaching for his hand again. Your smile rivals the sun. You have to tilt your head slightly back to look at Cregan.

"Good, he likes you." you speak with conviction. "Now we can get married."

Cregan has to blink in surprise. "Wait this was up for discussion?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Of course, My Lord Stark. Never could I marry a man that my Vermithor has not approved of."

Cregan looks past you back to your dragon. He feels as if his eyes are watching every of his movements. He has to swallow. So Vermithor likes him? Cregan can´t tell why you are so sure about this.

You squeeze his hand to regain his attention. Cregan looks at you. You stand on your tiptoes and give him a gentle kiss on the lips. It's just a brief moment, but it makes Cregan's stomach do somersaults and his heart pound loudly in his chest. Cregan wants to pull you into his arms immediately and claim your mouth as his. He has to hold back, contenting himself with pulling you closer and kissing your forehead. You snuggle into his arms.

"And what do you say? Do you feel like taking a little flight?" he can hear your laughter in your voice. You making fun of him, he knows that. If Cregan had a slightly bigger ego, he would force himself to climb onto that dragon's back just to avoid having to admit to his fiancée that he is too scared. It's a good thing Cregan's ego isn't that big after all. Not even an army of giants and the others could get him onto this dragon.

"Absolutely not." Cregan replies, also laughing and pulls you towards the horses. Vermithor lets out a growl and then spreads his wings. In the next moment, his body rises into the air and he takes off flying briefly over Cregan's and your head.

The Lord of Winterfell has to pull himself together not to flinch. He would never love this dragon as you do, but at least Vermithor didn't eat him at the first opportunity. That's a good sign Cregan thinks.

[headkiss]

anna oh anna. i see you’re taking spencer request and was wondering if you’d be willing to write something with a childhood friend visiting spencer and the team just embarrassing him cause they can tell they have feelings for each other?

love you anna💗💗

omg erin ik this request is old but i hope u love it anyway 🫶🫶 | 0.9k words of bestfriend!reid fluff!!!

Despite nearly a lifetime of friendship, today is the first time you’re visiting Spencer in Quantico.

You grew up as neighbors, and your friendship wasn’t a slow, gradual thing. Instead, one day, as a kid, you’d knocked on his door and declared him your best friend. He didn’t fight you on it, and that was it.

Whenever he goes back to Vegas to visit his mom, Spencer never fails to visit you, too. Sometimes he stays over and you fall asleep watching movies on your couch, sometimes he can’t stay any longer than a quick meal.

You talk on the phone at least once a week, and you text Spencer every day, though he rarely manages to reply with more than a smiley face because of his thing with technology. You know he reads them all, though.

All of that and still, you’d never been to Quantico until now.

Spencer always told you it wasn’t worth it, that there wasn’t all that much to see and he’d probably get called away on a case, anyway. Selfishly, you would have liked to stay in his apartment even if he was away. To snoop at all of the books he has lying around and be surrounded by him.

After much badgering over the phone, he’d finally invited you to come for a visit and you jumped at the opportunity.

Spencer’s excited to see you. He always is. But something about you coming to Quantico had always made him nervous, like if you got too close to his job, you’d be in danger. Or, less logically, like he’d have to share you with his team, in a sense, and he really liked having you to himself.

Of course, they know about you — he’s got a framed picture of the two of you as teenagers on his desk — but they’ve never met you. Spencer loves his team, and they’ve heard him speak to you on the phone and have asked him about you countless times, but so much of himself is involved in the job, and you’re almost like an escape for him.

Somewhere safe, somewhere separate.

He traces a fingertip across the top of the frame on his desk when the elevator beeps, and the sound of your footsteps reach his ears. He knows it’s you from those alone.

Spencer stands just as you reach the bullpen, and as soon as you spot him you let out a tiny squeal and rush over. He welcomes you into his arms easier than he does anyone else, your arms tight around his neck, his supporting the small of your back.

“Hi, Spence,” you say, cheek against his shoulder, smile in your voice.

“Hi,” he returns, his mouth a breath away from your hair.

Garcia and JJ are standing by the entryway of the bullpen, watching you and Spencer with these knowing looks on their faces. Emily walks up a moment later, just as you pull away from the hug and ruffle Spencer’s hair.

“Is that…?” she asks.

“Yup,” JJ says.

“And they’re just friends?” Emily adds.

“According to them.”

“Sweet, clueless creatures,” comes from Penelope.

Unaware, or maybe just uncaring, of your audience, you fiddle with Spencer’s tie, then his vest, “Look at you. So professional.”

“I actually dress like this most of the time.”

“And look at your badge!” You flick it where it’s clipped to his pocket. “Can I have one?”

“You’re wearing a visitor’s badge.”

“So not as cool.” You scan your eyes across his desk, pausing at the picture of the two of you. You hadn’t known that was there, and your heart squeezes a bit at the thought of him keeping it where he can see it. “Did you just put that picture there for my visit?”

“Of course not,” he scratches the back of his neck lightly. “It’s always been there. They like to tease me about it.”

“Spence,” you start, eyes flicking over his face. You want to say something stupid and cheesy about how sweet he is, about how warm that makes you feel. Instead, you say “You’ve even got your glasses on. Very smart, Dr. Reid.”

Back by the entrance, Rossi and Morgan join the others. “Reid’s friend from home?” Dave checks.

“Uh-huh,” Garcia nods.

“And they’re still just friends?” Derek points between the two of you.

JJ, Emily, and Garcia all nod.

“Kids,” Rossi sighs.

You push Spencer’s glasses back up his nose gently. “Or should I say, the resident boygenius.”

“How did you-”

“Oh, I met Penelope in the elevator. She’s lovely.” You turn around and wave at her.

She waves back, beaming.

It’s then that Spencer realizes the entire team has been watching your exchange all along. He closes his eyes and huffs before taking you over to them and introducing you, even though he’s aware they know who you are.

Derek turns his charm on a little extra when he says hello to you, and Spencer’s hands twitch at his sides, his brows scrunched.

When JJ and Garcia distract you with a story that’s sure to be an embarrassing one, Morgan nudges Spencer’s shoulder with his, “She’s pretty great.”

“She’s the best person I know.”

Derek doesn’t even pretend to be wounded at that. He only grins like he knows something.

Hotch watches through the window of his office, that barely-there upward tug of his mouth on his face. He hasn’t seen Spencer smile the way he does with you in a long time.

[themultifanshipper]

Can you do a size kink with George Russell, please?

It’s not your fault your genetics didn’t bless you with height. And it’s not your fault the universe decided to give you a fucking giant for a boyfriend. 

Warnings: smut, I didn’t know whether you meant size kink as in big dick kink or just body size kink so I did both!, online trolling but nothing too bad, very quick mention of breeding kink, belly bulge, also I couldn't resist making some fake tweets

When the internet finally figured out (it wasn’t hard, you were short even in heels) that you were over a foot shorter than your boyfriend, the memes started. And they never stopped. 

You weren’t upset, or angry at them. You knew they meant no harm, and you had a sense of humour about it. You even liked some of them on twitter, which always sent the fans into a frenzy, and in a way it gave them permission to make more. 

You’d been scrolling through the latest batch when George walked in. 

He was searching through his bag for something and had his back to you. 

You observed him silently. Noting how the muscles shifted in his back, and how his arms flexed when he dragged things out of the bag. 

You liked that your boyfriend was bigger than you. It had its advantages, you felt safe when you cuddled because he could wrap around you so fully, and he could pick you up easily, and manhandle you as if you weighed nothing... 

You snapped out of it and carried on scrolling down your twitter hashtag. Your name trended every single time you went to the track. 

You scoffed loudly when your eyes landed on a certain gif. 

The one with the train and the tunnel, you know the one. 

George wondered what had caught your attention and came to lie next to you on the hotel bed to see your screen. 

You looked at the replies to that tweet, and the first one made you laugh. 

You cackled and George snatched the phone to type out a response, scowling the whole time. 

He gave it back and stared at you, waiting for your reaction. 

You laughed even harder and he raised his eyebrows at you. 

“Think this is funny, do you?” 

You nodded, wiping away the tears in your eyes. 

“The PR team is going to give you so much shit for that” you giggled. 

“I don’t care, I can’t have rumours like that start circulating about me”  

Your hand landed on his thigh as you looked up at him through your lashes. “I didn’t know your ego was so fragile. You sure there isn’t any truth to it?” 

He leaned in, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. “You of all people should know how well I know how to please you” he muttered. 

“I don’t know... I might need some more convincing” you purred, turning your head to capture his lips in a sensual kiss. 

He groaned into it, crawling over your body to trap you under him. 

You whimpered, just at the feel of his all-encompassing presence over you. 

“Then, allow me to demonstrate” 

He trailed downwards immediately, taking your sleep shorts off on the way and spreading your legs. 

He kissed up your inner thigh, getting dangerously close to where you wanted him. 

The first teasing lick made you let out a shuddering gasp, which made him smirk. 

“I guess I'm lucky that you’re so easy to please” he teased and you rolled your eyes. 

“It wasn’t your oral skills that were in question, darling” you remarked. 

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he tried to control himself. 

“Fine, if you’re going to be a brat...” he grabbed your hips and swiftly turned you over, extremely easily. “Then you deserve to limp tomorrow” 

You whimpered into the pillows and he gave your ass a harsh spank. 

“Hips up, legs spread. I’ll get the lube” 

Because the truth was, George had absolutely nothing to compensate for. He had a massive dick, and he indeed knew how to use it. 

Lube wasn’t always necessary, because he generally prepped you perfectly well enough to take him without issues.  

But sometimes you liked it a bit rougher, you wanted to feel it. 

So instead of prepping you, he would use as much lube as he needed to make it fit. 

He poured a load on your ass and watched it drip down your folds, reveling in the hiss you let out at the coldness. 

He slicked himself up, way more than necessary, and spread you open while he watched his tip slide over your entrance. 

“Colour?” 

“Green” you gasped, the anticipation was killing you. 

He pushed the tip in and waited for the satisfied exhale he knew would come from you. He knew you inside and out by now. 

And like clockwork, you breathed out a gasp, and begged him to continue. 

He obliged, pushing another couple of inches in. 

You were so fucking tight, yet so fucking slick around him, he could feel his composure slipping. 

“Still good?” he asked, voice tight with arousal. 

“Please” you begged. 

He let out a breath, and pushed another few inches in. 

Only half way in, he met your cervix, and you whined at the stretch when he pushed in even more. 

“Doing so good for me, baby” he praised, stroking your trembling thighs. Any minute now they were going to give out. 

With the height advantage, George could lean over your arched back, and plant his hands either side of your head and grind his hips in circles, slowly but surely getting more of him inside you. 

His movements made him rub against your insides insistently, your cervix, your g-spot, everything was being stimulated. It was always intense like this. 

“George!” you whined loudly “So full, oh my god-” 

“Almost there, darling. Just a couple more inches. You want to be good for me don’t you?” 

You nodded, whimpering as he continued his maddening slow grind. 

When he finally bottomed out he let out a pained groan and his hips stopped completely. 

“There we go... good girl taking all of me”  

He pulled out half way and dribbled some more lube on his cock, making sure the slide was as wet as possible. 

He stroked your thighs tenderly, pushing you down so you were laying flat on the bed with your legs together, taking the pressure off your hips. 

He propped himself up with his elbows either side of your head and gave an experimental snap of his hips. 

Your responding moan encouraged him to do it again, picking up the pace as his skin slapped against your ass repeatedly. 

This was both of yours’ favourite position. 

The angle meant that he was bullying your g-spot repeatedly without bruising your cervix too much, and you could feel his looming presence completely draped over you, like some kind of predator pinning you down to breed you. 

It drove you wild to know that you couldn’t really move, forced to take his girth as you lay there helplessly. 

“If only they could see you now” George rasped “whining and begging for the cock that should be too big for you...”  

It didn’t take long for him to drive you over the edge, but that didn’t stop him. 

He turned you over and held you up by your hips, hovering inches above the sheets as he slid into you again. 

It really was as if you weighed nothing to George, his large hands splayed over your hips, fingers digging into your flesh while he used his grip on you to shove you onto his cock repeatedly. 

“Look baby, look at how big my cock is inside you” he panted and you looked down to see the bulge prodruding from your lower stomach.  

Your moans echoed in the hotel room, and you’d be worried about the neighboring rooms if you weren’t getting your insides rearranged at that particular moment. 

In this position you could feel him so much deeper, and he forced you through another orgasm before letting go himself and coming deep inside you as you writhed in his hold. 

You panted, hair sticking to your face as you looked up at him dazedly, and he laughed. 

“What’s so funny?” you asked. 

“Just thinking of the memes that are going to come out after people see you limping tomorrow”  

You huffed out a laugh and leaned up to kiss him. 

“Actually I don’t feel too bad. I think my cervix got away with it this time” 

George chuckled. He leaned down, pressing you into the mattress. 

“It’s cute that you think I’m even remotely done with you”... 

The next day ...

[ameliasmiscmonsters]

“Your Majesty, is it really… um, necessary for…”

“For what?” You raised an eyebrow as your Dragon Boyfriend loomed from behind you.

His neck was craned around the throne you sat on, head hovering just off the stone slab floor.

The man who’d come to see you, trembled as he spoke his next words. “I… appreciate all the good that he’s done as guard of the Kingdom, but… does he have to be within your presence all the time?”

A puff of smoke escaped the dragons nostrils. “Due to the recent attack on the Harbor,” you replied. “He does. This is as much for your safety as it is mine. He’ll get pouty otherwise.” You smirked as you looked around at the beast beside you.

���’Pouty’?” Your Dragon whipped around to face you, narrowing his eyes at your words. “I do not get ‘pouty’.”

To avoid this becoming a playful back and forth, you turned away from him and gestured for the man to continue, “he’s of no danger to you so long as you’re not trying to do me harm.”

The man swallowed hard. He went on with his request, while the dragon by your side held the man in contemptive gaze.

“My family isn’t sure that we’ll be able to make the next tax payment this month. My wife is due to have another baby in the coming weeks so we really can’t afford to pay the amount of tax demanded… a lot of other families can’t either.” The mans eyes darted to the Dragon.

The Dragon beside you sharply exhaled and turned his head away in disinterest.

“So… would you consider lowering the tax? Even if it was just by a few coins, we would be really appreciative.” The man looked back at you, his hat squeezed tightly together in his hands.

Even from your place on the throne, you could see his knuckles turn white from the strength of his grip.

You gave a side glance to your Dragon, who was now looking back at you.

You knew how much he loved gold, precious things that Humans and Dragons alike valued beyond compare. He loved watching the taxes being hauled in by the knights into the vaults, proud like he was the one who had brought them in himself.

It would be a wound to his ego if you let the tax price drop, especially after everything he did to defend the docks of the attack. In the eyes of the Dragon, he more than deserved that money.

Of course, there were concerns outside of your Dragon partner too.

The docks were still in the process of being rebuilt, and they weren’t even half way done yet. The crown needed every last coin it could get their hands on. With no docks, there’s no accepting merchants who will come in from abroad and trade, no way that returning sailors can come home and see their families.

So, it looked like lowering the tax was a no go… But, that didn’t mean to say that you couldn’t do something different to help the families struggling.

“I sympathise with your plight,” you began. “I know it’s been hard on everyone since the attack on the docks, and given that you’re expecting, here’s what I’ll do:”

The man stood up straighter, twisting his hat in his hands.

“I can’t lower the tax price, but I can do what I can to ensure that you have what you need for the birth of your child, and will do what I can to help any other families who are having trouble making ends meet, while paying the tax.” You stood from the throne and beckoned over a knight. “I’ll arrange for there to be a few free care packages to be sent out. This Knight here will take you to my secretary, you just tell her what you need and what other things your fellows need and then distribute them out evenly, alright?”

The man’s jaw dropped. “W-What? Free? You really mean it, your Majesty?”

“Well, it’s only fair. It’s not like your family planned this for the same time of the attack, is it?” You joked, smiling at the man.

A grin spread across his face and he rushed up to you. “Thank you so much, your Majesty, really thank you so much!”

And before the Knight could get between you and the man, he’d enveloped you in a hug.

“Hey!”

The ground trembled, and a shudder went through your chest.

The Knight finally got between you and the man and pushed him away. “Back away, now.”

As the man backed away from you, his eyes were focused behind you, the old fear back in his eyes.

You looked over your shoulder and found your Dragon, towering over everyone in the throne room, glowering down at the man.

“You don’t get to touch what is above you,” he snarled.

“Hey!” You rounded on the Dragon.

He looked down at you, and sunk at your warning look. He grumbled something inaudible as he settled back down and turned his head to look out of the stained glass window.

You turned your attention back to the Knight, “I’m awfully sorry about that, please don’t feel-”

But the mans face was as white as a sheet, his eyes had glazed over. It was clear there wasn’t a single word he was going to hear from you. Not after that scare.

You let out a sad sigh and gestured to the Knight who still stood beside you, “please escort the gentleman to my doctor and get him some water. When he’s feeling better, please offer him some coin for the fright and take him to my secretary for the care packages.”

The Knight nodded and grabbed the shellshocked man by the upper arm. “Come, now.”

Without much resistance, the man allowed himself to be dragged out of the throne room. Once the doors were closed, you rounded on the dragon.

“You can’t just do that to my subjects.” You scathed. “He was just grateful for the help I was giving him.”

“Peasants should know their place.” The Dragon huffed. “He should have known better than to try and touch you.”

Rolling your eyes, you jabbed a finger at him. “That’s besides the point. You can’t just threaten people like that.”

The pair of you glared at each other.

Your Dragon then sighed. “One of my main jobs here, is to protect you. It’s only natural that I do what others couldn’t.” His amber eyes darted to the remaining knights in the throne room.

There was a clink of their armour as your Dragon suggested. “Maybe you should replace them all.”

“It’s not a matter of them being able to do their jobs,” you returned, “it’s of you controlling yourself. If word gets out that you are intimidating people, it makes the crown and by default you look bad.”

“Then maybe your subjects should remember their place.” He leaned down closer to you, “or perhaps it should be you who does.”

Realising that he was just trying to get under your skin, you replied, “you’re being completely unreasonable. Until you’ve calmed down, you can’t be with me here.”

The Dragon balked. “You can’t be serious! One of the main reasons you keep me here, is to add another layer of protection and now you’re sending me away?”

“Yes!” You pointed to the windows behind your throne. “Go, now!”

At your command, several Knights stepped forward and unlocked the large windows from behind you and pulled them open, providing an easy exit for the Dragon to leave through.

You and the Dragon glared at each other again, before he scoffed and turned. Scaled tail swishing angrily, he spread his wings and took off into the sky.

You watched as he circled the surrounding city, before flying over the Palace and out of sight.

Sucking in a deep breath, you rubbed your forehead and took your place on the throne once again. “Who’s here to see me next?”

And the rest of the morning went on like nothing had happened. It was hard to push an argument like that to the back of your mind when you had to see citizens of your nation, but you did the best you could.

Ever since the attack on the docks, security had been tense, you were aware of that. But there was no need to frighten citizens who were in desperate need of help. You weren’t just about to become a ruler who ignores the need of her people just because of one silly attack.

To the outside world, everyone had to know that you were unfazed by it, which is why you opened your Palace to talk to the people.

By the evening, you were just about ready to collapse. The people all had the same kind of problems, money was difficult, people couldn’t afford basic house hold amenities and the tax.

It looked like you were going to have to offer free nationwide aide to the people at this point. There wasn’t anything else you could think of doing. On the upside, it would be good publicity for the crown and the peoples approval rating would go up.

As you laid in your bed, you stared up at the canopy above your bed. The silky fabric hanging above your head rustled in the wind of the window open behind you.

It was put in after your Dragon had vowed to protect the Palace vaults, and after you two started seeing each other. It was big enough for his whole body to fit through, and your room was easily twice the size it needed to be, so he had no trouble sleeping in the same room as you.

The room felt strangely empty without him in there with you. Normally, he’d have curled up around your bed in the centre of the room, forming a scaled barrier between you and the rest of the world. Protecting you from unseen threats.

Another gust of wind sent a shiver down your spine. Pulling the sheets over your shoulders, you wondered where your Dragon Boyfriend had got to.

He can’t really be that angry with you, could he?

Dragons are proud creatures, there’s no doubt about that. But… had you really offend him so much?

Normally, when he was in a mood, he would have come back to the Palace by lunch and talked through with you what was going on. But there was no sign of him.

You’d sent the guards to go and check where else he could be, and apart from that, there was nothing else you could do.

Before the thoughts could consume you, the sound of claws scraping against stone greeted your ears, and your bedroom shook.

You pushed yourself up from your bed, turning to face the window.

The Dragon had come back. Lowering his head to fit inside your room, he greeted you stiffly. “Hello.”

You sat up straight as he folded his wings and settled behind your bed. Thanks to his massive body, it made it difficult for him to formally address you. So, he bowed his head.

“I wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier today.” He said, eyes trained on your carpeted floor. “As you are Queen, it was wrong of me to question your judgement. But, I must say this:” His head rose to meet your gaze.

“You are the only treasure I truly care about. The vaults and everything else that is valuable in this Palace, mean absolutely nothing to me. That man could have been hiding anything, a knife, some kind of airborne poison. All he would have needed to do, was get close to enough to you and then that would be it.” The Dragon pushed his head through your canopy curtains as you placed a hand on his snout. “I should have explained this earlier, and for that, I am sorry.”

Truth be told, you weren’t even thinking of something like that. Looking back, that was a completely legitimate worry.“… All I was worried about was my people.” You voiced your thoughts to him, “it hadn’t crossed my mind that enemies would even try and do something like that to me.”

The Dragon let out a snort. “You are too forgiving of the other humans in this world. They are always scheming, looking for ways to further their own agendas. Which is why you must be more careful.” He leaned away from your touch. “Promise me you won’t allow something like that to happen again? For your own safety?”

“I promise. I’m sorry I didn’t consider that earlier.” You admitted. “Thank you, for looking out for my safety.”

He let another puff of air escape his nostrils. “Someone has to, it’s not like those guards were doing anything to protect you.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, pulling the covers back over your body. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow…” Pursing your lips, you laid in bed. “… Please don’t be gone for that long again. You really worried me for a minute.”

“I didn’t mean to go for so long. I just wanted to make sure I had a clear head.” The Dragon replied as his tail curled around the end of your bed. “I could not willingly leave your side even if you commanded me to go and never come back. I’d find a way to hide in the vaults or watch over the Palace from afar.”

You chuckled at that, drifting off into a soundless sleep, happy that your Dragon was safe.

Hi! Thank you so much for reading my story! If you like this kind of content, you should check out my Patreon! There, I post stories twice a week and earlier than I post on Tumblr. I also post exclusive stories there too where you won’t be able to find anywhere else.

If you’re not sure about signing up, I have a 7 day free trial enabled on my lowest tier so you can see if you like my work written there!

[the-oc-king]

Gonna be honest, you had me nodding along until "because of Tiktok, Trump won". Like, are we gonna ignore Elon Musk here? And the fact that Trump almost certainly interfered with the election??

At a certain point it seems like you devolved from an actual thoughtful analysis on history to tired old "kids are all stupid idiots and Tiktok is inherently bad" type rhetoric. I'm mostly confused about how you took the time to explain how we Americans were intentionally led into reduced literacy levels by this point, but then don't offer any sort of compassion or empathy to that point?? It's just, oh Americans are all stupid and illiterate, especially the kids, which definitely has nothing to do with long COVID. It's all our fault this happened.

Our youth have been purposefully and systematically failed, and I won't ever fall into the trap of making generalizations about them because of this.

The bottom line is, we haven’t all just been falling for the propaganda that’s been forcibly shoved down our throats our whole lives! Trump never would have won this election without what was likely illegal interference, and the evil cowards who ensured he could be sworn in despite being impeached twice and being a convicted felon.

I can promise you all as a young American myself, we didn’t want this. Most of us didn’t want this. The bigoted, illiterate white folk is simply the loudest and most dangerous group here, and unfortunately they also control our government, so they get the most attention. But please, keep the rest of us in your hearts. I know we could have done more, tried harder to prevent this, and I’m so sorry. But a great deal of us aren’t just “fucking STUPID” or whatever; we’re horribly tired, and scared, and many of us are disabled and struggling just to stay alive.

Not to mention, those of us who want to stay informed and literate are constantly fighting against waves of propaganda and rhetoric, telling us that everything is fine, it’s okay to not think critically about things, go ahead and use AI (especially so our shareholders can get their money back). It’s not an easy feat.

Things around the world are going to be much much worse for a minimum of four years now that Trump is in office again, and those of us who care will do our best to stop what’s happening. But please, all I ask is that you remember that Americans aren’t a monolith any more than people in any other country are, and that a great deal of us are the victims of a cruel system. Under the current state of things the average citizen has basically no power; to the rich elite we’re nothing more than fodder that can be used and crushed and thrown away at their whims, and they’ve made sure that the current system allows them this power without challenge.

Things are rarely as simple as the easiest answer makes them appear to be. Those of us who haven’t fallen into complacency will keep trying to fight for a better world, but most of us are terrified and exhausted and don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.

To my Asian, European, African, and Canadian friends...do y'all wanna know how the United States found itself under a fascist, Hitler-loving dictator named Donald Trump?

In another post, I started my timeline in 1980. The year I was born. But, it was also a turning point in US politics.

First, let me share my credentials.

- Bachelors of Arts - History

- Juris Doctor - Public Interest Law (Critical Race Theory)

- Masters of Philosophy (research degree) - Sociology (Race, Ethnicity, Conflict)

Just recently, we buried President Jimmy Carter, who was the president, when I was born. Jimmy was from Georgia, like my grandmother, and he came from a Southern Baptist background. Southern Baptists are known for being very conservative Christians who did not support abortion.

Jimmy, despite that background, actually supported LGBTQ rights by lifting a federal ban. He supported Roe v. Wade which protected access to abortion. And, he established the federal Department of Education.

However, Jimmy had an antagonistic relationship with Congress, and that alienated several Democrats, including Ted Kennedy, who was the brother of John F. Kennedy, a president who was assassinated.

The Kennedy family has an established name brand due to JFK and Robert F Kennedy (another brother and JFK's attorney general who was also assassinated). Ted was the younger, drunken brother who caused the accidental death of a college friend.

In 1980, Ted challenged Jimmy for the presidency even though they were both Democrats. Jimmy has the incumbent shouldn't have faced a challenge from his own party, but he had just been that bad.

So, this internal strife weakened the Democratic Party entering the 1980 election. In that same year, Jimmy boycotted the 1980 Olympics in Russia due to Russia's invasion of Afghanistan. Furthermore, there was a recession.

The Republican Party nominee was a former Hollywood actor turned politician named Ronald Reagan. Ronald was the governor of California and was trailing Jimmy in the polls until a presidential debate in which Ronald used his acting skills to make Jimmy seem incompetent.

Ronald believed in "trickle down economics." He believed that if the wealthiest people were taxed less, then they would spend more, thus boosting the economy and allowing prosperity to "trickle down" to the working & Middle class.

He also believed in increased military spending as this was the height of the Cold War with Russia. My own parents voted for Reagan because my dad was in the military.

Instead of trickling down, the wealthy just grew wealthier. Republicans continued to lower taxes for these individuals and businesses, so the money never trickled down. Social services were underfunded & unemployment increased. Reagan's response was to blame Black "welfare mothers" for abusing the system.

Republicans latch onto this. They implement work requirements for government assistance and make it harder for folks to pull out of poverty. As a result, a wealth gap separated white folk from the rest. White folk felt their hard earned money was supporting lazy white & Black folk, so they continued to constrict welfare programs.

[Section added] During Reagan's term, an unknown illness is killing young, gay Black & Latino men. It's AIDs. Reagan deemed it a gay disease that only affects gay people, so no funding is allocated to study this disease. It's viewed as retribution for their homosexua lifestyle. However, overtime, they learn about HIV once non-gay men were infected. Children die from the disease because blood is not tested for it, so some are born from it through their mothers while others were given transfusions.

Under Reagan, the Fairness Doctrine ends. Under this doctrine, news agencies had to report both sides of an issue. Because of this, television stations can now present one side. Fox News opens as a conservative network.

Ronald is well-loved by white folk. He gets elected to two terms. By the end of his term, the economy has recovered, and white folk are prospering. Then, his VP, George H.W. Bush, is elected.

Under George I, the Cold War ends, but we have the Gulf War in Kuwait. He signs trade agreements that result in several American companies, namely the auto industry, to shutter their doors and build factories overseas. This is due to a change in tariffs!

Millions of Americans lose their jobs as factories close. Detroit, as the leading auto manufacturer city, is devastated. Back in the 90s, Detroit was the 4th largest US city after Chicago. These factory closures hit the Midwest, especially hard.

This makes Bush unpopular. He is challenged by a young, charismatic Democrat named Bill Clinton.

Bill was a southerner like Jimmy, but Bill was a very well-known ladies' man. Bill appeals to Black Americans, though, and that allows him to defeat George.

Bill continues expanding trade agreements. He's a fiscal conservative despite being a Democrat, and under Bill, military spending is reduced.

[Section added] The rise of AIDs leads to further hate directed at the LGBTQ. During the 90s, several queer people are murdered. One such kid was Matthew Shepard. A college kid in Wyoming, he is beaten by a gang of white men. His family was terrorized so much, that they couldn't bury him because of fears his grave would be desecrated.

[A white woman Bishop in DC invites Shepard's parents to bury him in their graveyard. That Bishop is Marian Edgar Budde, the same Bishop who gave Trump his inaugural sermon this past week. She pleaded for Trump to have mercy on the queer community because she was the Bishop who buried Shepard!]

Bill is a popular president. The economy is booming, but he's still a lady's man, and he gets in trouble with a college intern.

This scandal adversely impacts the last few years in office so much so that his VP, Al Gore, loses the presidency to George W. Bush.

George Bush won the Electoral College while Al Gore won the popular vote. There was such a tiny margin that there were numerous recounts because of faulty ballots (hanging chads). Eventually, the Supreme Court intervenes and tells them to stop the count and certify George as president.

George II is the son of George I.

George II is a popular Texan with swagger. He wants to build up the military once again.

Clinton left a surplus of money, so what did George II do? He implemented tax cuts for the wealthy. That damned "trickle down economics" again. The wealthy get wealthier, increasing the wealth gap between white folks and everybody else.

They cut taxes while cutting social services. One of his biggest "achievements" was a restructuring of our educational system called "No Child Left Behind."

NCLB emphasizes test scores. School administrations are penalized if they don't meet these standards. They lost funding, so electives such as home economics, art, Music, etc are trimmed to make room for these test standards. By this time, my dad has retired from the military and is a school principal, and I remember the stress of trying to meet these standards.

These standards emphasize STEM at the expense of liberal arts. This is happening just as the internet becomes available to all.

Amazon opens as an online used book store. Facebook is started as a college message board. There's a tech boom, so everyone is being pushed into tech fields. Liberal arts education was devalued.

During his term, 9-11 happens. We declare war on Afghanistan. Islamophobia spikes. Fox News helps drive this narrative. Christianity is now being pushed into schools, whereas schools were previously secular.

[Section added] In 2004, the assault rifle ban was lifted. Now we are seeing a dramatic spike in school shootings. The Far Right embraces the expansion of the 2nd Amendment.

Then, we go to war in Iraq.

We aren't quite sure why we're at war with Iraq. We overthrow Suddam Hussein (from the Gulf War). George declares victory, then terminates the Iraqi Army.

This triggers an insurrection. Massive casualties are coming out of Iraq. The war in Afghanistan is overshadowed.

George serves two terms, but his VP is so unpopular that he doesn't run for president. Instead, the Republican nominee is John McCain.

Two Democrats fight for the nomination. Hillary Clinton, the wife of Bill, and Barack Obama.

Barack was a young, biracial Senator from Illinois. I attended law school in Illinois, and one of my classmates had been his legislative aide. I met Barack twice while a student. The first time, he had come to campus to propose a college-savings account. After his press conference, I latched onto his arm and refused to let go until he heard me, and I explained that his proposal was unrealistic because it assumed that a single mother would have the resources to save for an education when it was more likely her money would go towards groceries & rent or other immediate needs. (Fast forward two-three years, and the dude is repeating my line during the State of the Union! I had changed his mind!)

Barack beats Hillary for the nomination. He defeats McCain and is sworn in as the 1st black (not Black) president.

Obama is popular and well-loved by most Americans. Under his tenure, gay marriage is legalized.

Fox News triples down on their hatred.

Their network booms. They push Islamophobia 24/7. Highlight the fact that Obama's father was Muslim and that his middle name was Hussein.

Older Americans are watching program after program of this negativity. A movement starts called the Tea Party movement, which positions itself as a fiscally conservative movement. A bankrupt slumlord with a reality TV show gains popularity with these folks.

I wrote my master's dissertation on the Tea Party movement. It's called "Jesus and the White Man."

Donald Trump

Donald latches onto the Islamaphobia. He calls Barack by his middle name and questions his birth certificate. Donald grows popular with older Americans.

At the end of Obama's term, the son of VP Biden dies. This devastated Biden. He had lost his infant daughter & first wife in a car accident. He decides not to run for president.

Obama supports Hillary.

It is now Hillary v. Trump.

Trump pushes misogyny and Islamaphobia. Hillary is Bill's wife and a woman. She is the most qualified presidential candidate to ever run (at that time).

During Obama's last year in office, Justice Antonin Scalia* dies. Obama has the privilege to nominate that next Justice, but Mitch McConnell stalls through the election.

But older white Americans were barely okay with a black president. They were not about to let a woman serve as President. At the same time, an organization called Cambridge Analytica began to fine-tune an ultra conservative agenda.

With the help of Russian intelligence, they use Facebook ads to try to persuade voters to support Trump. They succeeded with white folk, but they did not succeed with the Black vote.

Russians used African bot farms in order to try to persuade Black Americans to support Trump. We rejected him at 90%.

Donald wins the Electoral College but not the popular vote.

Donald is a corrupt and ineffectual president. He tried to bribe foreign leaders and shared US intelligence with Russia.

However, as a populist, he latches onto the Christian Right. He nominates 3 Supreme Court Justices who lie during their confirmation hearings. These Justices will ultimately vote to overturn Roe v. Wade.

The Christian Right love this. But then COVID hits and the incompetence of Donald leads to millions of deaths. These Christian folk refuse to get vaccinated or wear masks.

Donald is an unpopular president and ranks as the worst president of all time.

Biden challenges him and wins.

Donald refuses to accept that he lost, so he organized an attempted coup. January 6th.

He's impeached. Twice.

McConnell refuses to take the step to have him permanently barred from office.

Biden takes office when COVID is still rampant. The Christian Right continue to push their agenda, seeking to remove protections for the LGBTQI.

Right wing media generates a lot of money. Podcasters jump on the bandwagon. Red pill content spills into the mainstream.

Kids who were isolated during COVID are now at home watching Joe Rogan & Theo Von. They spend hours upon hours on TikTok.

But unbeknownst to these kids is the history of Russian interference.

Schools emphasize STEM. They don't emphasize liberal arts or social sciences such as history or literature. The literacy rate plummeted to an all-time low. The average white American's reading level is at the 4th grade. They aren't able to engage in critical thinking.

They don't know the history of the Spanish Influenza. They don't know the history of a trade war that triggered the Great Depression. They don't know that our government has imprisoned citizens in internment camps. They don't know Hitler's rise to power.

In fact, Fox News frequently features individuals who deny the Holocaust.

Russia move their troll farms from Facebook to TikTok, where the algorithm serves as an echo chamber. Uneducated, illiterate folks gobble up 30-second videos but can't be arsed to watch anything over 5 minutes so complex issues are stripped down to sound bites.

The algorithm pushed right-wing fascist talking points. They rehabbed Donald while shifting Gen Z to the far right. They do not know how to verify information for themselves, so they gobble up misinformation and disinformation.

If a TikTok creator has millions of followers with thousands of views and likes, these kids assume that that info is factual. They do not vet shit for themselves.

Russia pushed anti-American propaganda that posed as pro-American talking points. Pushed isolationism. Pushed anti-democratic rhetoric. In fact, one of their greatest accomplishments is convincing Gen Z and uneducated, white Millennials into thinking we aren't a democracy.

We are a fucking Democratic Republic. Our constitution begins with: "We the people".

So, because of TikTok, Trump won.

That's why Biden was pushing for it to be banned before the election. The algorithm was being corrupted. But folks couldn't part from their addiction.

Folks who had been anti-Trump just 5 years ago are suddenly Trump supporters. They were brainwashed.

So, how did we get here?

We got here because most Americans are fucking STUPID.

[dem0batz]

Curiosity Killed the Kitten

Sylus x MC // Love and Deepspace

Author's Note: First I was horny about Caleb's return, but catching up on the lore has me in my feelings. No smut, just emotional hurt/comfort with Sylus. All of my LADS fics take place in the same universe and is a connected story which means MC is romantically involved with ALL 5 love interests. This is just me trying to put the pieces together that we get in the game and applying it how I think makes sense in MC's situation.

Summary: After going to Skyhaven for an undercover mission and learning that Caleb is alive and well, as well as discovering some unsettling information about the Farspace Fleet and his role in it, MC returns home to Linkon City. All of the men in her life are concerned about her sudden unexpected vacation, but Sylus most of all does not accept the flimsy excuses of her brief disappearance. Content Warnings: Reverse Harem/Why Choose (MC is with all five love interests in my au), afab!MC, she/her!MC, tracking device without MC's consent, canon-typical Sylus stalking, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff Word Count: ~2600 words | Read on AO3 | Chapter List

Since returning to Linkon City after your extended “vacation” in Skyhaven, you have felt an uneasiness settling in your gut. You should be over the moon that your long-dead brother wasn’t dead after all but everything about Caleb seemed… off.

There were still traces of the boy you remember. He still doted on your every need. Was still over protective in the most annoying ways and still used humor and guilt to soften your irritation. He had never been straight forward with you, always willing to do whatever he needed to protect you even if it meant keeping you in the dark. So the fact that he deflected most of your suspicious questions concerning the practices of the Farspace Fleet was not a surprise, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had lied right to your face about many of the things he did answer, which was new.

He had always seemed a little haunted to you; like there were things he wasn’t saying or couldn’t say and that hadn’t changed, but the depth of it now seems insurmountable. What was it they said about gazing into the abyss? Well now, often times when Caleb looked at you, you felt the abyss gazing back. Like your caring brother was gone and the cold officer he had become was steering the wheel. You couldn’t decipher where Caleb began and the Colonel ended.

While in Skyhaven, you hadn’t received any of messages and had connectivity issues with the wifi. Initially, you had reasonably blamed the shoddy signal on the fact that you were in a city in the sky and that the near-constant storms were to blame, but after uncovering some suspicious information about Caleb’s new life, you were no longer convinced it was a mere accident. Which left you to believe either the Fleet had more of an influence on Skyhaven than anyone suspected, despite what their public policies claimed, or Caleb himself had intentionally isolated you. Both were concerning and likely had some truth to them, but the former was more painful to think about.

Your phone had been buzzing nearly non-stop since coming back to the city, updating with message after message. Messages from Xavier about hot pot and confusion about your sudden approved vacation days that you never mentioned taking; Rafayel feigning danger, saying he needed his bodyguard to come and check on him asap; Zayne concerned that he hadn’t heard a word from you after Mia’s unfortunate death and insisting you check in with him as soon as you are able.

They had been relatively easy to appease for now. You informed them all you had just returned home and would make sure to see them in the coming days— you just needed one day to sort through your thoughts and feelings about the Caleb situation. Besides, what were you supposed to say? I didn’t actually go on vacation because I went on a solo undercover mission for the Association connected to the explosion of my grandmother’s house just to find my long-dead brother/sort of ex-boyfriend is actually alive and well, and is now one of the top ranking leaders of the Farspace Fleet who may be involved in some unethical practices because I had one conversation with a little boy whom they had been searching for and he seemed to have a complete personality change in the two days after his sister’s death?

It wasn’t exactly something that could be explained in a text message.

Needless to say, your men were worried about you, but Sylus most of all. Though his messages where a lot more direct in their efforts to get to the bottom of your disappearance. They started off playful enough in their probing, but the longer you were gone, the more insistent they became.  

Mr. Crow: Mephisto reported that you packed a bag. A big one. Where are we going? 

Mr. Crow: Now he says you boarded a shuttle. Why would you do that when you have a helicopter in the N109 at your disposal?

Mr. Crow: Your return date is a week from now. Did you go on vacation without me, kitten? You never mentioned a work trip.

Mr. Crow: I know you’re a busy big time hunter but it’s unlike you to ignore my messages like this, sweetie.

Mr. Crow: Mephisto lost you. The twins can’t find you either.

Mr. Crow: Where are you?

Mr. Crow: You disappeared on me and I’m worried. This isn’t like you.

Mr. Crow: I’m very unhappy with you right now.

Mr. Crow: You can’t hide forever, kitten…

You knew without a shadow of a doubt that Sylus saw the moment you returned to the city because your mechanical bird companion was tailing you again. You hadn’t intentionally slipped his detail or left Sylus hanging during your leave. It was no secret that the Onichynus leader kept watch of you and it had actually become a welcome security over the months since you began seeing one another.

It should have struck you as odd that Sylus didn’t hunt you down during your two week stay in Skyhaven but the truth was you had been hit with near constant surprises in the floating city that you had no time to think about anything but what was happening in that moment. But now that you were away and had space to think, you were left to wonder why Sylus never came for you. Why you were able to be imprisoned on a military fleet ship against your will and your mighty crime boss didn’t track you down and bust you out.

Your phone buzzes again, shaking you from your thoughts.

Mr. Crow: Look who’s back in town.

Kitten: Will you meet me somewhere?

Mr. Crow: Turn around.

You lower your phone, eyebrows drawn together as you turn against the flow of pedestrian traffic. Your eyes flit through the decorated streets, colorful ribbons and lanterns decorating the way in preparation for the New Year. The crowd parts, making way for a hulking man in a leather jacket walking steadily toward you with danger flashing in his crimson eyes, his mouth set into a hard line. It never ceased to amaze you how Sylus was able to blend in with a crowd when he stood out to you so much. He towered over everyone and had a dangerous aura to him, yet no one batted an eye in his direction.

You gulp nervously, knowing he wouldn’t let you get away without an explanation. One you still weren’t even sure how to say. Anxiousness has your feet moving quickly as you duck into an alleyway to wait for him. You couldn’t do this with an audience. Though it’s still light out, the strings of decorations above has the alley appearing more dark than usual, allowing you to slink into the shadows and away from prying eyes. It doesn’t take Sylus long to catch up, his own shadow eating up whatever light remains as he draws closer until he’s towering above and caging you against the stone wall.

“Sylus—”

“Would you look at that? I caught myself a stray.”

His fingers curl under your chin, not-too-gently angling your face toward his. That simmering anger in his eyes softens at the sight of you, disappearing completely to be replaced with concern. He reads you entirely too well, even if he doesn’t know the cause.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

You let out a vulnerable sigh, lip wedging between your teeth to combat the sting in your eyes as the relief of this secret you’ve been holding onto is lifted off of your shoulders the slightest bit. You didn’t realize just how much you had been carrying since Caleb’s return, but if a single soft look and concerned question from one of your boyfriends was enough to make you feel like crumbling, it must be a lot.

You still hardly believed it yourself that Caleb was alive and well after all this time. Had seen him with your own eyes and yet you still felt the loss of grief from his death and the sting of betrayal at his return. A confusing whorl of emotion builds up inside your chest because along with the relief that he was alive, you felt an overwhelming sense of resentment toward him.

For so long, Caleb was the only one you saw, blinded by the tunnel vision of his affection. Then he went and died before you could navigate the complex secret relationship the two of you shared only to return from the death of a literal explosion to metaphorically blow up your life just when you had started learning how to live without him. Just when you had begun to find comfort and care with Sylus and the other men in your life. They had become your new foundation in the rubble of Caleb’s place and now he was returning from the dead to level it once again. The rebuilding process had been overbearing and painful and lonely and you didn’t know how much more you had in you to start over again.

As much as you loved Caleb, he never played well with others when it came to you. Sylus thought Zayne’s jealousy and reluctance to share your time had been a hurdle but your childhood friend was nothing compared to your brother’s jealous streak. In the handful of times you were shared between Caleb and Zayne in your youth, it was always at Caleb’s command. Nothing happened without his approval. What he said went and neither you nor Zayne ever dared cross that line to try to further explore your attraction to one another. Not until after the explosion, anyway.

A gentle thumb on your jaw brings your attention back to the present, sympathetic ruby eyes grounding you.

“Does it have to do with how much time you spent in Skyhaven recently?”

Surprise and panic flicker across your face at Sylus’s question.

So he did know where you had gone, after all.

“Please, sweetie. After all this time and you’re still surprised that I keep tabs on you?  Mephisto may well be glued to your side. And that’s not even taking the twins into consideration or counting the various tracking devices planted on you and in you.”

“Sylus!”

“What?” he feigns innocence.

“Mephisto following me is one thing but you can’t bug me! I’m an agent of the law. Not to mention, where the hell did you get plant devices that can evade government detection? And more importantly, how did you get one inside of me without me knowing?”

Sylus’s proud grin widens as a thick leather-covered arm wraps around you like a vine. He pulls you into a slow dance in the alley, no musical accompaniment or reason for it other than he wanted to and he missed you.

It soothed some of the warring emotions within you, making your irritation with his stalking tendencies dissipate. Truth be told, you were grateful that he cared so much about your safety. You know Sylus now and know that his only intentions are your safety and success. Though you wouldn’t ask it of him, he would burn the whole world down if you requested him to, for the mere purpose of pleasing you. You couldn’t same the same about Caleb, who only ever kept you in the dark about his intentions.

“You should know by now that nothing is out of my budget or reach, kitten,” he purrs.

His playful demeanor slips a fraction. To anyone else it would have been undetectable but having spent so much intimate time with the Onychinus leader, you have learned to read him nearly as well as he reads you.

“What is it?” you ask, cupping his jaw.

Sylus nuzzles into your palm, a heavy sigh puffing through his nostrils, reminding you of a mighty beast that had been tamed.

“Nothing is out of my reach,” he repeats, “except whenever you disappeared into Skyhaven. Mephisto managed to follow your shuttle all the way to the city gates but the moment he tried to cross the threshold he began to short out. He had no choice but to turn back. Once you crossed over, I also lost signal of every tracking device on your person, including this one,” his finger lightly trace a spot between your shoulder blades. So that’s where it is. “I lost the ability to track you. To keep you safe. That’s never happened before and naturally was a cause for concern.” He hesitates for a moment as if afraid to ask but does anyway. “Where did you go during your ‘vacation’?”

“I don’t know where to start,” you admit as the tightness in your chest starts to constrict to a painful degree. The cardiac event monitor on your watch begins to beep erratically, indicating a dangerous rise in your pulse oxygen levels.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Sylus pulls you close to his chest, resting your head and hand against the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.

He talks you through the attack, his calming voice like a balm to your ringing ears. After several long moments, you feel like you can breathe again and your watch finally goes quiet.

“Yes, I’m with her right now and she seems to be coming out of it,” Sylus’s voice drifts clearly to your ears once more. His voice tightens irritably at whatever the person on the other end says. “I wouldn’t put her in that kind of danger. I called you as soon as her symptoms began, didn’t I?”

He pauses again to listen to whatever was being said, giving you a reassuring smile though he still looks annoyed.

“I can drop her off at your office tomorrow morning. Or if you’re truly concerned and thinks she needs immediate medical attention, you’re welcome to meet me in the N109 Zone in an hour.”

Pause.

“That’s what I thought. I’ll continue to monitor her and if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know. Have a nice day, doctor.”

Sylus hangs up the phone and tucks the device back into his pocket. Hearing his side of the conversation, you have an idea of who he had been talking to.

“Dr. Zayne wants you to report to his office first thing in the morning. He said he won’t clear you to return to work until you do.”

This news comes as no surprise. Since an event was triggered, you would have to answer to Zayne about the cause, yet another conversation you weren’t ready to have. But he deserves to know Caleb is back. You just didn’t know how to tell him most of all. At least Sylus, Xavier, and Raf were a degree removed from the situation. Zayne would be almost as affected by the news as you, considering that Caleb was his best friend and the odd nature of the relationship the three of you previously shared.

“You could start from the beginning, sweetie,” Sylus murmurs against your hair, lips brushing your head in a loving kiss as he reminds you of what caused your heart rate to spike in the first place.

“I can’t,” your voice croaks. “Not now. Not here. It’s… too much.”

“Okay,” he relents. “But I’m taking you home with me regardless. After spending two weeks worrying about your safety and unable to reach you, I need you with me tonight. Then after a good meal and a lavender bath soak, if you feel like telling me what’s going on, I’ll be all ears.”

The sting returns to your eyes and you grip the back of his leather coat like an anchor. You were so grateful for your dragon and the way he kept you safe, even from yourself. That when you were spiraling down a vortex he would always catch you.

“I love you, Sylus,” you whisper, throat tight with emotion.

“I love you too, kitten.”

OpaLADS Taglist: @i-messed-up-big-time

[typewritingyip]

The Arcturus Missions

Part Twenty Three - Worrying the Medic

Part Twenty Two

———

Most mech suits were initially designed to have remote pilots, to not have a human being in the cockpit of the suit, hoping effectively for a drone. Clearly, that was not successful and the first countries to get functioning suits were ones who did not initially plan for that. Several other countries attempted that as their main strategy and in turn were delayed by the lack of progress. 

Those suits went on to help with modern design for perception and maneuverability for the use of pilots. 

Now, because of those designs most pilots have a widened visual perception, easier maneuverability, and enhanced UI. Unfortunately the new connections leave the pilots with the feeling of body dysmorphia. Both from the physical connection to the suit through their implants but also the visual, audial, and mental connection.

Scientists are still currently studying the effects of this on pilots, it is not currently in consideration to reduce the enhancements back to previous renditions for safety reasons, but new options are being considered for the sake of the pilots.

It’s unknown what this would do to pilots that have the ability to retire since the new generation of suits came about. 

—

Cosmic rust was not taken lightly among Cybertronian’s. Whenever it was mentioned around Hound or Breakdown it would remind them of the diseases that would run rampant through military units, but this was a lot worse than the flu. It was spoken about in revenant tones, more akin to cancer. 

Hound’s skin crawled and his implants burned. 

Megatron was the first one up and stepping lightly away, “Alright, we know what the regulation states. Medic smells or sees rust then everyone gets checked. Knockout?” With a deep sigh, Knockout nods, “Of course, so, whose first?” Hound glances up and that was the wrong thing to do, “I see I’ve got a volunteer.” He gestures and starts to walk away.

At first, Hound stayed put before Mirage gave him a look, “He meant you Hound.” Sighing slowly, Hound pushed off the bench and started to follow the medic. Even back on Earth he hated going to the medic let alone a doctor. 

Ducking slightly at the doorway, Hound moved into the medical tent, “You’re going to have to tell me if whatever I do is uncomfortable or dangerous Hound, I can’t read a person's visor, I’ve never been able to.” Nodding slightly, Hound moves and sits on one of the medical slabs, “Neither can I, Doc.” Knockout pauses and cracks a bit of a smile, “No one calls me doc anymore, they haven’t since the end of the war.” Hound tried not to smile, nodding a bit.

”And what do you mean, neither can you? Every single one of your kind, at least that I’ve met, has visors.” Hound chuckles lightly and shifts a bit, “Call it a feeling, we can tell in other ways how someone is feeling.” Nodding a bit, Knockout turns back around with a swab and dish, “Like an EM field, except you don’t have those either.” “Can’t say we do.” Knockout chuckles as he started to swab plating, frowning a bit after trying to get a seam.

Hound tries not to kick his feet, tries to sit still but it felt like he was back in the physical he had to take before the mission.

—

The room was white, not grey or blue but white except for the almost checkered floor. It looked like any normal doctors office but how could you call a doctors office one building over from where giant mech suits were stored normal. 

Hound shifted on the examination table, wearing his working uniform, after all he was just on loan to MECHA from the army, as much as he might like it here. 

Boots were shuffling through the hall and there were plenty of people talking outside, slowly he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. What he wouldn’t give to be back in his suit, it had been almost a month since it went in for the upgrades it would need for the Arcturus mission and pilot 2162 was covering his region. She was a fantastic pilot and doing her job well but he’d be more comfortable handling his region.

Then again, space wasn’t exactly his region and that’s where he’d be in a few months time. Sighing, he opened his eyes when there was a knock, “Come in.” The door opened and an older man came in, clipboard in hand and white coat swaying, “Oh thank god.” Hound sighed a bit and Ratchet looked up, rolling his eyes, “Third time I heard that today. Has Shockwave really gotten so bad you’d rather have my medical advice over his?” “Yes.” Ratchet rolled his eyes again.

Although Ratchet was a bio-engineer by trade, he did get his nursing degree before that, which was better than Shockwave and his medical school to any pilot. 

“Alright, well, your chart looks good and your vitals are typical.” It was hard to define anything about a pilot with the quantifiable normal anymore, “Everything else is consistent, I understand they have taken you off your SSRI and ambien?” Nodding a bit, Hound shifts, “Yes sir.” Ratchet hummed and tapped his pen against the clipboard.

Shifting a bit, Hound clears his throat, “I’m feeling fine and sleeping well, my side effects have been limited.” Ratchet hummed again before pulling up the stool and sitting down, grabbing Hound’s wrist for a pulse reading, “Yet, your resting rate is high.” Hound couldn’t help but chuckle, “Yes sir.” Barely sparing him a scowl, Ratchet grabbed the ear and throat light.

They went through the motions, Hound responding to statements or answering questions and Ratchet kept referring back to the clipboard, scowling deeply before rolling backwards to look at Hound square on, “Why do you want to go to space Hound? Hmm?” Hound chuckled slightly, “What do you mean?” With a glare, Hound held his hands up.

Sighing, Hound shifts and fixes his shirt sleeve, “I want to end this damn war Ratchet, I mean look at me. Look at all the pilots, what we go through, what we put our bodies through. The sooner it's over the sooner we stop getting put through the blender.” Ratchet’s gaze softened, “Hound,” “I’m serious Ratchet, this shit isn’t removable and we’re pilots till we die or move up, most of us don’t want to move up.” Ratchet gave him a look and Hound sighed.

“Don’t you think I of all people know that the technology isn’t removable?” Nodding, Hound runs a hand through his hair, “Ratchet, the list of pilots grows every day and there is a longer list of dead ones than active ones.” They hardly could look at each other, but Ratchet sighs, “I don’t want to see your name on the longer list Hound.” Cracking a smile, Hound shrugs a bit, “Come on Ratchet, don’t you have some faith in me?” “In you, yes. In those lambo twins? Never.” Hound laughed.

The room shifted a bit, turning from bright to nearly dull, ”Now, can you shift your weight to the other side for me?” Shifting on the table, Hound sighs a bit, “Sure Ratchet.” Everything was coming back into focus now, no longer was the same doctor's office on Earth but an oversized medical tent. 

“My name isn’t Ratchet,” “What?” Hound glances up and nearly startles at the sight of Knockout. Glancing around he cut the microphone to swear before turning it back on and clearing his throat, “Sorry, Knockout. Uh, Ratchet was my medic back on Earth. Has been since I became a pilot.” He nodded a bit awkwardly.

Humming, Knockout lifts up his tablet, “I’ll mark him down as your primary care then Even if he’s thirty lightyears from Cybertron.” Hound chuckled weakly and adjusted in his seat, shifting on the slab just enough, Knockout looks up, “Alright, base plating shows nothing, mind if I check the under plating?” It took a moment before Hound tilted his head slightly, “I’m sorry?” Knockout smiled, his smile even when kind was wicked looking.

He turned the tablet towards Hound, “Your under-plating, from Jazz’s schematic.” TO be fair, it almost looked similar to the blueprints for the suits back on Earth, but missing the cockpit entirely, “Do you mind if I take a look?” Shaking his head a bit, Hound shifted on the seat again, “Uh, no. Go ahead.” He cleared his throat as Knockout went around to the other side of him.

It was harder to not move when Knockout was behind him and prodding him, while pulling at his— at his suits plating. 

“Alright, I’m going to be removing pieces to scan them, is that alright?” Hound shifted a bit, “From back there, yes, you won’t be near anything terribly vital.” Knockout hummed and gently started to pull the plating away with precision only a medic or engineer could have. Hound was still sitting perfectly still, leaned back against the piloting seat.

All of that had been disorientating, just another symptom, another side effect that he now had to deal with. Rolling his shoulder a bit, he sighs before getting the alert to the missing piece of plating, “You got it doc?” Knockout hummed again and activated his scanner.

It was quiet for a minute.

“What in the name of Primus is this?” Hound tried to shift to look but Knockout had moved away from the direct cameras and was holding his plating, gawking at it, “What?” Knockout came around and showed him a piece of his plating, which was stamped with ‘Property of the United States Government’, “I have a translator for written language, why does this proclaim the plating property of your government?” Hound stared at it, the stencil familiar and sprayed on most military machinery.

It was hard to explain why it was sprayed on the inside of his plating, “Uh,” Knockout nodded before storming out of the medical tent, shouting, “Lord Megatron!” And Hound stayed put. 

He was still wracking his brain when both mechs came back in, Megatron was holding the piece of plating and had pretty well crushed it, taking a breath Megatron’s hands were shaking, “Why is this piece of plating attached to you?” Hound slowly sighed and nodded a bit, “It was a repair.” His voice was a little quiet, Megatron’s fist hit the wall, “Don’t you dare lie!” Hound jumped, he couldn’t help it. 

They stayed in silence for a moment, Hound stared at the pair before deflating slightly, “It was a repair, but it’s part of being a pilot. The numbers across our chests, the paint, all of it is for identifying the pilot in the armor.” Megatron nodded slowly, “Armor?” “It’s not removable, not after the testing, but because I was a military pilot it is technically owned by the US government. Same as any materials I needed in the army.” Hound was recording the conversation and sending it to Jazz, it wasn’t the best of stories but he was no writer or actor. 

Megatron moved over slowly, “So, these people own the plating you wear, put you through apparently incredibly painful testing, launched you into space without a way home, and expected you to die for data. Is that all correct?” Knockout leaned in, “They also reek of iron oxide, for a reason I have yet to find.” Hound’s implants itched, “That would be some of our lines, I’ll attend to the repair myself but it’s likely I have a small leak to my internal system.” Megatron threw his hands up before throwing the chunk of Hound’s plating across the room.

Wincing slightly, Hound sighed as Megatron turned back towards him, grasping his shoulders, “This was the other reason I wanted you in this unit, you don’t see your life beyond your so-called purpose and that is infuriating.” Sighing, Megatron pulled away before starting outside, “Mirage, get in here now!” For a second, Hound thought he heard a cube crack.

A second later the room went from being a medical tent to a get together just about, now Megatron, Knockout, and Mirage had joined Hound inside the tent. Sighing, Hound stood and rested his hands on his hips slightly, “What is this, an intervention?” Glancing at each other, Hound nodded slightly before starting out of the tent, “Now that the mystery of the rust is solved I’m going to get my internals to start patching the leak and get some sleep.” And he somehow made it out of there without being grabbed.

They barely had to spare a glance at each other, “Mirage, I want you to keep an eye on Hound.” Megatron’s voice was still rough with anger. Nodding, Mirage watched the mech go back over to where he’d been sitting and slump, turning off his visor, likely for fuel consumption while the internal repairs were happening, “Is he hurt?” He glances over at the two cons, frowning.

Both spare each other a look before Megatron shakes his head and Knockout shrugs, “We don’t know.” Mirage sighs slowly, “And how can he smell like rust if it’s not rust?” Knockout nods a bit and leans against the examination slab, “If what he says is true, it could simply be a mild corrosion of wires that have iron infused in them.” He shrugs weakly.

Mirage stared at where Hound was, before starting back out the medical tent and moving to sit next to the mech. His cube shattered on the ground but he really wasn’t hungry anymore.

Everyone was silent and staring, mostly worried about rust but also worried for Hound, you didn’t get visited by multiple people in medical at Knockout’s request unless you were dying. They were all sparing each other's looks, especially once Megatron and Knockout returned.

Knockout gave one glance around and swore, “It’s all clear you idiots, do you honestly think I’d let him back out here if it wasn’t?” Only a few people relaxed.

—

Bluestreak was sitting alone, the whole shuttle was lined with seats but he was sitting by himself. Maybe it was the big gun that he had leaning against his knee or the fact that most mecha wouldn’t normally be awake at this ungodly hour, while he seemed to have endless energy, but regardless Sunstreaker took the seat to his right with ease. 

Glancing up, Bluestreak’s face lit up with a smile, “Hey.” Sunstreaker smiled a bit and sat back, adjusting in his seat, “Hey yourself.” Then he sent a private comm invite, which Bluestreak joined near instantly, “I’m gonna unplug from the suit, so it’s going to look like I’m asleep but I still wanted to talk.” The visual input from inside his suit was offered to Blue, who also accepted that.

His smile was small and Blue shifted to lean back as Sunstreaker seemingly fell asleep, leaning his helm against Bluestreak’s shoulder. 

It took a second for Sunstreaker to get unplugged from his mech, removing the top part of his assistance suit and helmet before setting down near one of his internal microphones, “Can you hear me Blue?” Trying to hold back a smile, Bluestreak nodded slightly, “Yeah, I can hear you Sunny, I can see you too.” Sunstreaker smiled, “I wasn’t sure if that was going to work or not.” He brushed a hand through his curls, sighing. 

Bluestreak sat silently, waiting for Sunstreaker to get comfortable, trying to keep the smile off his face, “You disconnect cause that overuse stuff going on?” Nodding some, Sunstreaker grabs a container of food, “Yeah, Hound’s orders. It’s just to try and alleviate the symptoms.” Blue hummed and rested his hand lightly on Sunstreaker’s suit, just above the knee, “So, are you going to get some rest?” Shaking his head, Sunstreaker chuckled and opened the makeshift container.

”Nah, I’m gonna eat my lunch and talk to you. Ask about my new boss and all.” Bluestreak tried not to wince, nodding a bit, “Right, Ironhide.” He sighs slowly and Sunstreaker smiles a bit, sipping some very vibrant blue broth which was just shy of being sweet, “He that bad?” Blue bit his lip, “Uh, well, it's not really that he’s bad per say.” He sighed slowly.

Sunstreaker shifted his attention to the screen right below the camera, “But?” Bluestreak groans a bit, “I don’t think it was a coincidence that you were paired with Ironhide and Sideswipe was paired with Elita-One. Even before the last war, they were, let's say, involved with military affairs. Then during it they were Optimus’s best commanders.” Sunstreaker sighs slowly, setting down his food, “It’s because we're civilians, right?” Blue gave a barely audible answer.

Barely glancing at the camera, Sunstreaker got up to pace a bit, “Is he a hard-ass?” Bluestreak chuckled, “I’m sorry?” Sunny smiles a bit, “Is he grumpy?” “Very.” Blue continues to chuckle, rubbing his neck a bit. 

Whistling quietly, Sunstreaker shakes his head, “Damn, they were conspiring, huh?” Bluestreak shrugged a bit before clearing his throat, “Yeah, it would seem that way, but I think you got off better than Sideswipe did.” Sunstreaker glances at the screen, “Really?” Bluestreak hums, “Oh yeah, Elita is a little more rough around the edges especially to mechs over femmes. It’s not a thing but it’s about trust.” Nodding a bit, Sunstreaker hums. 

Blue shifts a bit in his seat, adjusting Sunny on his shoulder, “Sideswipe is going to be fine though, it’ll probably be good for him.” Sunny nods for a moment before shaking his head, “No, he doesn’t take to authority well. So, Ironhide the grumpy hard-ass, so, what do I need to know about him?” Blue smiles and closes his eyes, leaning back, “I don’t even know where to start.” Sunstreaker smiles softly, “Maybe from the beginning?” Blue grinned. 

“Ah well, I guess I could start with the old prime guard stories. Now, I wasn’t around for those. I wouldn’t come online for a few hundred stellar cycles at the very least.” Sunstreaker goes back to eating, smiling and nodding, sometimes it was just nice to be able to talk to someone or listen to someone without having to talk. He’d usually get that with Sideswipe but this was different and it made his smile turned from a nearly forced one to soft. 

———

A/N

So, this was not what I had planned to post today then I got busy, so it is what was done.

That does mean, on Monday, I might not be posting Part 24 but something else… we will see.

Also a bit of Lore stuff cause I posted it in a comment of the last chapter, the implants as we all know are foreign objects to the human body which our pilots bodies are at present trying to reject. So the reaction is slightly autoimmune but they are also dealing with a shock to their n system as they encounter new bacteria on all these new planets they are going to. They have some anti-biotics but nothing is perfect.

Also if you saw what was at the bottom of that comment… ☺️

Tags:

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @astridkolch @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscarpheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @pour1tin @thetrexartist

And once again thank you to @keferon for this amazing AU

[loafysainz]

GET CAUGHT | CL 16

charles leclerc!alpha dom!werewolf x lyra!elf!reader

fc: pinterest

warning : DO NOT READ IF YOURE NOT INTO DARK FICS! minor dni, smut, rape, dub-con, non-con, very - very dark fic, kidnapped, underage elf 17/18, dark charles, violence, evil thing, read at your own risk! I'm not that good at tags so if you can think of others pls tell me I'll add it.

chap 2/2

Chap 2 Punishment

Lyra felt every pair of eyes in the village boring into her as Charles dragged her through the werewolf camp. The place was wild—muddy paths crisscrossed between rows of crude wooden houses, and wolves in their half-shifted forms prowled everywhere. The air reeked of wet fur, blood, and fire.

As soon as they entered, the noise hit her like a wave. Whistles, jeers, and murmurs rippled through the crowd as wolves of all sizes and ages gathered around, shoving each other for a better look.

“Is that… an Elf?”

“Damn it, they’re real!”

“I thought they were a myth, finally I can see them again!”

"Its crazy, no one told me elf had this beautiful figure"

Lyra kept her head high, trying not to let the stares or whispers get to her. Inside, though, her stomach churned. She could feel their curiosity, their hatred, their hunger. It was like being a lamb tossed into a den of wolves.

And at the center of it all was Charles.

The Alpha walked with his chest puffed out, his grip on her wrist firm but casual, like she was nothing more than a prize he’d won. The other werewolves practically worshipped him.

“Charles! You’re a legend!”

“Only you could pull this off, man!”

“An actual Elf? This is insane!”

Charles soaked it all in, flashing a smug grin at the crowd. “Back off,” he barked, though there was no real anger in his tone. “She’s mine.”

Lyra’s stomach twisted. Mine. The word echoed in her head, making her skin crawl.

He dragged her past the crowd, ignoring her weak attempts to pull away, and led her to a small, dark prison near his house. The stone walls were damp, and the single window was barred. He shoved her inside and locked the door, pocketing the key like it was no big deal.

“This is where you’ll stay,” Charles said, leaning against the bars. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

*****

For the next few days, it was pure hell.

Charles came by constantly, asking the same question over and over: “Where’s the Elven forest?”

Lyra didn’t answer. She wouldn’t. No matter what.

When she stayed silent, the punishments came. Days without food, the slaps, the punch, chains that burned her wrists, taunts from the guards who called her weak. But Lyra just bit her lip and kept her head down. She wasn’t going to betray her people.

Charles’s frustration grew with every passing day. He didn’t understand how someone so small, so fragile-looking, could hold out for this long. And yet, there was something about her—her quiet defiance, the fire in her eyes—that made it impossible for him to ignore her.

*****

Then, one night, something unexpected happened.

While Charles was out on patrol, one of the older werewolves—a woman barely older than her—slipped into the prison. She had kind eyes and a nervous energy, glancing over her shoulder as if someone might catch her any second.

“I’m here to help you,” the girl whispered, fumbling with the keys. “I don’t care what the others think. This isn’t right.”

Lyra blinked, unsure if she was dreaming. “Why would you help me?”

“Not all of us want this thing,” the girl said simply. “Now, hurry before someone sees us.”

With the door unlocked, Lyra followed the girl through the shadows of the camp, her heart racing with every step. For the first time in days, she felt a flicker of hope. They reached the edge of the forest, where the faint shimmer of the Elven barrier glowed in the distance.

But just as she was about to cross, a growl froze her in her tracks.

Charles stepped out from the shadows, his eyes glowing like molten gold.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Trying to run, little Elf?”

Lyra’s heart sank. She glanced back at the older werewolf, who looked absolutely terrified, then back at Charles. There was no way out.

Charles’s gaze locked onto her, and for a split second, something flickered in his eyes—betrayal? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by cold, unrelenting fury.

“Did you really think I’d let you go that easily?” he said, grabbing her arm once again.

The hope she’d felt shattered into a million pieces as Charles pulled her back toward the camp, his grip even tighter than before.

“You belong to me,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper.

And this time, Lyra wasn’t sure she’d ever escape.

******

Lyra stared at the floor, frustration and fear written all over her face. She shivered, the cold from the floor cutting into her body, scarred skin.

Some might look at the elven girl and feel sorry for her, thinking the beating and being locked away was punishment enough. But Charles? Oh, he didn’t see it that way. To him, that kind of softness was a mistake. Lyra had tried to run—tried to escape him, even with help from one of his people. He make sure the female werewolf who helped her would get what was coming, though not as harshly as this elf. Running was unforgivable, and Charles believed it was only fair to teach her a lesson.

“Relax, little elf,” he said, his voice smooth but unsettling. His hand moved to gently stroke her cheek. “You’re gonna enjoy this.”

"Please don't, I promise I won't run away." Her throat felt dry, she was exhausted.

Lyra was too weak to do anything now as the hand ripped her clothes off, she was completely naked now. Worst of all, she could feel something hard piercing her leg. She just hoped that this werewolf in front of her would finish her off right now. In the meaning of killing her.

Without foreplay, Charles thrust his hips forwards and thrust his big cock into her virgin hole, "NO! HELP!" she cried out

for Lyra, she completely in intense pain now. Without caring about the elf girl's pain, Charles continued to push his penis into the tight hole. The elf girl kept crying and begging him to stop. Never in her life had she thought the man who would take her virginity would be the man from the pack that hunted her.

As Charles continued to thrust his penis more and more in the tight and hot elf girl's hole, he could feel the girl's hole tighten and grip his penis tightly. This sensation made him increase his pleasure and slide it deeper into the girl's body.

Lyra on the other hand continued to sob unwillingly on the creature's neck, she felt it continuously hitting her uterus with a brutal thud.

Charles was now lying fully on top of Lyra, pinning her to the floor. It showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Lyra wanted to beg for it to stop but she couldn't find the words between her cries and knew it would be useless. Besides, amongst the blinding pain there was something new coming on, a sensation she didn't want to admit. She couldn't deny the pleasure that began to leech through the pain.

Lyra had already reached her climax many times, but Charles still continued to thrust into her over and over again. With her orgasm still fresh, pain replacing pleasure, her cunt felt extremely sensitive from the rough pounding it was taking. She tried to squirm once more but by now she was completely exhausted, too dehydrated to cry out until she finally felt a warm liquid gush from her uterus. Lyra looked up to meet the lustful, depraved eyes of the wolf in front of her.

Charles panted heavily, catching his breath before leaning forward. Without hesitation, he sank his teeth into the elf’s neck—he left his mark. His way of saying, You’re mine now. No running, no hiding.

END

[xiaq]

Mom, don’t read this.

Once upon a time, 15-year-old X got her motorcycle license. For three years she was extremely responsible with this privilege, until she went to college.

Unlike her peers, who expressed their desire for rebellion in drinking, drugs, and sexually transmitted diseases, X decided her particular brand of youthful nonconformity would involve motorsports. Namely, street racing.

So, at 18, she set off to seek her fortune with a group of nighttime street-racers that, to be fair, met in a rural area that was unlikely to pose a risk to standard motorists. There were watchmen with walkie talkies (actually, I’m going to show my age, here, they mostly had those horrendous yellow phones that doubled as walky talkies, you remember those? the chirps?) who kept the area clear, and warned of any disturbances.

She went a few times. Raced a few times (won a few times!). It was all, frankly, anti-climactic after a steady diet of progressively more absurd Fast and Furious movies.

Until one night, when someone on watch-duty messed up. Or maybe this was a planned sting of some sort. But the cops arrived; multiple cars. And pretty much everyone ran.

Now, I’d never been in trouble in my life. I had a 4.0 and I was an only child with the definition of helicopter parents (excepting the motorcycle license, and no, I still don’t understand that logic. Can my 15-year-old get a motorcycle? Certainly! Can my 18-year-old headed to college next week have a curfew later than 8pm? Perish the thought! Anyway). In the split second I had to decide, my 18-year-old brain, in its infinite wisdom, said: Motorcycle fast. Police car slow.

So. You know. I…motorcycle fast-ed.

Immediately I was like. SELF!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!! You just made this so much worse if they catch you!! But I was already in top gear going well over 100mph, so that train of thought quickly turned into: I must not get caught.

I don’t know if you’re aware of how much faster a 600CC motorcycle is than the average Crown Victoria, but just know that it’s a lot. Especially when the motorcycle rider is less than 100lbs.

So the half-dozen of us who all booked it the same direction, we know we’ve got at least one car following us, but they’re a fair ways behind. The trick is getting far enough ahead that you can quickly get off the road and hide without them seeing your exit. So we all start peeling off to find our hiding places.

Now, between our meeting location and my college, there was an IKEA. I’d bought the bookcase for my dorm there. And I’d unpacked the bookcase into my car in the IKEA parking lot, so I could throw away the giant cardboard box in the enormous blue dumpsters behind the store, rather than deal with it back on campus.

I head for the IKEA. I pull around back. I immediately turn off the bike and toe-walk my way between one of the dumpsters and the store wall, completely out of view of the street and most of the parking lot.

It’s literal minutes later that the cop car finally goes flying by, and evidently they don’t think, “hey, I should stop and check behind the IKEA dumpsters.” Several more minutes pass. No more cops.

At this point, the adrenaline turns into existential dread and shaking so bad that I have to put my kickstand down because my anxiety-ridden perfectionist body is not meant for this kind of stress, even when self-inflicted. I quietly have a panic attack, swear to never disobey the law again (unless it’s for civil protest), and, finally, when I’ve pulled myself together around an hour later, I slowly make my way home.

I never attended another race. Because I am a baby.

But I’m a baby who outran the cops, so.

A visual aid of 18-year-old X and her bike (named Shadowfax) (Shadowfax lived up to her name, that night. All hail.)

(To be clear, I do not endorse this behavior. I could have hurt or killed myself going those speeds or even put some innocent bystander in danger had other people been out and about that night. This was very, very, stupid.)

My new boss: “Everyone come to the team meeting with a surprising story about something you’ve done in the past. Something no one would expect of you!”

Me: Googling the statute of limitation for felonies in Texas

[dinogoofymutated]

Okay, since requests are open, I wanted to ask for something, especially after seeing that you are comfortable with most male characters.

I present:

Scott Summers x fem!reader who's just a little too rebelious and annoying for his taste but he still can't help but love her? Like, enemies to lovers kind of style?

If you want to do a oneshot or headcanons is up to you, I'm just starving for Scott content.

Don't know, if you wanna do is, especially since he's not everyone's cup of tea, but I thought "hey, give it a try, maybe she wants to try someting different" so here I go

Anyway, love your work, you#re amazing <3

Cyclops/GN!Reader I've had this prompt saved in my drafts for SO LONG. Basically since the moment it came in!! I was so happy you sent this in bc i had been thinking about writing for Scott, but then I couldn't think of a good enough way to carry this out so I waited on it for a good bit until I had it down to a science!! Hope you enjoy!! Man, I started writing this and then realised I had to make a banner for him too 😭 I did this to myself tho Most of the characters I write for are written as combinations from different x-men media, but I'm still figuring out how I want to characterise Scott since he's a new character for me. Just wanted to put this out there in case I change how I write for him in future fics. (also, let me know how you feel about him in this one! Tell me if yall think I should tweak his attitude a bit :) ) Edit from the future: I started this draft so long ago and damn did it turn out long. TWs: Idk at the moment, will add if I think of any! Reader has a specific power that is kinda vague at first. I've written them out at the very bottom BUT if u read u will spoil the surprise of the fic so fair warning

Scott does not like you. At least, not anymore.

You've known each other for a long time, both coming to Xavier's school within weeks of each other. You used to be friends- or at least friendly. But as you both grew and learned more about yourselves and your powers, a gap began to form, and then continued to grow once both of you became members of the x-men.

It's not like he didn't notice your tendency for rebellious behavior before, but on the field? the two of you clashed more than ever. He's doing his best out here, and the last thing he needs as a leader is both you and Logan going out of your way to put yourselves in dangerous situations because you think you know better.

And the moment you get back to the mansion? You clash all over again- and over the dumbest things. You practically avoid him all of the time, refuse to spar with him unless you're forced, will scoot away from him if he has to sit next to you on game nights. It's like the very thought of brushing against him is enough to get under your skin.

The moment the blackbird lands, you should have known what to expect. But you're in such a good mood, with the mission having gone well despite all odds. Sure, you didn't exactly follow Cyclops' foolproof plan, but when did you ever?

Scott is standing at the end of the ramp when the doors open, watching with a rather sour look on his face as you laugh with Jubilee, the others trailing shortly behind. He crosses his arms, and you barely stop short of him, acting like you had never seen him in the first place as you sigh, nodding at the others to go ahead before finally turning to him and crossing your own arms.

"Go ahead. Say your piece." You say. It only stokes the irritation in him, and he scowls.

"You can't go one, single mission and actually listen to what I say, can you?" He snaps. You roll your eyes, knowing that if he had it his way, you'd never have gone on the mission at all. Still, you stand defiantly, unwilling to back down.

"Look, you weren't even there, you can't expect me to-"

"It would be different if I was there, but I wasn't." Scott interrupts you, and the aggravation it lights in you is practically all-consuming. You can't hold back your scowl. "You were the only senior member of the team on that plane, do you understand how detrimental it could have been if you had gotten hurt, or worse?!" Oh, what a load of horseshit. It's alway the boy scout schtick with him- I'm the leader, do what I say, If I was there none of this would have happened- what an asshole! Hell, in the second half you might have actually thought he was concerned for you and the team, but you knew better.

"Don't act like you actually give a damn, Summers." You snap. "Everyone is fine, no one got hurt, I don't see your problem." You're done with this. You're tired, sweaty, exhausted, and the last thing you want to be doing right now is talking with him. You knock shoulders with him as you brush past, but he reaches out and grabs you by the arm. You feel a mix of strong emotions- anger, concern, frustration- and thoughts swim in your head, before snatching your arm away from him like you'd been burned. He pauses for a second as you whip around and look at him, a rage in your eyes. He still looks at you with that stupid, stubborn look on his face.

"I get that you think I'm just some stuck-up asshole, but there's a reason I get angry when you do something reckless." His voice has lost the smallest a bit of fire. You scoff at him immediately, before turning away to storm out.

"Eat shit."

So no. things weren't exactly cool between you two.

It's not like you weren't friends at some point though, back when you were kids. You didn't know what happened to cause this rift, but he only really thought of you as some reckless idiot as of late, and you didn't care to learn anything else about what was going on in his brain.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean you could avoid him forever. Not when the both of you are on a team.

You only realise how much pain you're in when the blackbird's autopilot clicks on. Your suit was scuffed and worn in some areas, starting to burn at the edges of your sleeves as the protective coating started to wear away. You noticed it in the midst of battle, trying to focus on manipulating debri to a colder temperature rather than a hot one, but sometimes you can't afford to be picky in fights. Your suit may have been temperature resistant, but you were temperature invulnerable. Besides, heat did the most damage anyway.

You frown a bit at the sight of your burnt sleeves. Normally, you'd be worried that Hank would be mad at having to make a new suit again, but if anything you were sure he'd be grateful for the challenge of improving it. Scott was really the only one who would scold you for it, always coming back to the same arguments of being too reckless, ect, ect... and speaking of Scott, he was being awfully quiet right now.

The cockpit is empty exempt for the two of you, being the only two assigned to the mission. Scott is sat in the pilot's chair, and you can't really see much of him besides the top of his head. He's silent, and it makes you worried.

When you stand and walk. over to him, his face looks pained. You're sure his eyes are closed under his signature visor, his head leaning back limply in the chair, hair tussled. You furrow your eyebrows. You knew he'd be tired, but he's not usually this burned out.

"Scott? You alright?" You ask. he only hums in response. It's then when you realise what's wrong.

"Migraine?" You ask, and he hums in the affirmative. You wince at the thought. You knew he got migraines often, especially when using his mutation more than usual, and having migraines yourself, you knew he was hurting. You take a look at where the emergency aid box usually is, knowing it had painkillers, but the space is empty, and you sigh to yourself when you remember you used it on a local- Scott agreeing with you for once when you wanted to leave it with them for any more emergencies. You look back at Scott, and think for a moment more.

Scott jumps when you place a cold hand on his forehead, having settled your weight on the back of the chair behind him. It sparks a feeling of surprise.

"What are you doing?" Scott asks, and instead of his usual accusatory tone, he just sounds tired.

"Don't be a baby." You respond, chilling both hands and combing through his hair gently. Scott is confused as all hell. Why were you doing this? You go out of your way to avoid him at any cost, and then... this? What even was this?

But... he'd be lying if it didn't feel nice. Scott begins to relax underneath you as you continue to comb through his scalp, pressing gentle touches to his forehead as you do so. It's... it feels good.

"My mom used to do this when I was little." You say softly, after a long moment of silence. "Whenever I had a migraine, she'd run her hands under cold water for a long time, lay my head in her lap, and run her hands through my hair. The cold usually helped." Scott's shoulder's are sagging now, and he sighs every once in a while. Although he doesn't say anything, you don't need to ask. There's a question beginning to brim, but you answer it before he can even speak- saving him the effort of talking in the midst of his pain.

"...And it just felt nice to feel her play with my hair, I guess. 'figured it might help you, too."

You try not to dwell on whatever thoughts begin to swirl after that.

It's hard to tell when things shift after that. Even harder for Scott to understand why.

Eventually you go from avoiding him at any given chance, stiff and petty with your actions, to casual. Not quite friendly, but almost.

"And... Right hand red!" Jubilee calls from the couch, having entirely too much fun for someone who isn't even playing this game. Everyone who's already lost has dispersed, either playing a different game or having good conversation. The game of twister had started with four? Maybe five of you? But at the moment, it was just down to you and Scott. -The two of you being way too competitive to let the other win. At the moment, both of you were in a bit of a strange position, with Scott managing to crawl over you at some point. Aside from that, the game had been going on for uncomfortably long- long enough for the pizza to get here.

The doorbell rings and it's pretty instantaneous when people start to flock to the kitchen for the feast, Jubilee included. There's a flicker of panic in both of you as she quickly leaves.

"Hey!-"

"Jubilee! Wait!"

"You'll be fine, you big babies!" She calls out, giggling in her pursuit of the cheesy goodness. That just leaves you and Scott on the matt, pressed together in some places and a but uncomfortable, but awkwardly? Still competeting.

"God, that pizza smells good." Scott groans from above you, the smell of food becoming more and more tempting. You think about it, for a half a second maybe, but that competitive little devil on your shoulder gets to you before your stomach can.

"You know what? why don't you go ahead and grab a piece!" You say, causing Scott to cock an eyebrow at you.

"What, and let you win? Not a chance." He huffs. You shrug best you can, it was worth a shot! Neither of you were going to budge any time soon, determined not to let the other win. But the longer you stayed pressed together...

It's not like you hadn't noticed how handsome Scott was. Hell, who wouldn't? Even Logan isn't immune to his good looks, but obviously you weren't going to be... wierd, about it. You're just playing a game, right? But the sight of him above you, slightly flushed, shifting every once in a while while keeping his balance? It was... tempting.

It doesn't take long for other thoughts to begin swimming around, worming their way into your mind. The two of you in various states of undress... gasping, gripping onto one another... marks on his neck, your lips swollen and stained by the lipstick your wearing tonight.

Each and every thought leaves you more flustered than before, slipping on the plastic mat and accidentally knocking into one of Scott's weight bearing arms and sending the two of you colliding into the floor. You hear Scott let out a noise of pain and you're not down there for long before you shove him off of you, face burning as you grumble about his win. You stalk off without much fanfare, leaving Scott a bit befuddled.

"What was that all about?"

But regardless of how aggravated you made eachother sometimes, everyone has their breaking point...

You're surprised when Scott kisses you in the hall some weeks later, less than a second after a heated spat started to take a bit of a turn, but to be honest? You were into it.

His lips are soft, if a little chapped, heated kisses full of force and urgency before they soften just a little. You kiss him back in a similar manner his hands falling to your waist as you grab him by the collar and pull him even closer. You're quick to start moving the two of you backwards fumbling for a closet door you could have sworn was right... there.

As soon as the door swings open, you pull him inside, pushing him against the wall once it closes again and cupping the back of his neck as you pull him into another kiss. An unfamiliar feeling of warmth shoots through you as you do, and you almost giggle as his thoughts start to flood with more and more tempting situations for the two of you to be in.

After each and every dirty thought he has, you start to wonder if he even remembered your touch telepathy after having known you for so long- but hell, even if he didn't, you weren't complaining.

If u made it this far, I wanna give u details about the Reader's powers some more!! Specifically, the powers are temperature manipulation/temperature invulnerability/touch telepathy! They get a bit complicated bc reader can't light shit on fire or make ice out of the air, but they can melt shit and freeze existing water though! As long as reader touches it in some way! Due to this they're invulnerable to heat/cold for obvious reasons. Touch telepathy was added bc i love mutations with unnecessary layers (Emma frost) and... u really think I was gonna let scott get away without banging another telepath? wrONG

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire (the meddling)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the gem

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The gardens of the Red Keep were alive with the soft sounds of birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. The sun shone brightly, its warm light filtering through the trees and casting dappled shadows across the cobblestone paths. You sat beneath a sprawling lemon tree with Princess Rhaenyra, a small table between you laden with a pitcher of chilled wine and two goblets. A faint floral scent hung in the air, mingling with the crisp citrus tang of the nearby blossoms.

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, swirling the wine in her goblet with a lazy hand. Her silver hair, always meticulously arranged for court, was looser now, the soft waves framing her face. She looked at you with a mischievous grin.

“So,” she began, her tone teasing, “how many lords have declared their undying love for you today?”

You laughed softly, setting your own goblet down on the table. “Only three. I must be losing my charm.”

“Only three?” Rhaenyra said, feigning shock. “You’ll have to try harder. I had at least five this morning alone.”

“Were they all trying to outdo each other in their flattery?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. “Or was it a competition to see who could bow the lowest?”

“Both,” Rhaenyra replied with a laugh. “One of them compared my eyes to the stars. I nearly told him he should spend less time stargazing and more time improving his swordsmanship.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? Empty words, grand gestures, and nothing of substance.”

Rhaenyra sighed, leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. “Exactly. It’s as if they think we’re prizes to be won rather than people with minds of our own.”

“Perhaps they’re afraid of our minds,” you suggested, your tone light but with a trace of bitterness beneath it. “After all, a clever woman is far more dangerous than a sharp sword.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “True enough. But it’s exhausting, isn’t it? Having to listen to the same rehearsed speeches over and over again.”

“Exhausting doesn’t even begin to describe it,” you said, reaching for your goblet again. “I’ve started to wonder if any of them see us as more than Targaryens. Do they care about who we are, or just what we represent?”

Rhaenyra’s smile faded slightly, her expression turning thoughtful. “Sometimes I wonder the same. Do they want me, or do they want the Iron Throne? Do they want you, or do they want to tie themselves to our House?”

You nodded, the weight of her words settling over you. “It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? But I suppose that’s the game we’re meant to play. Smile, nod, let them think they’re winning us over.”

“For the sake of the realm,” Rhaenyra said, her tone laced with sarcasm.

“For the sake of the realm,” you echoed, your voice dry.

There was a pause as you both sipped your wine, the comfortable silence broken only by the gentle hum of the gardens. Finally, Rhaenyra spoke again, her voice quieter now.

“Have you ever considered what it would be like… to marry for love?” she asked, glancing at you from beneath her lashes.

You hesitated, your fingers tracing the rim of your goblet. “I have. But it feels like a dream, doesn’t it? Something we’re not allowed to have.”

Rhaenyra sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Sometimes I envy the smallfolk. They don’t have to deal with all this—alliances, politics, endless suitors. They can choose who they want, without worrying about the consequences.”

“Or they have no choice at all,” you pointed out gently. “Their lives are hardly free.”

“True,” Rhaenyra conceded, a faint smile returning to her lips. “But at least they’re spared the poetry.”

You laughed, raising your goblet in a mock toast. “To freedom from bad poetry.”

“To freedom from bad poetry,” Rhaenyra echoed, clinking her goblet against yours.

The two of you shared a laugh, the tension of the conversation easing for the moment. But as you sat together beneath the lemon tree, the weight of your shared reality lingered, unspoken yet undeniable. You both knew that your futures were not entirely your own, that the choices ahead would be dictated by the needs of the realm rather than the desires of your hearts.

Still, in that moment, it was enough to share the burden with someone who understood.

The Tower of the Hand was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Otto Hightower sat at his desk, his hands clasped together tightly, staring down at an untouched goblet of wine. His usually immaculate desk was cluttered—scrolls askew, ink stains smudging the corners of his notes. The precise order he prided himself on was unraveling, much like his thoughts.

He exhaled deeply, pressing his fingertips to his temples. His mind raced, a chaotic storm of questions and self-recriminations. How had it come to this? When had he allowed himself to be so… distracted? It wasn’t supposed to happen—not to him. He was Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, the steady anchor of the realm.

And yet, here he was, a man brought to the brink of madness over a princess he had no right to even think about.

The knock on his door came too soon, shattering the fragile quiet he’d managed to build around himself. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

The door creaked open, and in sauntered Jasper Wylde, his face alight with mischief. He didn’t bother to wait for an invitation, plopping down into the chair opposite Otto’s desk with all the grace of a man entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well, well,” Jasper began, leaning back casually. “I thought I’d find you here, wallowing in your thoughts. And judging by the look on your face, I was right.”

Otto’s glare could have cut stone. “If you’ve come to gloat, Lord Wylde, spare me the theatrics. I’m not in the mood.”

Jasper grinned, unbothered by Otto’s irritation. “Oh, I can see that. The great Otto Hightower, undone by a silver-haired princess. Truly, the gods have a sense of humor.”

Otto groaned, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples. “You are insufferable.”

“I prefer the term ‘perceptive,’” Jasper quipped, gesturing to the wine. “You should drink that. Might loosen you up a bit.”

“I don’t need to be loosened,” Otto snapped. “I need the realm to stop conspiring against me.”

Jasper chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. “The realm isn’t conspiring, Otto. It’s you. You’ve spent so many years focusing on duty and propriety that you’ve forgotten you’re human. And now, one spirited princess comes along, and suddenly you’re questioning everything.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. “I am not questioning everything.”

“Oh, you absolutely are,” Jasper said, his grin widening. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. Like a man seeing sunlight for the first time. It’s almost poetic.”

“This is not amusing,” Otto growled, his voice low. “If Daemon—or worse, Viserys—suspected even a fraction of what you’re insinuating, it would mean disaster.”

Jasper shrugged. “Then don’t let them find out. But you can’t sit here pretending you don’t care. You’ve already sent her a gift. You’re already in deeper than you want to admit.”

“That was a gesture of gratitude,” Otto said firmly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

“Gratitude?” Jasper snorted. “Please. That hairpin was practically a love letter.”

Otto shot him a withering glare. “If you value your position, you’ll keep your mouth shut about this.”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone,” Jasper said, leaning forward with a wicked glint in his eye. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to enjoy watching you squirm.”

Otto groaned again, his head falling into his hands. “Seven hells, why am I even entertaining this conversation?”

“Because deep down, you know I’m right,” Jasper said smugly. “You’re in the middle of a crisis, Otto. And it’s glorious.”

Otto sat up, fixing Jasper with a look of pure exasperation. “I am not in the middle of a crisis.”

“You’re brooding in your tower, snapping at everyone, and questioning your very existence over a woman,” Jasper said, ticking off each point on his fingers. “If that’s not a crisis, I don’t know what is.”

Otto stared at him, his patience hanging by a thread. “What do you suggest I do, then, Lord Wylde? Profess my undying affection and hope for the best?”

Jasper laughed, loud and unrestrained. “Gods, no. You’d terrify her. Just… let it play out. Stop trying to control everything for once in your life.”

Otto scowled, but the words lingered uncomfortably in his mind. “Your advice is bleak,” he muttered again.

“And you’re hopeless,” Jasper countered, standing and clapping Otto on the shoulder. “But that’s what makes this so entertaining. Good luck, my friend. You’re going to need it.”

With that, Jasper left, his laughter echoing down the corridor. Otto sat in silence, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him once more. He stared at the goblet of wine, considering Jasper’s words even as he tried to dismiss them.

The gods, it seemed, had decided to make him the punchline of their grand joke. And he hated that part of him—small and traitorous though it was—didn’t entirely mind.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alive with the quiet murmur of courtiers and the occasional clink of goblets. The day’s business was light, and the nobles of King’s Landing milled about in clusters, exchanging pleasantries and gossip. Otto Hightower stood near one of the tall windows, his posture as rigid as ever, though his mind was anything but.

He had spotted you earlier, a flash of silver hair and a vibrant blue gown catching his attention as you entered the hall. You moved with an effortless grace, your presence commanding attention without even trying. Otto, against his better judgment, saw an opportunity—a rare moment when you weren’t surrounded by Rhaenyra or a gaggle of noble ladies.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way toward you, rehearsing his words in his mind. Casual. Polite. Nothing more than a conversation, he reminded himself.

You stood near one of the side tables, inspecting a goblet of wine with a faintly amused expression. As he approached, you glanced up, your eyes meeting his.

“Lord Hightower,” you greeted, inclining your head. “I didn’t expect to see you among the courtiers today.”

Otto offered a faint smile, bowing his head slightly. “Even the Hand of the King must indulge in lighter company from time to time.”

You arched a brow, a trace of amusement in your expression. “And here I thought you thrived on the weighty matters of state.”

“Perhaps I do,” Otto replied smoothly, “but even the most steadfast ship requires calm waters now and then.”

Your smile widened, and you gestured to the goblet in your hand. “Do you indulge in wine, my lord, or is that too frivolous for the Hand of the King?”

“On occasion,” he admitted, a flicker of warmth in his tone. “Though I find my indulgences lean more toward conversation.”

“Then I’m honored to provide it,” you said lightly, setting the goblet down. “What shall we discuss, Lord Hightower? The state of the realm? Or perhaps the poetry of the Reach?”

“Whatever pleases you, Princess,” Otto said, his voice steady despite the faint flutter in his chest.

Before the conversation could deepen, a young lord approached—Lord Gawen Corbray, his dark hair neatly combed and his tunic embroidered with the sigil of House Corbray. He bowed deeply, a practiced smile on his lips.

“Princess,” Gawen said, his tone warm and confident. “It is an honor to see you gracing the court today.”

You returned his bow with a polite nod. “Lord Corbray. How kind of you to say.”

Gawen’s gaze flicked briefly to Otto, his smile tightening ever so slightly. “Lord Hightower,” he said with a nod, his tone respectful but pointed.

“Lord Corbray,” Otto replied evenly, his expression unreadable.

Gawen turned his attention back to you, his confidence returning. “I was just speaking with my father about the recent tourneys. Have you had the chance to attend any, Princess? There have been some truly spectacular displays of skill.”

“I have not,” you admitted, your tone polite but distant. “Though I’ve heard the tales.”

“Ah, a shame,” Gawen said, his smile widening. “Perhaps the next one, then. I’d be honored to escort you—if you would permit it, of course.”

Before you could respond, Otto spoke, his tone measured. “The princess’s time is often occupied with matters of far greater import than tourneys, Lord Corbray. Though your offer is… thoughtful.”

The subtle weight in Otto’s words was not lost on Gawen, who straightened slightly, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second. “Of course, Lord Hightower. But surely even a princess deserves moments of levity.”

“And yet,” Otto said smoothly, his gaze unwavering, “it is the princess herself who decides how best to spend her time.”

You glanced between the two men, sensing the unspoken hostility. A faint smile tugged at your lips as you addressed Gawen. “Your offer is most gracious, my lord. I shall keep it in mind.”

Gawen’s smile returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I am at your service, Princess.” He hesitated, then added, “Lord Hightower, I’m sure the matters of the realm demand your attention. Perhaps I might have a moment with the princess to discuss… lighter matters?”

Otto’s expression remained composed, but his eyes sharpened. “The princess and I were already engaged in conversation. I trust she will let us know when she wishes to change the subject—or company.”

Gawen’s jaw tightened, though he quickly masked it with a bow. “Of course. My apologies, Princess Y/N, Lord Hightower. I shall take my leave for now.”

As Gawen retreated, Otto allowed himself a small, satisfied exhale. You turned back to him, your expression unreadable.

“That was… bracing,” you said, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“My apologies if I overstepped,” Otto said, his tone measured. “I only wished to ensure you weren’t subjected to unnecessary… distractions.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “Is that what he was? A distraction?”

Otto met your gaze, his composure steady. “I would never presume to speak for you, Princess. But I value a conversation of substance over empty flattery.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile. “As do I, Lord Hightower. As do I.”

The conversation resumed, the earlier tension fading as you discussed lighter topics—the gardens, the history of the Keep, even a brief exchange about your shared admiration for Oldtown’s architecture. But as you spoke, Otto couldn’t shake the lingering warmth in his chest—a quiet, insistent reminder of the treacherous path he was treading.

The royal solar of the Red Keep was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft clink of goblets on the table. King Viserys sat in his high-backed chair, swirling the wine in his cup with an air of exasperation. Across from him, his brother, Daemon Targaryen, lounged in his chair with his usual blend of arrogance and ease.

Viserys studied his younger brother for a long moment, his expression a mixture of weariness and frustration. Daemon, as always, seemed entirely unbothered, his silver hair loose and falling over his shoulders, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

“You know why I’ve asked you here,” Viserys began, his tone heavy with the weight of responsibility.

“Oh, I can imagine,” Daemon drawled, taking a slow sip from his goblet. “The same tiresome subject you’ve been hounding me about for weeks.”

“Because it’s important,” Viserys said sharply, setting his goblet down with a thud. “She’s your daughter, Daemon. Her future is not something you can dismiss with a wave of your hand.”

“And yet, that’s exactly what I intend to do,” Daemon replied, leaning back in his chair. “The so-called lords of the realm have no claim to her.”

Viserys let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. “You can’t keep rejecting every proposal. These are not petty knights or minor houses, Daemon. These are paramount lords—Lannisters, Tyrells, Baratheons. Marrying her to one of them could strengthen the realm.”

“And weaken her,” Daemon countered, his tone calm but firm. “Do you think she’d thrive as the lady of Storm’s End? Or Casterly Rock? Tied to some lord who sees her as little more than a broodmare?”

Viserys frowned, his fingers drumming against the table. “You’re being unreasonable. A match with one of these houses would elevate her, protect her. It’s what’s best for her.”

“What’s best for her,” Daemon said, his voice taking on an edge, “is to remain where she is, with her family. Not shackled to some pompous lord who only wants her for her name and her blood.”

Viserys sat forward, his frustration boiling over. “She’s not a child, Daemon! She’s a woman grown, and the longer you keep her unwed, the more chaos it invites. The court is already teeming with whispers about her suitors, and every rejection you make only fuels the fire.”

Daemon smirked, clearly unfazed. “Let them whisper. What do I care for their idle tongues?”

“You should care,” Viserys said, his tone rising. “The realm needs stability, and her marriage could bring that. Or would you prefer her name to be dragged through the mud, her reputation tarnished because you refused to act?”

Daemon’s smirk faded, his eyes narrowing. “You think I don’t care about her reputation? About her future? I would burn this castle to the ground before I let anyone harm her.”

“Then stop treating her like a pawn in your game against the lords of the realm,” Viserys shot back. “You’re not protecting her, Daemon. You’re isolating her.”

For a moment, the two brothers stared at each other, the tension between them thick and heavy. Finally, Daemon leaned forward, his tone quieter but no less firm.

“Do you know what she said to me the other day?” he asked, his voice almost conversational.

Viserys frowned, caught off guard. “What?”

“She told me she’d rather have no husband at all than be married to one of these fools who parade themselves before her,” Daemon said, his lips curling into a faint, bitter smile. “She sees through them, brother. Every flowery word, every empty promise. And she despises it.”

Viserys’s expression softened slightly, though his frustration remained. “She’s young, Daemon. She doesn’t understand what’s at stake.”

“She understands more than you think,” Daemon said, standing and pacing to the window. He looked out over the city, his hands clasped behind his back. “She has her mother’s spirit. Wild, untamed. You can’t cage that, Viserys. You shouldn’t try.”

Viserys sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. “So what, then? You’d have her remain unwed forever? What kind of future is that for her?”

Daemon turned, his expression hard. “One where she’s free. Free to choose her own path. Free to decide what she wants.”

“And what if what she wants is something you can’t give her?” Viserys asked quietly.

Daemon hesitated, the question striking a nerve. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Viserys stood, stepping closer to his brother. “I know you love her, Daemon. I know you want what’s best for her. But you can’t shield her from the world forever. Sooner or later, she’ll have to face it—and you need to let her.”

Daemon’s gaze dropped to the floor, his hands tightening into fists. After a long moment, he looked up, his dark violet eyes burning with determination. “If she faces the world, she’ll do it on her terms. Not yours. Not mine. Hers.”

Viserys studied him for a moment, his frustration giving way to resignation. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Daemon said with a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

The king sighed, shaking his head as he turned back to the table. “We’ll revisit this conversation soon. Until then, I hope you’ll think on what I’ve said.”

Daemon said nothing, his gaze returning to the city below. As Viserys left the solar, the silence that followed felt heavier than before, filled with unspoken fears and unresolved tension.

Daemon stood alone, staring out over the city as the sunlight faded into the haze of the horizon. Whatever the future held, he knew one thing for certain: he would do whatever it took to protect you, even if it meant defying the realm itself.

The gardens of the Red Keep were quiet in the early morning, the dew still clinging to the petals of roses and the air fresh with the scent of lavender and lemon blossoms. You sat on a stone bench near the edge of the fountain, a book open in your lap, though your eyes were more focused on the rippling water than the words on the page. The tranquility of the moment was a welcome reprieve from the bustling chaos of court life.

The sound of soft footsteps drew your attention, and you glanced up to see Queen Alicent approaching. She was dressed in a gown of emerald green, her auburn hair falling in neat waves over her shoulders. Her expression was warm, but there was a trace of hesitation in her eyes as she drew closer.

“Good morning, Princess,” Alicent greeted with a small smile, her voice soft.

“Your Grace,” you replied, closing your book and standing to curtsy. “You honor me with your presence.”

Alicent waved a hand dismissively, gesturing for you to sit. “Please, no need for formality. I thought I might join you for a while. The gardens are much more inviting than the throne room at this hour.”

You nodded, resuming your seat as Alicent settled beside you on the bench. For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the gentle bubbling of the fountain filling the space between you.

“You’ve been the subject of much conversation lately,” Alicent said after a pause, her tone casual.

You arched a brow, glancing at her. “Have I? That’s hardly unusual for a Targaryen at court.”

“True,” Alicent admitted with a faint laugh. “But even among our family, you’ve drawn considerable attention. The lords seem particularly… enamored.”

You sighed, leaning back slightly. “If by ‘enamored,’ you mean relentless, then yes, I suppose they are.”

Alicent smiled, though there was a flicker of something more serious in her eyes. “And yet, you don’t seem impressed by any of them.”

“Should I be?” you asked lightly. “Most of them seem more interested in my bloodline than in me.”

Alicent tilted her head, studying you for a moment. “You’re perceptive. It’s no wonder my father admires you.”

The mention of Otto caught you off guard, though you quickly masked your surprise. “Lord Hightower has been kind,” you said carefully. “He’s a man of great wisdom.”

“Wisdom, yes,” Alicent said, her gaze drifting to the fountain. “But he’s also a man who carries many burdens. Sometimes I wonder if he ever allows himself to set them down.”

You hesitated, unsure where the conversation was leading. “He does seem… dedicated.”

“He is,” Alicent said, her voice quieter now. “Ever since my mother passed, he’s poured himself into his duties. The realm has always come first for him, even at great cost to himself.”

You turned to her, sensing the shift in her tone. “That must have been difficult—for both of you.”

Alicent nodded, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. “It was. He was all I had after she was gone. And while I know he loved her, I think her death left a void he’s never truly filled.”

The vulnerability in her voice caught you off guard. Alicent was always composed, always measured. To hear her speak so openly felt almost… intimate.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked gently.

Alicent hesitated, her hands clasping in her lap. “Because I see how he looks at you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I see how he’s changed since you came to court. He’s… different.”

You blinked, startled by her candor. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Alicent said quickly, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I just… I suppose I wanted to understand. What do you think of him?”

The question hung in the air, and you took a moment to gather your thoughts. “He’s… complex,” you said finally. “He has a keen mind and a steady presence. But he’s also distant, guarded. It’s hard to know what lies beneath the surface.”

Alicent smiled faintly. “That’s fair. He’s always been that way. But I think, deep down, he feels more than he lets on.”

You glanced at her, studying her expression. “And what do you think of this, Your Grace? This… interest he has?”

Alicent sighed, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I don’t know. It feels strange to even speak of it. He’s my father, and I never imagined… But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life is rarely as simple as we wish it to be.”

You nodded slowly, your thoughts swirling. “It’s a complicated matter, to say the least.”

“More than complicated,” Alicent said with a soft laugh. “But I thought you deserved to know. Whatever comes of it, I only hope… I only hope he finds some measure of happiness.”

The vulnerability in her words struck a chord, and you found yourself seeing Alicent—and her father—in a new light. The weight of duty and expectation pressed heavily on all of you, and in that moment, you realized just how deeply it shaped your lives.

“Thank you for telling me,” you said quietly. “It means more than you know.”

Alicent reached out, briefly touching your hand. “You’re a remarkable person, Princess Y/N. And I think… my father sees that more clearly than anyone.”

With that, she rose gracefully, smoothing her gown as she prepared to leave. “Enjoy the gardens. They’re far more peaceful than what awaits us inside.”

You watched her go, her words lingering in your mind like the faint scent of roses in the air. The morning sun continued to shine, but the warmth it brought felt strangely distant as you turned back to the fountain, lost in thought.

Otto Hightower sat in his chamber. His desk was meticulously organized, as always, though his mind was far from calm. Reports from the Reach lay before him, but he hadn’t truly read them. His thoughts were elsewhere—always elsewhere these days, and he hated himself for it.

A soft knock at the door broke his reverie. He looked up, straightening his posture. “Enter.”

The door creaked open, and Alicent stepped in, her movements graceful yet hesitant and her expression was uncharacteristically nervous. Otto immediately noticed the tension in her posture.

“Alicent,” he greeted, his tone curious. “What brings you here at this hour?”

She closed the door behind her, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I… I need to speak with you, Father. About something important.”

Otto’s brow furrowed as he gestured for her to sit. “Very well. What is it?”

Alicent hesitated, then crossed the room to take the chair opposite him. For a moment, she seemed to be gathering her thoughts, her gaze fixed on her hands. Otto’s frown deepened. Alicent was not usually one to mince words with him.

“What’s troubling you?” he asked, his tone softening slightly.

“I spoke to her,” Alicent blurted out, looking up at him.

Otto blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “To whom?”

“To Princess Y/N,” Alicent clarified, her voice quieter now.

The blood drained from Otto’s face. He leaned back in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests. “What exactly did you say?”

“I… I asked her what she thought of you,” Alicent admitted, her cheeks flushing. “And I told her about you. About how you’ve been since Mother died.”

For a long moment, Otto was silent, his expression a mixture of disbelief and horror. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and controlled. “Alicent. Please tell me you’re jesting.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly, leaning forward. “I thought she should know, Father. I know what I’ve said before, about pursuing her not to be a wise choice. But you’re clearly… invested in her. And she has a right to understand—”

Otto stood abruptly, pacing to the window as he ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “Gods above, Alicent. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I was trying to help!” Alicent protested, rising to her feet. “You’ve been so… different lately. I thought if I spoke to her, if she understood, it might—”

“Might what?” Otto snapped, turning to face her. “Encourage her to pity me? To humor my foolishness? This is not some courtly game, Alicent. This is a matter that could destroy everything I’ve built.”

Alicent flinched at his tone but held her ground. “You care for her. Don’t deny it.”

“That is irrelevant,” Otto said sharply. “She is Daemon’s daughter. A Targaryen princess. Whatever… feelings I may have are entirely inappropriate.”

“Father,” Alicent said, her voice softening. “You deserve happiness. You’ve given so much to the realm, to all of us. If there’s even a chance—”

“There is no chance,” Otto interrupted, his tone cold. “Do you think Daemon would ever allow it? Do you think Viserys would? The very idea is absurd.”

Alicent’s eyes filled with frustration. “Why must you always think of duty above all else? You’re a man, Father. Not a machine. You’re allowed to feel.”

Otto exhaled sharply, his hands gripping the windowsill. “Feeling has no place in politics, Alicent. It’s a luxury I cannot afford.”

“And yet, you feel,” Alicent said quietly, stepping closer. “I see it every time you look at her. You’re not as cold as you want the world to believe, Father.”

Otto turned to her, his expression weary. “What did she say? The princess—how did she respond to your… meddling?”

Alicent hesitated, then sighed. “She didn’t say much. She was surprised, of course. But I think she… understood.”

Otto groaned, rubbing his temples. “Understood? Gods, this is a disaster.”

“It’s not,” Alicent insisted. “She didn’t reject the idea outright. If anything, I think she admires you.”

Otto gave her a sharp look. “Admiration is not the same as affection. And even if it were, it doesn’t matter. The consequences—”

“The consequences are worth the risk,” Alicent said firmly. “For once, think of yourself, Father. Not the realm. Not the court. You.”

Otto stared at her, his chest tight with conflicting emotions. He wanted to lash out, to tell her she had overstepped. But beneath his anger was something else—a flicker of hope he despised himself for feeling.

Finally, he turned away, his voice barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t have interfered.”

“Perhaps not,” Alicent admitted. “But I couldn’t stand by and watch you suffer in silence. You’ve done so much for everyone else, Father. You deserve something for yourself.”

Otto closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling over him. He hated the vulnerability they stirred within him, the dangerous yearning they awakened.

“Leave me,” he said quietly.

“Father—”

“Please,” he said, his tone softer but no less firm.

Alicent hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish.”

She left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Otto remained by the window, staring out at the fading light of the evening. His thoughts were a tempest, and for the first time in years, he felt truly uncertain.

[hungermakesmonsters]

Hiii congrats on 500 I love your fics!!! Could you do sth where the reader and Billy actually meet in the marines ? Like the reader is a marine as well and Billy her lieutenant or even the other way around ? Thank youuu❤️ (submitted by @dorita06)

Aaaaaaah okay, so little known fact about me, I kind of love the soldier/medic trope in fiction, so rather than writing reader as a soldier herself, I went with making her a medic (hope that's ok!!) I had a lot of fun with this one, so I hope you like it! 😅

Stolen Moments

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : M 

Warnings : [This is 18+ only, minors DNI] Smutty behaviour.  

"I take it I don't have to explain how to look after your stitches?" You asked, eyeing the lieutenant as he shrugged his shirt back on and got to his feet.

As he stood, you found yourself tilting your head back to look at him, knowing all too well what came next. (At least, hoping you knew what came next.)

"Dunno, Doc, think I might need you to explain it to me one more time," he said as he reached for you, his fingers softly brushing against your neck.

You leaned into his touch, lifting yourself on your tiptoes as he slowly started to close the distance between you.

"Did you bang your head, Lieutenant Russo? Because this is the fifth time I've given you stitches and had to explain the proper aftercare procedure," you said, your voice getting softer as his lips got closer to yours. "Maybe I should talk to your CO, get you taken off active duty, so I can keep you here and... assess you."

Billy smiled that same smile he had the first time you'd met him, months ago in that very tent. He'd been bleeding then too, but he'd been more concerned with trying to get your name than the fact he'd needed stitches.

Of course, you'd tried to refuse him at first, tried to ignore the way that damned smile sent a bolt of arousal through you, not wanting to do anything to put your career in jeopardy. But the third time your paths had crossed, the first time he'd dared to kiss you, you were a goner.

Now, you'd lost count of how many times he'd ended up in the medical tent, needing to be patched up — sometimes for serious reasons and other times for reasons he claimed were serious just to get your attention — and how many times that had ended with him inside of you, giving you the best damned sex of your life.

Finally, his lips met yours and everything felt right in the world. He stepped forward and you stepped back, a hand behind you, feeling for the solid form of your desk.

He winced as he lifted you onto the desk. A small grunt of pain escaped him but, when you tried to pull back to check if he was alright, his fingers slipped into your hair, holding you in the kiss.

Instinctively, you parted your legs, letting him step between them, pressing his body close to yours. It was a familiar dance and you both knew the steps by heart. Your fingers tugged at his fatigues, while his pulled at yours, neither breaking the kiss or coming up for air for even a second.

You both knew that you were on borrowed time and that, at any moment, someone could rush in needing your assistance or need Billy to return to duty.

It was dangerous and stupid, something that could potentially spell then end of both of your careers, but you couldn't help it. You wanted him, needed him in a way that didn't make sense to you. And, no matter how many times you did this, no matter how many times you patched him up or he slipped into your tent after curfew, you knew that you'd never have enough of him.

And, as your hand slipped into his fatigues tograsp his already hard cock, you knew he felt exactly the same way.

"Lieutenant Russo," you murmured against his lips. "I'm starting to think you're getting injured on purpose just so you can come see me."

Billy grinned against your lips, kissing you again instead of answering your accusation. It was probably better that way — the last thing you wanted was thoughts of him being seriously hurt in your head, especially while you were stroking his cock.

A laugh slipped out as he tugged your pants down your legs and almost managed to pull you off the desk with them. That was your cue to lower his combat pants, pushing them down to his thighs.

He stepped forward, clearing the distance, and you had to bite your lip to hold back a moan when you felt the tip of his cock against you.

"Can't wait 'til we're stateside again," he muttered, reaching between your bodies to tease his cock between your folds. "Be able to take my time with you then."

You felt your lips pull into a ridiculous smile, the same way that they always did whenever he spoke about going home, about still wanting you after all the shit was over an you were both back home.

Still, you couldn't help but tease him.

"Who says I'm gonna waste my time on a jarhead like you when I'm back home?" You asked.

"Allow me to persuade you."

"Go on then, I'm all ears, tell me why I should —"

Before you could finish, Billy pushed forward, notching his cock into you, filling you in one smooth movement. You bit down harder on your lip, your hands grasping his fatigues.

"Fuck," you moaned as a familiar feeling of ecstasy took hold.

"Persuaded yet?"

"Yes — fuck, yes —" you gasped as he started to draw his hips back, setting a steady rhythm.

He kissed you again, swallowing down the moans that tried to escape you while using your lips to muffle his own desperate noises. His hands gripped you, holding you tight, clinging to you like you were the only stable thing in his world, and you loved it. You loved how he made you feel in those moments, kissing you, holding you, fucking you.

But it couldn't last. While you wanted to enjoy it, you both knew that, at any moment, you could be discovered.

He gripped your hip as he upped the tempo, driving you closer and closer to insanity with each rough thrust. You back arched and you writhed on the edge of the desk, completely losing yourself to him and the way he made you feel.

You gasped and panted and whined against his lips, every snap of his hips causing arousal to burn hotter in your belly, every fibre of your being coiling tighter, like a spring desperate to be released.

"Lieutenant — fuck, Billy —" you managed before being pulled back into another kiss.

He grunted against your lips as the last of his self-control seemed to disappear. You loved the moments when he lost control, when he lost his mind over you. His fingers gripped your bare hip tight enough to leave bruises — replacements for the ones that had started to fade since your last tryst.

The desk creaked and the metal legs scraped against the concrete floor, but all you could think was more, more, more. After months of snatched moments like this, you'd found yourself addicted to him, desperate for him in a way you'd never know with any other man.

As he fucked you and stole your breath away, you felt a crescendo building, a wave of pleasure that was going to drowned you.

Your fingers damn near ripped his shirt as you started to come, clinging to him for dear life.

His grip on your hair tightened, keeping his lips sealed over your as you tried to cry out his name. A few more enthusiastic thrusts later and he followed you over the edge and into oblivion, holding you just as tightly as you were holding him.

He pressed his face against your neck, panting for breath, his cock still inside you, still twitching as his orgasm ebbed away.

Moments like this were the ones that made you wonder if he meant it, if he really did want to see you again once you were both back home and the desert was in the rear-view. But you didn't dare ask — you never asked, because you weren't sure how you'd feel if/when it all turned out to be lies.

You weren't naïve enough not to see what this probably was; you were one of the few women on base and it was very clear that Lieutenant Russo had needs. And you? What you needed was something to keep you sane and, somehow, that had become him.

Tenderly you ran your fingers through his hair as you both caught your breath then, reluctantly, he pulled away.

[squirrelno2]

Ok so Davrin! I have Thoughts about Davrin.

Because if you’re aware at all of the stuff I write you’re probably aware that I am a big fan of the kind of character who subsumes their own desires and survival and personhood for the sake of being One Thing, whether that’s a living weapon/made to be a soldier situation or just a “I am Your Best Friend first and foremost situation”. It is, uh. Small wonder I end up liking characters of colour the most, since those are the ones most often written with a Purpose in the story who don’t get to expand beyond that Purpose in the narrative, or if they do have that arc that I crave it’s still underrepresented in fanworks so it becomes my favourite and most frustrating niche where I have to create the content I want to see in the world, which is “person who tries to ignore their own needs gets to realise they’re allowed to love and be loved whether or not they’re useful”. Please be aware that while I don’t specifically discuss Davrin’s Blackness in the next few paragraphs it is a large part of why I’m writing this now because it massively changes the way this story gets read, both because people with unexamined biases will gloss over his story and just accept Davrin as being a tool to the story instead of a person and also because those of us who are aware now must consider how to address such a storyline knowing that Black people most of all are reduced in their stories to things and plot points.

So getting back to Davrin in particular I am both obsessed with and frustrated by how he’s written because! His narrative is such a good example of this trope! He is a monster hunter, and to a lesser extent at the start a protector, and from the moment we meet him he is trying very hard to keep himself shut in that box. He downplays any effect he has on the griffons, is upset at the idea of taking care of Assan because that’s what the others are there for, he’s just the sword arm. As time goes on and we do things like, you know, fight an archdemon without getting our Warden buddy killed, he seems so lost and almost devastated to have not died when he was “supposed to” – and this is a man who doesn’t really seem suicidal at all, he has no real desire to die, he just. Expects to. And what he can do to save others is always more important to him than what he could do to save himself. When my Rook walked in there expecting to be overjoyed with him that they were both still around I have to think the gap in emotion was so jarring to both of them, because like. This man has accepted his own death in the face of the “greater good” for so long that he never once made a contingency plan or even wild hope for “what if I don’t die?” And it’s so cool that he and my Rook got to walk hand in hand through danger and decide they deserve to be happy! It’s so cool that you get to potentially get him through the entire game and into a life with open possibilities and who knows what kind of future for the Wardens! That’s my shit!

And while I can’t say I’ll never choose the Grey Warden option for the griffon choice, to me that is so much a metaphor about letting yourself become a weapon vs finding peace and joy that is in line with you as an individual that if I’m playing the game acting on my conscience, not a Rook who’s further from me, I will always choose Arlathan for them. Because that’s so obviously a metaphor for Davrin’s own growth as a character.

This is where it pisses me off, though – too much of that metaphor is treated literally. Davrin doesn’t verbally acknowledge what the griffons’ changing role means for him, and I’m unsure if an unromanced Davrin ever says anything about planning for the future, having only gotten through the game once thus far. The fucking epilogue where all the companions say a little line about what’s in their future and Davrin just mentions the griffons and not his own fucking life??? Like he had a little line about pursuing romance or whatever but again. That’s a romanced Davrin. If he and my Rook hadn’t vibed “the griffons found a new home in Arlathan” or whatever would have been presented as the sole culmination of Davrin’s character arc. I love coparenting a griffon as much as the next guy but we cannot replace the “sword arm” persona with a “griffon daddy” persona as though him subsuming his needs and wants for the sake of Assan is any better for him than doing it for the Wardens. What the fuck.

Anyway short version of all that is Davrin has my favourite kind of story, and griffons are a metaphor for the way Wardens treat themselves. and the POINT of me writing all that is that you cannot approach his story without acknowledging that the fact that he’s a Black man means people who work/ed on both canon and fan content are ready and willing to treat him as a tool in his own fucking storyline for the sake of an animal, and he deserves so much better because holy hell if you’re gonna write a Black man with this kind of “I exist for a Purpose alone” arc you have got to pay attention to what you’re doing. Please. his story involves Assan but it's not about Assan it's about him.

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Keep

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: While working in the Heelshire manor, you were given one warning: follow the rules. As near-supernatural events rock you to your core, the rules seem to hold you in a vice-like grip. As paranoia takes hold, a chilling discovery marks the start of a deadly game. The rules were meant to keep you safe; but what if following them was the most dangerous thing of all? TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. Non-con, stalking, nudity, foul language, violence, glory-hole, sense deprivation, power imbalance, orgasm denial, degradation, unprotected sex, restraints, rough sex, abuse, creampies, and more. Word Count: 9,623 MDNI- NSFW

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The Heelshire mansion was your own personal hell. The sprawling stone structure seemed to stretch onwards forever, with nooks and crannies at every turn. With multiple floors, countless staircases, and forgotten rooms the manor seemed to be much more of a labyrinth than a household. Doors opened into empty cellars, books activated secret passageways, and every waking moment seemed to present another mystery. The house itself acted as if it were alive, the floorboards creaking under the slightest pressure, windows hissing at the faintest breath of wind. If you had any sense about you, you would have believed the legends that the house was very much, in fact, haunted. Yet the eerie atmosphere that the house produced was the least of your concerns, with something much more sinister afoot. 

Brahms. The porcelain doll that you were tasked with caring for was not only unnerving, but unearthly in every way. When introduced to the ungodly toy you had almost laughed, finding the request to babysit an inanimate object to be not only ridiculous, but a joke. Knowing your situation now weeks later, you wished you could take it back. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for the reality of the situation. Items moving in the middle of the night, screeching across the floor so suddenly it tore you from any slumber you hoped to get. Paintings would topple from their hanging posts, crashing onto the hardwood floors at all hours. The light fixtures would flicker consistently, casting shadows on every surface within the house. The doll would move too, seemingly hopping from room to room in order to utterly terrify you. One night, you awoke to the wretched thing on your bed, the painted eyes staring at you, taunting you. 

That was the worst part, the feeling of always being watched. Walking into just about any room left the hairs on the back of your neck shooting up, a wave of goosebumps permanently etched into your skin. It felt as if the world was consistently closing in, the room folding in on itself and leaving nothing but you and that devilish doll. No matter the hour, no matter what you were doing, you felt as if eyes were burning holes into the back of your head. It left a shiver down your spine in a way that nothing could shake free, the chill of fear in your bones. At first, you thought you were going crazy, the weeks alone in the countryside finally taking their toll after having only the doll as company. But as the nights went on, bringing nothing less than supernatural events, you began to believe the rumors swirling around the brick manor were true. 

You never were a spiritual person, finding urban legends and ghost stories to be nothing short of fiction. Thinking the spirit of a ghost child possessing a doll sounded like something straight out of a horror movie, yet after hearing how the original Brahms was rumored to have killed a girl before perishing in a house fire, the doll seemed all the more terrifying. At night you could have almost swore hearing whispers through the walls, voices beckoning you to explore the darkness below. The thought alone would send fear coursing through your veins. Throughout all the torment, the paranormal events, and the paranoia, your fears were confirmed: the house wasn’t haunted. It was alive. 

Then there were the rules:

1. No guests.

2. Never leave Brahms alone.

3. Save meals in the freezer. 

4. Never cover Brahm’s face. 

5. Read a bedtime story.

6. Play music loud.

7. Clean the traps.

8. Only Malcolm brings in deliveries. 

9. Brahms is never to leave. 

10. Kiss goodnight. 

Those forsaken rules ran every segment of your life, daily routine completely overrun by caring for the doll and manor to the point where you were isolated from all other forms of life. Malcolm was your only saving grace, the weekly deliveries of groceries single handedly keeping your spiral to madness at bay. It felt as if the doll was draining the life from you, any slip within the rules resulting in the house completely turning against you. One fateful morning during your first week watching over Brahms, you had haphazardly thrown a blanket in Brahm’s direction, which ended up covering it completely. Almost immediately, the grandfather clock in the hallway had toppled over, the hundred year old antique smashing to pieces, causing you to jump out of your skin. From that moment onward, the rules were much more sinister than suggestion- they meant your survival. 

The soft sound of violin pulled you from your thoughts, causing your spine to straighten abruptly. Wagner’s “Siegfried Idyll” drifted from the gramophone throughout the Heelshire study, the calming melody dampening your mental spiral. Sitting up against the velvet armchair, you leaned closer to Brahms, who sat attentively in his own miniature chair and desk. Clearing your throat, you reached for one of the worn novels stacked on the wood. “How about another chapter of your book before bedtime?” You mused at the doll, who stared blankly back at you. Not expecting any sort of response, you pushed onwards, grabbing a hardcover copy of Robinson Crusoe, the yellowing pages fluttering under your grasp. 

Scooping Brahms into your arms from the chair, you padded towards the gramophone, lifting the needle from the record. The manor fell into silence, the absence of noise almost suffocating.  Sighing slightly, you glanced around the messy study, making a mental note to clean the bookshelves once Brahms was settled in bed. The smell of paper and pine wafted through the stale air of the room, and you sniffled, rubbing your nose with the back of your sleeve, holding Brahms at your hip. “Okay… let’s go. Time for bed.” You whispered, holding the doll as if it were a child against you. When you first began working at the manor, the thought of actually caring for the doll, much less speaking to it, seemed completely out of the question. As time passed, however, the supernatural elements that plagued your every move seemed to subside when you spoke to the doll, less angry when you played along. It kept you from going insane, anyways. 

Exiting the study, you shuffled through the foyer, yawning tiredly with Brahms and the book in tow. Reaching the bottom of the winding staircase, a shift in the light caught your eye. Turning slightly, you gazed at the bronze nameplate that seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. Of all the paintings in the manor, this had to have been your favorite. The painting was massive, spanning the entirety of the wall and encased in a mahogany frame. Depicted with utmost care was the Heelshire family in front of their house in an almost Victorian fashion. Mr Heelshire stood to the right, pocket watch in hand and towering over his wife. Draped in a luxurious evening gown, Mrs. Heelshire smiled playfully, hands clasped around an infant Brahms at her hip. They were the epitome of class and elegance, a young family that dripped in wealth and prowess. Your fingers traced the bronze nameplate tenderly, brushing a line of dust off the metal. The Heelshire family. 

Your brows furrowed, pity sinking into your heart as you gazed at the young couple in the painting. Little did they know their world would be torn apart eight years later, their own child perishing in the fire that almost claimed the manor. Your grasp on Brahms tightened subconsciously as you stared into Mrs. Heelshire’s painted eyes. You found it hard to pull away from the serene moment, lost in the emotion that seemed to swirl in her eyes. You couldn’t pinpoint what exactly drew you to the painting, something anchoring you in place every time you passed it, almost daring you to come closer. There was a sense of mystery surrounding the painted figures, the moment frozen in time for eternity in a way that left your head reeling with questions. 

A creak in the floorboards above tore through the eerie silence, and you ripped your gaze away from the painting. Brahms’ lifeless eyes seemed to burn into your skull, and you hoisted the doll up to eye level, inspecting the porcelain slightly. “Someone’s impatient…” You mused, shuffling the doll in your grip. Sparing the painting one last glance, you turned and continued your trek up the stairs, leaving the lower floor in silence. Unbeknownst to you, another creak in the floorboards rang throughout the house, the wooden panelling under the painting shaking as a force passed through, no behind it at an almost inhumane speed. And then, silence. 

—

Sighing tiredly, you finished the final button on Brahm’s sleepshirt, leaning back and admiring your handiwork. Tugging the embroidered comforter over the doll’s body, you fell backwards into the wooden rocking chair, pulling open the book once more. Shifting the bookmark from the worn pages, you leaned further against the padded chair, tucking your feet underneath your body. Clearing your throat, you glanced once more at the doll before beginning. “Chapter four: Crusoe considers. And now being to enter into a melancholy relation of a scene of silent life, such, perhaps-” The shudders behind you fluttered suddenly, the nighttime air whipping against the side of the house. You swallowed thickly, unease settling in your stomach. “-as was never heard of in the world before, I shall take it from its beginning-” The wall on the opposite side of the bed thumped loudly, almost toppling one of the shelves nailed to the wood. A startled yelp escaped you, and you whipped your head towards the doll. Nothing.

Gritting your teeth, you struggled to find your place in the book once more. “...I-....I shall take it from its beginning, and continue it in its order.” Voice cracking, you snapped the book shut as the light fixture over your head flickered, casting the room in haunting shadows. “Brahms!” you chided, irritation boiling in your throat. Almost instantly, the light returned to its warm glow as the house seemed to settle under your words. “If you don’t want to read, you could have just said so.” you grumbled, shoving the book off your lap and watching it clatter to the floor haphazardly. Glaring at the doll, you rose from your spot and picked the book back up, placing it on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. Fingers tracing the cool glass of Brahms’ face, you swallowed, nerves creeping up your spine. 

You always hated kissing the doll, bile somehow forming when your lips pressed against the cool surface. Something about the action felt so… lewd, the air in the room instantly feeling heavy whenever it was time to kiss Brahms goodnight. Thousands of imaginary eyes seemed to follow your every move, and the action itself left you feeling dirty and used, always craving a hot shower when the deed was done. Glancing at the doll once more, you shuddered slightly, disgust gnawing at you. Leaning forward, you quickly pecked the porcelain forehead, retreating as if you were burned. Standing, you wiped your hands on your jeans while turning towards the door, trying to erase the feeling from your mind. “Goodnight, Brahms.” you mumbled over your shoulder, flicking off the light and shutting the door behind you, refusing to spare the doll another thought. If he didn’t want a bedtime story, that was his own fault, rules or not. 

Shutting the door, you padded down the hallway to the guest room, trying to shake the apprehension that had wound your stomach into knots. Practically throwing open the door to the room, you immediately headed towards the bathroom, flipping on the hot water in the shower. Leaving the bathroom, you rummaged through the wooden drawers before grabbing some pajamas to change into. Tucking them under your arm, your feet absentmindedly searched for your slippers before heading back into the bathroom. Steam began to coat the mirror, the air heavy with moisture, and you took a sigh of relief at the sensation. Setting your pajamas on the countertop, you quickly discarded your clothing, kicking off your slippers before stepping in the shower. 

The near-scalding water cascaded down your skin, and you relished in the feeling of the water washing away the stressors of the Heelshire mansion. Squeezing your eyes shut, you rested your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, feeling peace for the first time in the day. It felt so good, not having to walk on eggshells in the confines of the shower. You almost felt protected by the hazy steam that clouded your vision and billowed towards the ceiling. The comforting warmth allowed you to pretend that you were safe, not in an abandoned manor with a doll that acted very much alive. Quietly, you scrubbed the grime of the day away, skin red from the heat of the water and the rough scraping, but the warmth felt too good not to indulge in. 

Rinsing the suds from your body, you reluctantly turned off the water, almost groaning as the water sputtered to a halt. Reaching around the shower curtain, you blindly searched for a towel, clawing at the air. Fingers brushing against the soft fabric, you pulled the towel into the shower, wrapping the fabric tightly around your body before pushing the shower curtain aside,  metallic creaking filling the air. Stepping onto the tiled floor, goosebumps prickled your skin as the heat of the shower faded, your bare feet leaving damp prints on the floor. The hairs on the back of your neck stood suddenly, and your spine straightened. Turning slightly, something caught your eye as you approached the mirror to grab your pajamas. 

Steam continued to coat the surface of the mirror, the glass fogged up everywhere but the middle, where it was perfectly clear, your shocked expression staring back at you– as if someone, something wiped away the condensation. Your heart dropped in your chest as the steam began to clear, revealing faint but telltale words on the mirror’s surface, water dripping around the letters.

 BREAK A RULE, PAY THE PRICE. 

Your blood turned to ice, fingers trembling as they clutched the towel around your shivering form. Your mouth gaped, a scream clawing out of your throat as you stumbled backwards, eyes trained on the words. The letters dripped as the steam evaporated, the message seemingly etched into place. This couldn’t be real. This was just a horrible nightmare. 

Fear stabbed into your heart, and you whirled around the small bathroom, looking for any possible explanation. Your gaze jolted to the door, lock still intact and door secure. You were the only one who had been in the bathroom, yet the words on the mirror were all too real to ignore. Break a rule… you squeezed your eyes shut, a sob wracking your chest. The bedtime story and the thump on the wall. The flickering lights, the tapping on the floorboards, it was all part of the fucked up game that Brahms was playing, and you were losing. “I… I���m sorry.” Your lip quivered as you apologized, voice barely above a whisper as you stared at the drying mirror, the disappearing words demanding your submission. 

The sink pipes groaned suddenly, pulling you from your trance. The wall shuddered, pipes screeching under an unknown pressure and causing the mirror to rattle violently. Your eyes widened, and you scrambled backwards, tripping over the bathmat and crumbling onto the tiled floor. “I’m sorry! It… It won’t happen again, I promise.” You babbled, hiccuping as tears rolled down your cheeks in fat globs. The rumbling stopped abruptly, your sniffles being the only noise in the bathroom. Lifting your head up, you shakily stood, knees weak and trembling. “...Hello?” You called out, voice strained and hoarse. No answer. 

The silence was deafening, your breaths coming out in shallow huffs as the adrenaline died down. Gripping the sink, you hoisted yourself up the rest of the way, fingers digging into the bowl. Someone– something was in the house with you. Bile rose in your throat at the thought, and your fingers gripped the bathroom door handle, cautiously peeking the door open, heart in your throat. Pitch black stared back at you, seeming to swallow you up. Blindly stepping forward, you clutched your towel with one hand, feeling around the room with the other. “...Hello?” You pressed again, straining your ears for any movement or sound. Nothing. 

Finding the door to your bedroom, you pushed it open, feet planted against the hardwood of the hallway. Tracing the wall with your hand, you braved onwards, every hair on your skin standing on edge. Your foot almost caught the runner carpet in the hallway, and you struggled to balance yourself. The house was silent, seeming to hold its breath with you as you reached Brahms’ room, any creaks or groans absent. Practically bursting through the door, you flicked on the light, relieved to find Brahms still tucked into bed. Scooping Brahms into your arms, you quickly retreated back to your room, clutching the doll as if it were a lifeline. 

Slamming your door shut, you immediately locked it, silently letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Throwing the covers open, you tucked Brahms into your bed, looking for any semblance of comfort as you turned back to the bathroom. Shedding your towel, you quickly hung it up before reaching for your pajamas, grabbing air. You froze, glancing at the counter. The black stack of clothes that was your pajamas was missing, nothing but countertop space staring back at you. You whipped around, quickly looking for anything else out of place as you darted towards your drawers, fingers fumbling to grab another set of pajamas. 

Quickly sliding the material onto your body, you pressed your palms into your temples, trying to slow your breathing. You didn’t feel safe. Not here. Not anywhere. Creeping back into the bathroom once more, your gaze met the mirror, begging for the words to be gone. When your wish wasn’t granted, you sighed in frustration, tears filling your vision. You turned to flick off the light when a smudge caught your attention. Squinting your eyes, you looked closer at the mirror. There, pressed against the bottom right of the mirror’s surface, was a handprint. 

—

Sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains of the bedroom, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor, illuminating specks of dust and grime. Forcing your bloodshot eyes open, you tried to blink the tiredness away. You hadn’t slept well, if you could even say you slept at all. You were terrified, any semblance of a noise causing you to jolt awake with Brahms clutched like a vice in your grip. You had hoped that bringing the doll with you would have provided a form of comfort or safety, but his cold porcelain form dug into yours throughout the night and gave you nothing but a sore side. Nevertheless, you watched the doll like a hawk, afraid to let him out of your sight and possibly break another rule. 

With a halfhearted sigh, you pulled yourself from the tangle of sheets on your bed, reaching to grab Brahms from his seated position on a pillow. In the dim sunlight, his painted eyes lifelessly stared forward, causing a shiver to waft down your spine. Shaking off the nerves, you picked the doll up before heading to his room to get him dressed for the day. He’s just a doll, he’s just a doll, he’s just a doll. The mantra repeated in your head like a broken record, but there was no solace within the words. If Brahms was just a doll, there were much darker demons at play, and you prayed you wouldn’t insight their wrath. Either way, today was a new day, and the morning routine waited for no one. The doll had needs, after all.

Trying to keep the normalcy of the daily routine, dressing Brahms was first and foremost. Setting the doll on his bed, you rummaged through his lengthy wardrobe in order to find a suitable outfit. Settling on a tweed jacket and slacks, you quickly dressed Brahms, fastening brown loafers onto his glass feet before carrying him into your room and dressing yourself. Slipping on a pair of jeans and cable knit sweater, you moved Brahms and his “dirty” clothes downstairs to the kitchen. Throwing the clothes in the hamper, you sat Brahms at his miniature chair next to the marble island, throwing your hair up in a ponytail. Grabbing a kettle, the pipes groaned as you filled the pot with water, the sound causing you to grimace at the memory of last night. 

Putting the kettle on the stove for tea, you continued to move around the kitchen, wiping counters as the tea boiled. The rules– although simple, were very clear, everything in the manor needed to be kept tidy and organized. You had learned the importance of cleanliness the hard way through the first week of your stay, and avoiding consequences was at the top of your to-do list these days. Wiping at the counters, you found your mind wandering to the handprint on the mirror. The sight alone had left your stomach tied in knots for hours, yet something about it seemed… off. It had to have been yours, right? Maybe you were leaning against the shower earlier in the day when doing your skincare, or bumped into it on your way into the shower. That made logical sense, didn’t it? No matter how many times you ran through scenarios, the unease lingered, tightening around your throat like a vice. 

The screeching of the tea kettle pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly rushed to turn off the stove. Pouring yourself a cup of tea, you leaned against the island, staring warily at the doll, whose gaze never left your own. Drumming your fingers on the teacup, you sipped at the bitter liquid eagerly, trying to unwind the bundle of nerves in your stomach. After a full cup of tea with no relief, you decided it was a lost cause, preferring to take your chances cleaning the manor instead. Hefting the doll out of the chair and into your arms, you padded over to the study, the unorganized clutter immediately reaching your gaze. Setting Brahms back in his study chair, you went to work, dusting shelves, reorganizing bookcases, wiping down the fireplace, cleaning the windows, and then some. 

As you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, consistently looking over your shoulder to stare at the unmoving doll in anticipation that something, anything would happen. Yet, nothing. Wiping your hands clean, you glanced around the study once more, the space much more tidy compared to last night. Nodding triumphantly, you moved around the first floor, dragging Brahms as you went to clean anything that was deemed out of place or unnecessary clutter. Once everything was in working order, you began the trek up the all too familiar flight of stairs in the foyer, taking a quick moment to polish the nameplate of the painting as you went. 

Stepping into your room, you swept the floor, picking up dust and grime as Brahms watched you from your bed, silent as ever. After a quick dusting and window cleaning, your room practically gleamed in the sunlight. Next, the bathroom. You turned towards the room, dread creeping up your throat again. You had refused to go into the bathroom since discovering the cryptic message and handprint, too terrified to confront any more ghosts or experience any more hauntings. Now that morning had come, a sense of bravery had fallen upon you, the daylight bringing a sense of security with it. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and pushed into the room. 

The damp smell of soap immediately hit your nostrils, the air hanging heavy with moisture from the night before. The mirror was still foggy, condensation dripping from the reflective surface, the words barely legible in the dim light. Your brows furrowed, confusion wracking your form– it shouldn’t be this humid in here. The bathroom had time to air out all night. Grabbing a microfiber cloth and Windex, you pushed up on your tiptoes, leaning over the sink to wipe away at the mirror. As you wiped away the mist, something caught your eye. A streak of grime– or dirt?– was stuck to the mirror. Wiping harder, the mark appeared unfazed– as if the streak was inside the mirror. 

Trepidation churned in your gut, and you forced yourself to continue wiping the surface. Maybe the mirror was damaged in a way that you hadn’t noticed before, or it was poorly made. Yet, your stomach twisted every time you ran the cloth over the streak. Huffing in frustration, you threw the cloth into the sink, elbow accidentally slamming against the mirror. Upon the harsher contact, the mirror vibrated, a hollow rumble escaping the surface– just like last night. Rubbing your slightly injured funny-bone, you traced the surface of the mirror again, fingers dusting over the mysterious streak once more. Pushing against the material again, the mirror shifted, not much, but slightly giving in against the tiled wall as if it wasn’t hung properly. 

Worried you broke the mirror, your fingers pressed against the edge of the surface, causing the whole thing to wobble slightly under your touch. Your breath hitched, curiosity racking your brain as you ran your fingers along the edge of the mirror, feeling for any gaps between the wall and the mirror that was causing the noise. Tracing the bottom right corner, thumb touching the smudged handprint, your nail snagged something. Feeling blindly for the snag, it dawned on you that there was something– a latch hidden between the mirror and the wall. Without thinking, you pressed down on the latch, heart pounding in your ears. 

Immediately, a faint click sounded out against the bathroom, the mirror sliding towards you slightly, revealing a slight crack of darkness behind it. Swallowing thickly, you pulled at the mirror, the hinged surface swinging towards you and revealing a perfectly cut rectangle where the mirror sat at the wall. A damp smell invaded your nostrils, any leftover moisture from your late-night shower pouring into your bathroom, causing you to gag at the smell. Gripping the mirror, you looked at the inside of the mirror, finding the smudge of dirt glaring back at you. Horror gripped your chest. It wasn’t just a mirror, it was a one-way mirror. Gazing through the inside, you could clearly make out the tiled wall of the bathroom, clear as day. As you swung the mirror from hand to hand, the traces of lettering caught your attention. 

Written on the inside of the mirror was your cryptic message, and before you knew it you dipped your finger in the letter “B”, a wet material coating your index finger. Bringing your finger to your nose, you could faintly smell oil. Your brain seemed to short circuit at the realization. There wasn’t a ghost boy haunting you, there was a very terrifying, very real person writing you messages in the mirror, knowing that the condensation on your side would reveal their haunting warning. Your lip quivered at the thought. You were staring at a door, a door leading to something. 

Despite any semblance of your conscious screaming at you to stop, you pulled the mirror fully open, the glass tapping the wall to your left. The gaping hole in the wall was filled with dust, and the stale air immediately invaded your senses, feeling heavy and suffocating. The space behind the mirror was small and narrow, but was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Through the lighting of the bathroom, you could barely make out the faint outline of a passageway, the wooden beams acting as the support structure of the house fading into pitch black. 

Your chin trembled, fingers fumbling as you dug your phone from your back pocket, turning on the flashlight. A thin stream of light illuminated the cavern, the passageway going straight then sharply turning left. You swallowed thickly, biting your cheek as you turned towards your room. Hurriedly putting on a pair of boots from the closet, you apprehensively approached the gaping hole in the wall. Shutting the toilet seat, you stood on top of the toilet, turning your body over the sink as you reached into the passageway. Gripping onto a wooden support beam, you pulled yourself forward, inching over the sink and plunging further into darkness. Crawling into the small space, you glanced backwards, your feet dangling from the opening into the sink. 

Tucking your arms into your body, you let the phone’s flashlight guide the way, army crawling through the dirt until the cavern opened up, the walls thinning and ceiling expanding upwards. Immediately, you shifted uncomfortably until you were standing, crouching slightly. Looking back on the way you came, you noticed a wrapper on the dirt floor, the plastic pushed haphazardly to the side by your clumsy crawling. Someone had been here– recently. You inhaled sharply at the thought, heart twisting in your chest, but you pushed onwards, determined to solve the mystery that plagued you for weeks. 

As you turned, everything seemed to click into place. Someone had been watching you. Someone in the walls. A click made you jolt, and you realized the mirror had shut again, leaving you in unfamiliar territory. You stood, rooted in place, phone shaking in your hand as you tried to slow your breathing. Realizing there was no way to go but forward, you trembled slightly, bile threatening to rise in your throat. The handprint. The rules. The noises. The lights. Everything– it all clicked into place with a terrifying realization. You weren’t alone. Ever since you stepped foot in the manor, you had never been alone. “Just a quick look…” You reasoned with yourself, pushing forward.��

The passageway seemed never-ending, twisting and turning around the countless rooms in the manor. The wooden beams surrounding you were almost impossible to maneuver around, causing you to walk hunched over to avoid banging your head against the low ceilings. The wooden planks creaked beneath your feet, and you cringed at any sudden movement you made. Within the tight confines of the passageway, every sound felt amplified– your breath, the rustle of your clothes, your steps. The twists and turns of the passageway left you at many forks, leaving you to blindly choose a direction with nothing but instinct to guide you. 

The deeper you went into the passageway, the more unnerved you became. It felt as if you were crawling into the belly of the beast, and a part of you was terrified with what you would find. You passed an immeasurable amount of peepholes drilled into the wall, each hole giving a clear view of the room attached to it. Your bedroom. The study. The kitchen. A chill creeped up your spine as you realized how every single moment you experienced in the manor had been on display, every movement watched by another. You swallowed thickly at the thought. 

Braving onwards, it felt like a lifetime had passed within the passageways, with you maneuvering against the nooks and crannies of the house. Suddenly, the passageway opened up, housing an actual room in a space you could only imagine was the attic. An old bed frame was pushed to the far side of the wall, adorned with a ragged mattress and mismatched blankets. Food containers, papers, books, and other odds and ends covered almost every surface of the room. A singular light bulb hung from the ceiling, the bulb swaying slightly in the drafty air. Papers were plastered to the wall, covered in sketches and pictures. You had stumbled upon your stalker’s hiding place. Lip quivering, you approached the wall, looking at the pictures under the light of your phone. 

They were sketches of you. Drawings in various stages of completion of you doing random tasks, some with the doll, some alone. Your nostrils flared at a sketch of you in the shower, suds caressing your skin under a stream of water. Another showed you sleeping, the viewpoint being so close you were sure they were in your bedroom with you to sketch it. Your chest tightened at the sheer amount of sketches, and you backed away subconsciously. Your knee hit the edge of the metallic bed frame, causing your attention to divert to the unmade bed in the corner of the room. Your eyes snaked across the multitude of blankets before reaching the crevice of the bed that met the wall. Two pillows were stacked on top of each other, your stolen pajamas from the night before pulled over them as a crude form of you. Crumpled up tissues dotted the edge of the bed and the floor, stomach churning violently as the reality of the situation set in. 

Your breathing hitched, and for a moment, you were sure you were going to faint. Your stalker wasn’t just watching you. He was controlling the house– controlling you, by making you believe that the doll was real. The rules you were so keen on following weren’t about the doll at all. They were about you. The realization left you gasping for air, the atmosphere of the room becoming much too cramped for your liking. Your breath came out in strangled huffs, and every part of you screamed to run, but you felt bolted in place. Your legs felt like jelly, and you struggled to tear your gaze away from those godforsaken pajamas and go back the way you came. 

Finally ripping yourself away from your trance, you turned towards the opening, flashlight trembling as you stopped dead in your tracks. Standing no more than a few feet in front of you was a man, his imposing form towering over you as he slouched against the walls. Silently watching you, his head cocked to the side, catching the light of your phone. Your heart nearly stopped as the light illuminated a porcelain mask, all too familiar to the very doll you were employed to take care of. Your world came crashing down, each brutal piece falling into place to show you the true, horrifying reality. He was here; the whole time, terrorizing the manor and making your life a living hell. Brahms Heelshire. 

You felt as if you were punched in the face, mouth parted in shock as you simply gaped at the man before you. Clearly not expecting you, Brahms stood with a tupperware in his hands, half eaten leftovers you made clearly forgotten. For a moment, neither of you moved. The atmosphere was impossibly heavy with tension, weighing down on you so strongly you could cut the air with a knife. Your chin trembled, voice catching in your throat as you gaped like a deer caught in headlights. “(Y/n)?” A childlike voice escaped the hulking male in front of you, and a wave of nausea washed over you. The figure in front of you was nothing like the childish doll hidden away inside the manor, he was a man– a towering, cardinal force of nature that made your blood run cold. 

Brahms took a step forward, snapping you out of your shock induced state. Through the holes in the mask, you caught his eyes– brown so dark it looked black stared back at you, a curious but predatory look in them. You swallowed thickly, nodding quickly to acknowledge the man. He hummed in approval, the noise much deeper than the voice let on, sending a shiver down your spine at the almost primal sound. You shuffled backwards, boots dragging across the floorboards, a creak splitting through the silence. Brahms froze, eyes narrowing, hands too large for comfort tightening into fists. You could hear a pin drop in the silence, the weight of his gaze alone making your head swim. 

“You… you broke the rules…” The voice chided you, cracking down at least an octave at the statement, the childlike pretense twisting into something much colder, sharper. He cocked his head again, eyeing you darkly. “-Now, you pay the price.” A shudder tore through you, his words echoing the haunting message on the mirror the night before. The mantra pounded in your skull, gaze flying to the wall of sketches before landing on the rustled pajamas. Break a rule, pay the price. The realization slammed into you just as your body reacted, a burst of movement tearing through you. Heels skittering across the floor from the force, you turned, the noise echoing through the room like a gunshot. You jolted, legs pumping as you sprinted to an opening in the wall. 

Brahms, startled by your sudden attempt at escape, took a step forward, hand clawing at your hair as you whipped past him. “Get back here!” He bellowed, the childish facade shattering as his rough, deep voice rattled your bones. Ducking into the passageway, you narrowly missed crashing into the ceiling, phone slipping from your hand in the chaos. The space was suffocating, illuminated only by the slivers of light pouring through the peepholes in the wall.  The passageway rattled behind you, a furious Brahms expertly navigating the tunnels, too close for comfort. You were in his territory now, and he was never going to let you escape. 

A sob clawed its way through your throat as you sharply turned right, trying to increase the distance between you and your attacker. Fumbling down another miniature flight of stairs, your sweater caught momentarily on a nail, causing you to lose precious seconds tearing yourself free. You could practically feel Brahms behind you, hot on your heels and closing in for the kill. Adrenaline pushed you forward, and a fork in the road quickly met your gaze. Which way? Not missing a beat, you turned left, almost tripping down the passageway’s sharp decline. The stale air seemed cooler as you pushed onwards, and you prayed that the tunnel was leading towards the basement. If you could reach the basement, you would be able to slip through one of the windows or hide among the debris until you could formulate a better plan. 

What you weren’t expecting, however, was the collapsed wall you almost ran into full force. Over the years, the beams had rotted away, folding in on itself and leaving small gaps in between the rubble. Panic seized you like a vice, heart beating so loudly that you were certain Brahms could hear it. Digging your nails into the wall, you threw yourself against the deteriorating beams, trying to open up a gap large enough for you to crawl through. A rustle of clothing sounded behind you, a spike of terror seizing your chest. Brahms was close– too close, as if he was about to reach out and grab you. Throwing your full weight against the beams, a sob tore through your throat and despair settling in the pit of your stomach. With a crack, one of the beams shifted, revealing a thin gap just wide enough for you to squeeze through. An unearthly growl sounded out behind you, practically right at your heels, and before you knew it, you surged forward through the gap, bracing for the impact against the cold floor. 

The impact never came. Instead, pain exploded throughout your midriff as the beam fell, caving in on its own weight and crushing you in place.The air was knocked from your lungs, and you sputtered for air, trying to weasel your way through the gap, expletives flying from your mouth. You were pinned in place, the beams above collapsing in at a bruising force, and your lower ribs burned as if you were stabbed. Breaths coming out in shallow, pained huffs, you quickly realized your situation. You were injured, trapped, and exposed. Stomach crushed painfully in between the beams, your hips knocked against the beam stubbornly, too large to un-wedge yourself from your position, no matter how hard you barred down and pushed. A breathless chuckle escaped from somewhere behind the wall– chillingly amused. 

Your vision was useless against him, vision blocked by the very beams pinning you in place. Craning your neck, your hearing sharpened as blood roared in your ears. You could hear him– feet shuffling against the dirt floor as he approached you slowly, predatory and deadly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you stiffened, back scraping painfully against the wood, splinters biting into your skin. Icy fingers brushed against your back, and you physically jolted at the sensation. You cursed your sweater, its betrayal evident as it bunched around your shoulders from the chaos.  A deep hum sounded out behind you, the graze of his fingers much more deliberate as they curled along your lower spine, seemingly savoring your warmth. 

“Caught you…” Brahms whispered, eerily calm in a way that made your head spin. The passageway was catastrophic, walls closing in as your senses heightened, hyper-aware of the precarious situation. Jagged edges dug into your ribs, each breath you took causing a white-hot pain to shoot to your sides. Brahms’ blunt nails scraped against your back, more persistent, hungry. Blind panic seized you, feet kicking blindly as you fought against the beams, praying for something to give way. A hand roughly grabbed an ankle, squeezing so tightly you were certain he would leave bruises. You froze, and the hostile grip eased slightly. “Fight all you want…” He growled lowly, voice dropping. “–you aren’t going anywhere.”

Tears fell at that, and you smacked a hand over your mouth to silence your sobs, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Brahms… I-... I’m sorry.” You sputtered out, voice shaking as you begged for mercy. The rules were supposed to be your saving grace, and now that they had been broken, nothing would be able to rescue you now. Dropping your leg, Brahms clicked his tongue, weighing your apology while shuffling forward. He was so close, you could practically feel his breath on your back as he triumphantly stood over you. His icy touch returned, fingers tracing the vertebrae of your spine exploringly. You inhaled sharply, stomach clenching as he caressed the sensitive skin in an almost endearing manner. His fingers faltered slightly, palm spread over the bottom of your back, pushing you down. 

Immediately, you arched, the pressure sending ripples of pain in your ribs that you struggled to alleviate. A heavy sigh rang in your ears, and realization stabbed into you like a knife. He was experimenting; a man hidden away from society and living in complete isolation for decades and never experiencing human touch, human connection. But he was still a man, a man with wants… with needs. Your heart caught in your throat as his palm retreated suddenly, opting to trace the curve of your waist almost shyly, curiosity evident in the slow, inexperienced touches. Calloused fingers wavered over the hem of your jeans, feeling your softness. The sensation sent you into a squirming mess, trying to push away from the ticklish movements. 

Brahms pushed onwards, fingers shaking from what you could only imagine was excitement as he dipped below your jeans, tapping your hip bones.  Large hands stuffed beneath the denim, he gripped your hips sharply, a startled yelp escaping your lips. He shuffled even closer, hips draped over your clothed ass, almost leaning into the wall, hungry for the warmth radiating from your skin. You squirmed immediately, the weight of his eye scalding as his touches became more frantic. A hand surged around your front, toying with the button on your jeans, and you inhaled sharply. Break a rule, pay the price. 

The button popped beneath his fingers, zipper straining as it was practically yanked downwards. “Brahms-” you pleaded, boots scraping against the dirt as you braced yourself against the wall. Brahms huffed, seeming to enjoy the way you called his name, any warning or emotion attached to it forgotten. Your jeans were unceremoniously pulled downwards, bunching around your knees, excited hands drawn to the exposed skin like a moth to a flame. Brahms’ patience quickly faded as he pressed forwards, poking and prodding your thighs with his fingers. “So… soft.” a broken murmur came from behind the wall, Brahms enchanted by the way your skin felt beneath his fingers, better than any silk or velvet in the manor. 

You shuddered at his words, the feeling of his fingers dancing along your skin sending a stroke of fire to your stomach. Gone were the gentle, exploring brushes, replaced with something much rougher. Brahms mapped your legs with his hands, yanking your boots from your feet and leaving your lower half bare, spare your cotton panties. Any exposed surface was immediately touched, hands encircling your much smaller ankles, scraping along your calves, or gripping your hips. A sharp smack to your ass left your head spinning, a startled gasp escaping you. Brahms was falling fast, resolve shattered at the promise of the new, shiny toy sprawled in front of him, hands kneading your ass while his hips absentmindedly ground against you. 

You jolted sharply as the outline of Brahm’s cock pressed into your upper thigh, the excited nature of the male behind you only amplifying once he discovered how good it felt brushing against your rear. An animalistic growl cut through the air, hips snapping against yours momentarily before your panties were grabbed tightly, the fabric straining against your skin before being torn to shreds, skin raw from the force. “Brahms!” You tried to chide, knowing it was futile. It was almost laughable trying to control the doll version of Brahms, so the very primal, very real Brahms was out of the question. 

At first, there was nothing. You could faintly make out his heavy breathing, and you cowered under the apparent gaze that was fixated on your newly exposed skin. If this had been any other situation, you would have been flustered, embarrassment coating your skin at the rough nature of your partner, but now you only felt terrified anticipation. A lone finger drifted from your hip bone to your front, the touch surprisingly soft as it trailed down your skin, causing your thighs to clench at the feeling. Scraping down your pubic bone, the finger brushed against your pussy, dipping within your folds. Shame burst through you as he pulled your folds apart, swiping at slick collecting between your thighs. You were aroused, your body betraying you from his soft touches as his finger experimented against your skin.

Brahms grunted, seemingly pleased, instinct pushing him onwards, another finger joining his endeavor, spreading you apart. The cool air hit your core at that, and you tensed, completely exposed and at his mercy. Almost lazily, his finger trailed along your slit, coated in your juices, mapping your folds to memory as you squirmed against his touch. A knuckle brushed your clit, and your heart almost stopped, stomach clenching at the sudden touch. A whimper escaped you, and Brahms paused at the noise, curious. His fingers withdrew from your core, shuffling ensuing as you strained to hear something, anything. A droplet of something wet hit your rear, and you jolted. He was drooling, mask abandoned as he stared down at you, the heat of his gaze sending sparks down your spine. 

Abruptly, a finger wedged between your thighs, pushing inside of you. You cried out, the sudden intrusion causing you to clench around his digit, hands clawing at the dirt beneath you. Sinking inwards, he twirled his finger, flesh scraping against your gummy walls, much larger than your own fingers. The finger stilled, another quickly pushing in to relish in your warmth, the stretch uncomfortably addicting as he rocked his fingers within you. You pressed your foreheard against the dirt, heavy pants escaping you as he fucked you with his fingers, chasing the feeling of you clenching around him. The air felt heavy, tension crackling between you and your captor as you fell apart on his fingers, shame fading away as something much more primal began to take root. 

Brahms, addicted with the feeling of your soft walls, picked up pace, and you whimpered at the force. A shuddered sigh escaped the male behind you, getting lost in the image of his fingers sinking within you, a lewd squelch filling the air as his fingers retreated from your core. His hips ground against your upper thigh, and your lip quivered at the feeling of his clothed cock rutting against your skin. His fingers scissored within you, and a broken moan tore within you. This was so wrong, so perverted, but you couldn’t help but get lost in the feeling, a wave of warmth tearing through you. Sweat beaded your hairline, and you clamped your jaw shut to try and silence the noises threatening to spill from your lips. 

Brahms however, always observant, noticed the slip immediately, no amount of stifling able to keep your sounds away from him. Although quiet, the moan rattled throughout the passageway, shattering any sense of resolve or patience that was left. You wanted it, you liked what he was doing to you, and that was all the reinforcement he needed, whether you knew it or not. Your skin felt as if you were on fire, the pain in your ribs mixing with the pleasure in a dangerous concoction that left you reeling. Your nails dug into the dirt, coating your fingertips as tears streamed down your cheeks, any coherent thought melting away as you felt your orgasm building within you, muscles tightening. The hand not driving into you traced along your lower back once more, the soft touches contrasting the rough thrusts of his fingers so sinfully your eyes rolled. 

You were so close, body quickly submitting to the pleasure that rocked your body, head spinning as he brushed your clit once more. Your hips rolled slightly, eager to match the pace, oblivious to the devious grin sported on the other side of the wall. Brows furrowed, your mind short circuited, chasing the feeling as you silently begged, praying to get your release. Brahms’s fingers tore from you so quickly it hurt, orgasm halted right before you hit the precipice. Your jaw clamped down, biting into your cheek so roughly you drew blood, frustration wracking your body. Your legs shook, emptiness consuming you as you squirmed against the wall, desperately trying to reach your high. 

So caught up in your denial, you barely registered the shuffling of clothes, ears ringing as your heartbeat pounded in your head. A hand gripped your hip suddenly, nails digging into your skin as Brahm’s hips met your ass. Your eyes widened, the feeling of his bare skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine. Before you could even think, Brahms nestled in between your legs, clumsily aligning to your core and entering you in one, quick thrust. A scream tore from your throat at the intrusion, and you steeled yourself against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Brahms’ cock delved into you without any chance of stopping. 

Aching, you faltered, clenching blindly around Brahms as he quickly bottomed out, scraping against your walls in ways that made his fingers seem like child’s play. He was so big, filling you so full you could feel him in your stomach, his bruising force shoving you further into the wall, your ribs screaming in pain. Bracing yourself against the dirt, you helplessly met his ruthless thrusts, choked moans spewing from your throat. It hurt so good, the uncomfortable stretch melting away with every thrust, the only thing grounding you in place being his hands digging into your flesh. He fucked into you, chasing the sensation of your snug walls, heavy groans and pants echoing around the passageway. 

You were falling fast, lost in the feeling of his cock pushing into you so forcefully you felt as if he were rearranging your insides, so consumed with nothing else but him. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, pleasure racking through you so violently your toes curled into the dirt. Your whole body tensed, clenching down on Brahms so hard you were sure you were squeezing him to death. Static heat prickled against your skin, electricity flowing through your limbs as you felt like you were going to burst. You babbled nonsense, chanting into the stale air as you felt your orgasm approaching, mind moving a million miles a minute and ready to crash down at a bruising force. Brahms continued his onslaught, refusing to let up as he delved into you, chasing the sensation of you wrapped sinfully around his cock. Your back scraped against the wood as he thrusted into you, head bobbing against the dirt as you took him with everything you had, drool dripping down your chin. 

It was too much, everything was too hot, too fast. The grip on your hips never relented, pulling you towards him as if you were a fucktoy, and you weakly met his thrusts. Arching your back, you ignored the burning sensation in your ribs, caught up in the addictive nature of Brahms’ cock drilling into you, ruining you for all others. His cockhead snapped against your cervix, pain blossoming within you, and you sucked on your lips for comfort. Brahms was like an animal, so caught up in the way you sucked him in that nothing else could ever compare to. Your eyes rolled as he angled his hips upward, cock hammering into your spongy walls, the new position making your stomach roll. 

Your fingers dug into the dirt so hard a nail snapped from the pleasure, and you came. Your orgasm crashed into you, body spasming as you screamed, clinging to the dirt like a lifeline. Brahms faltered at your visceral reaction, hips rutting against yours as you finished, fucking you through your brutal orgasm. The world tilted, vision dotted with black as you struggled to breathe, consumed with the release of pressure within you. Brahms growled, pulling your hips flush against his, pace wavering as you clenched down on him like a lifeline. The sound of his cock leaving you in a squelching, moaning mess bounced lewdly along the walls, but you found yourself too exhausted to care. Stamina evaporating, Brahms collapsed on top of you, head pressed against the wood as he pushed himself so deep you were sure you were suffocating. Thick ropes of cum coated your insides, filling you to the brim as you weakly took his final thrusts, Brahms heaving as he stilled within you. 

The air was heavy, the smell of sex coating your sweaty body as you laid limply in the dirt, cable knit sweater scraping against your raw skin. Brahms retreated from you slowly, a hiss of pain escaping you as emptiness consumed you. Your legs spasmed, twitching from the force of his thrusts as you tried to catch your breath. Your ribs throbbed, the ache making it hard to breathe. Your limbs felt weak and heavy, adrenaline leaving your body as you trembled from the aftermath of your climax. Somewhere behind you, Brahms shifted, feet scraping against the dirt, a new wave of anxiety coursing through you.

The scratchy fabric of your jeans dragged against your legs as he tugged them back into place, movements rough and quick. You winced, powerless to stop his antics, but relieved to be clothed once more. With a sudden grunt of effort, the crushing weight on your ribs eased. You blinked, confused as the beam pining you in place was hoisted into the air. The opening was wide enough for you to crawl through, and hope surged through your limbs. You wriggled forward, using the little strength you could muster to drag through the rubble. Before you could crawl more than an inch, however, a strong hand gripped your sweater, yanking you backwards with a brutal force. 

You hit the ground, pain shooting through you as you landed in a crumpled heap onto the dirt floor. The beams came crashing down, a cloud of dust enveloping you, sealing the passageway you had fought so desperately hard to escape through. You stared at the crude wall of wood and stone– your escape route, gone. Brahms stood a few feet in front of you, shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. You swallowed thickly, the taste of dust and dirt coating your tongue as you gaped at your captor, mask tightly bound against his face once more. Dazed, you fumbled with your boots, slipping on the uneven ground as a defeated, tired sigh escaped your lips. 

Your gaze shifted to Brahms, who tilted his head, catching you in his line of sight. His eyes bore into you, making your stomach churn, your skin flushing at the memory of his hands on you just moments before. Wordlessly, Brahms stalked over to your form, towering over you as you pressed further against the floor. Before you could react, a rough hand grabbed at your arm, pulling you up with unnerving ease. You stumbled, knees weak and body sore, a low chuckle escaping his lips, muffled by the mask.  A hand roughly gripped your jaw, forcing your face upwards to meet his eyes. Your breathing hitched at the proximity, his strength evident in the bruising grip. The cool porcelain of his mask brushed against your damp forehead as he leaned closer, causing you to shiver. “New rule…” He rumbled, voice low with a newfound sense of authority. His grip tightened, your teeth knocking together painfully as you gaped into the void of his eyes.

“– I kiss goodnight.”

—

A/N: This definitely took longer than expected... I will try to post more consistently now that my schedule is more consistent! If you have any requests or suggestions please message me! Enjoy ;)

[genderqueerdykes]

i wanted to follow on from some of the recent asks about disability and basically see what you and others think. basically when things are kinda 'medium' bad, like I'm tired or in more than baseline but not extreme pain, or whatever, i always feel like I'm putting it on or playing it up. (and to be fair very occasionally i am, because i need to convince people who don't really get it that i need help with 'simple' tasks or whatever) but like i just walked for about 15 minutes, to go grab a snack from the shop, and my joints are misbehaving and so i was walking fairly slowly and when i had to hurry over the road my knee didn't like it and my back is really stiff and whatever but if i had to i could just mask and not even show any of it. how do i teach myself that not masking or masking less than i could =/= putting it on.

(also kicking myself because i did not buy any painkillers on my adventure to the shop and i don't have any with me today and i really really wish i had some right now owwww)

generally speaking, the normal amount of pain to be in is none, or at the least, so little that its not bothering you. unless you recently had an injury, exercised very vigorously, have particularly bad posture or or did a lot of repetitive motions with that part of your body, it's not normal to be in a consistent amount of pain. it's different for everyone, some people have astronomically low or high pain tolerances. some peoples pain tolerances fluctuate wildly.

that definitely does not sound like a "normal" amount of pain to be in for sure. i can relate to that though, i don't walk for much longer than about ~15 minutes. severity is a scale but it doesn't mean that half of it is invalid. the lower end of the spectrum is still experiencing pain even if it's "less". i'm very psychotic n i don't think ppl who experience psychotic episodes a handful of time in their lives.

if ur in pain, treating the pain is the first concern. figuring out the cause comes second. preventative care is important. it's good to get things to help you, however i do wanna give the Obligatory Equinox Warning about painkillers, which is to really be careful with them. i'm stone cold serious with this because i took Naproxen (Aleve) for months & it ate a hole in my stomach. NSAID medications like Naproxen & Ibuprofen are dangerous. they can also interact with other medications if you take it regularly.

be careful with Acetaminophen. it's very hard on the liver and you want to make sure you are not consuming too much. check the label on the bottle, but the recommendation is generally no more than 4,000mg of Acetaminophen (Tylenol, Paracetamol) per 24 hour period. be very careful. play it safe and go as far under 4,000mg as you can handle. you do not want permanent liver damage especially if u take other meds. be careful about tylenol with codeine. codeine is an opioid and can make you very tired, dizzy, or even cause death due to respiratory distress if too much is taken. plus there's a risk of addiction. always practice harm reduction w/ opioids.

i would recommend seeing if you can speak to a doctor about it and get a prescription medication that's tailored to your specific kind of pain. arthritis pain, fibromyalgia pain, pain from injuries, pain from inflammation, pain from gastrointestinal issues, pain from nerve damage, and all different kinds of pain respond differently to different medications. it's better to have access to way more options if possible. OTC painkillers are very weak and don't help very much in the long run

there are more accessible remedies that might help like taking hot baths or shower to ease pain, using topical pain killers like salonpas, tiger balm, blue emu or biofreeze. i try to urge people to try topical painkillers first, including the patches, because those medications are way less harsh on the kidneys & liver and a lot of them are herbal or are mostly herbal. tiger balm is an herbal medication that hits like a truck, it's camphor & menthol and it it's a blessing. i genuinely recommend it

good luck, if you think of anything else, let me know, i'll try to help in whatever ways i can.

[seilon]

I wish I could tell every young person with a uterus (especially with bad cramps and/or dysphoria and/or depression, etc) that there is a decent chance they just straight up don’t need to live with that. don’t let the stigma surrounding contraceptives and the expectation that you should just ride it out and suffer win. for the love of god if there’s a chance you can lighten or even stop your period and it’s symptoms all-together, unless there’s a legit health concern, your doctor should at least make you aware of that option. I want every young person to know that “birth control” is not just for birth control and it has the potential to make your life infinitely easier to live. do not give in to anti-pill propaganda im serious