#hunters from stark tower

[yeyinde]

the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.  Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on. 

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach. 

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code. 

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back. 

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine). 

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon. 

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered. 

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows. 

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy. 

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest. 

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course. 

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself. 

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo. 

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning. 

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws. 

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough. 

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access. 

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor. 

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came. 

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you. 

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun. 

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks. 

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey. 

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter. 

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course. 

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect. 

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted. 

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something. 

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani. 

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol. 

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless. 

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence. 

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat. 

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable. 

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet. 

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery. 

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy. 

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. 

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones. 

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again. 

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue. 

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian. 

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will. 

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape. 

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar. 

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck. 

The comparison makes you sick. 

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it. 

Hate how much you don't hate it. 

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast. 

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth. 

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form. 

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus. 

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall. 

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones. 

He's watching you. Always. 

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire. 

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve. 

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed. 

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do. 

And so, you don't. 

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory. 

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute. 

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets. 

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone. 

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar. 

Dark, like him. 

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him. 

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much. 

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs? 

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour. 

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you. 

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way. 

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt. 

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you. 

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing. 

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin. 

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart. 

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks. 

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest. 

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions. 

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow. 

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place. 

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin. 

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight. 

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water. 

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it? 

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest. 

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty. 

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest. 

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying. 

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics. 

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger. 

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

This, though. 

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill. 

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy. 

But he didn't. 

Doesn't. 

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat. 

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward. 

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh. 

It's primal, this fear. Animal. 

But in the end, he doesn't kill you. 

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear. 

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to. 

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him. 

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk. 

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died. 

Should have, maybe. 

(is that a plea? an orison? 

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out. 

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just. 

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark. 

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it. 

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well. 

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over. 

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all. 

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites. 

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape. 

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers. 

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all. 

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary. 

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope. 

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks. 

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning. 

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless. 

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity. 

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing: 

he should have been back by now. 

And it—

It does something to you. 

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective. 

Because the reality is this: 

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates. 

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead. 

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about. 

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all. 

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white. 

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him. 

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm. 

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold. 

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch. 

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern. 

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh. 

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief. 

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands. 

The skull of a queen. 

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition. 

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound. 

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess. 

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb. 

Until—

It does. 

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory. 

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache. 

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall. 

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop. 

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face. 

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse. 

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue. 

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory. 

A queen is no easy feat, after all. 

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests. 

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep. 

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands. 

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch. 

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur. 

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind. 

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you. 

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air. 

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing. 

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window. 

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach. 

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette. 

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock. 

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign. 

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying. 

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.  

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee. 

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire. 

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him. 

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit. 

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual. 

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes. 

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word. 

He wants you. You. 

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate. 

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate. 

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice. 

Dark is a beastly thing up close. 

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. 

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it. 

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah. 

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles. 

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go. 

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so. 

He spoke. 

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt. 

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists. 

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance. 

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh. 

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly. 

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost. 

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute. 

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs. 

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission. 

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away. 

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you. 

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his. 

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured. 

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage. 

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching. 

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you. 

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust. 

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely. 

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on. 

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you. 

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels. 

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth. 

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so. 

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you. 

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock. 

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable. 

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him. 

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you. 

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock. 

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore. 

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else. 

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough. 

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is. 

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out. 

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain. 

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body. 

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb. 

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick. 

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before. 

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before. 

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel. 

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat. 

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk. 

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you. 

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous. 

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit. 

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release. 

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal. 

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes. 

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you. 

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads. 

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip. 

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight. 

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling. 

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have. 

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background. 

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat. 

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship. 

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion. 

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly. 

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma. 

You breathe it in. Breathe him in. 

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps. 

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you. 

And yet. 

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him. 

That alone, you think, is enough. 

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all? 

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep. 

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt. 

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue. 

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you. 

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom. 

Ensnared. 

[novaursa]

Can you please create a story about Cregan catching a spy? that he had set a trap for his men She was going to kill them but Cregan stops her by saving them. Then when they wanted revenge, Cregan laughed at them because they fell silent in front of a girl. tried to convince her to join them

Fox in Wolves Den

- Summary: You were instructed by Larys Strong to spy the northerners, to thin their ranks. But today you faced the Warden of the North himself.

- Paring: reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The main list is pinned to the top, and there is the link to the second one.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The dense fog of the Wolfswood clings to your skin like the cold mist of a graveyard, thick and suffocating. You crouch low behind the twisted roots of an ancient oak, your breath shallow as you wait. The trap is set. The Green council has long whispered of Lord Cregan Stark’s men growing too bold, venturing too far south, seeking alliances that could tip the balance of power. Larys Strong tasked you with thinning their ranks, and you have done so with ruthless precision. But tonight is different. Tonight, the Warden of the North himself rides with them.

Your fingers twitch against the hilt of your dagger, your eyes trained on the narrow path that cuts through the forest like a scar. The rustling of horses’ hooves and the clank of steel echo faintly in the distance, a slow rhythm that sends a chill of anticipation racing down your spine. You’ve watched them for days, learning their patterns, their weaknesses. Tonight, they’ll ride into an ambush—your ambush—and bleed out on the frozen ground. 

As the first shadowy figure emerges through the mist, you make no sound. The men are oblivious, lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet of the forest. They don’t know this land the way you do, don’t feel the danger lurking in the air. 

You flick your wrist, a signal to the men hiding deeper in the woods. A few heartbeats later, a harsh twang breaks the silence as arrows fly through the air, striking the first few riders. Chaos erupts. Screams, the frantic neighing of horses, and the sudden clash of steel ring out. 

For a moment, you believe the night is yours. The soldiers stumble and fall, caught off guard, as your hired killers descend upon them. Your heart pounds in your chest, but it is not fear that quickens your pulse. It is triumph. The greens will be pleased. 

But then, something shifts. From the midst of the chaos, a deep voice cuts through the din. “Hold your line!”

Cregan Stark. 

The Lord of Winterfell rides forward, his massive form cutting through the fog like an ancient god of war. His grey eyes gleam under the moonlight as he shouts commands, rallying his men with a calm yet fierce authority. Your pulse quickens again—but this time, it's not from triumph.

The Northern soldiers regroup, forming a wall of shields as Cregan wades into the fray with his greatsword in hand. With a single swing, he cuts down two of your men as if they were nothing more than straw dummies. You clench your teeth, realizing too late that the Warden of the North is not just a name. He’s a force.

You slink deeper into the shadows, eyes fixed on the towering figure of Stark as he moves with a lethal grace. His men rally behind him, the trap that should have killed them now turning on you. The hired blades you brought fall one by one beneath Stark’s sword and the renewed ferocity of his soldiers. 

And then—disaster. A branch snaps beneath your feet, loud enough to betray your position.

"Over there!" a Northern voice shouts. 

You bolt, darting through the underbrush with a speed that has saved you more times than you can count. But the Northerners are hunters, and their lord is no fool. You hear the thud of hooves behind you, the sound of a rider closing in fast. 

Before you can reach the safety of the trees, a rough hand catches the back of your cloak, yanking you off balance. You stumble, crashing to the ground, your breath knocked from your lungs. A shadow falls over you as Cregan dismounts, his sword gleaming like the edge of a winter storm.

You roll onto your back, the sharp edge of your blade in hand, but before you can strike, he’s there—his hand clamping down on your wrist with crushing force. His face hovers inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin, smelling of steel and leather and cold northern air.

"Easy, little fox," he growls, eyes narrowing in amusement. "You've made quite the mess tonight."

Your chest heaves with ragged breaths as you meet his gaze, defiance burning in your veins. But Stark only chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that seems to echo through the forest. His men approach, panting and bloodied, but alive. He looks at them, then back at you.

"This girl almost bested you lot," Cregan says, his tone light, mocking. "If I hadn't been here, she'd have left your corpses for the crows." 

The men glance at each other, sheepish but relieved, and you feel the heat of humiliation burn your cheeks. You want to fight, to spit some venomous retort, but you’re pinned beneath his weight, your body betraying you. 

Cregan’s gaze sweeps over you, lingering a moment longer than it should. There's a gleam of something in his eyes—something that isn’t quite anger or mockery. Amusement, yes, but curiosity as well. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper only you can hear.

"Who sent you?"

You remain silent, your jaw clenched, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to make your wrist ache but not enough to break it.

"Stubborn," he murmurs. Then he smiles, the expression more wolf than man. "I like that."

With a swift movement, he hauls you to your feet, not releasing your wrist as he turns to his men. "Tie her up. We’ll take her with us. I want to know what game she's playing."

Two soldiers step forward, but before they can bind you, Cregan raises a hand, stopping them. He studies you, his gaze piercing, as if weighing something in his mind.

"Or..." His voice softens, though the command behind it is unmistakable. "You could join us. The North doesn’t mind a fox, as long as she knows where her loyalties lie."

Your heart skips a beat, the implications of his offer crashing over you like a wave. Betray the Greens? Betray Larys Strong? The thought is unthinkable, but standing there, caught in Cregan Stark’s grip, you find yourself staring into the cold eyes of a wolf—and you wonder if, perhaps, your loyalty is worth less than your life.

You say nothing, but Cregan's smile widens, as if he's already decided your fate. 

"You don’t have to answer now," he says, his voice lowering to a dangerous purr. "But you will. One way or another."

And with that, you are dragged into the night, your future hanging in the balance between wolves and men.

[humanpurposes]

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause. 

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess. 

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond. 

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her. 

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that. 

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain. 

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy. 

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice– 

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty. 

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here. 

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him. 

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin. 

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter. 

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes. 

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.” 

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers. 

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again. 

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless. 

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy. 

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess. 

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

[doctorsilverhead]

Great! Can I request a G1 Soundwave x Autobot reader, and the two are like arch-enemies in a way? Reader is a hunter, making them sharp and able to block out Soundwave's mind-reading abilities, having been able to track him down on many occasions. Reader also has minicons, one dog-like minicon to track down prey through scent, one owl-like minicon to have eyes on the sky, and one minicon who specializes in making traps. Reader and Soundwave had clashed many times, but one day, when reader wanted to take a day off with their minis. Reader went to a quiet forest, and ends up encountering Soundwave who also was having a day off. Not having the energy to fight, the two agree on a temporal truce and allow the minis to play with each other. Maybe the two end up sharing funny stories about their kids.

An Unexpected Truce (G1 Soundwave X Autobot Reader)

In the ever-evolving landscape of current events, where the lines between allies and adversaries blur, an unlikely encounter unfolds. Amidst the tranquil embrace of a secluded forest, two formidable forces find themselves on common ground, if only for a fleeting moment.

The Reader, a skilled hunter with a sharp intellect and an uncanny ability to evade Soundwave's mind-reading prowess, has tracked their arch-nemesis down on countless occasions. Accompanied by their loyal minicons – a canine tracker, an avian scout, and a master of traps – the Reader has proven to be a formidable adversary.

Soundwave, a towering figure with a reputation that precedes him, is no stranger to the Reader's relentless pursuit. Their clashes have been the stuff of legends, each encounter leaving an indelible mark on the annals of their ongoing conflict.

However, drained from the constant battles and recognizing a mutual desire for a brief escape from their roles as soldiers, Soundwave and the Autobot reader agreed to a temporary truce.

In a rare moment of understanding, a temporary truce is forged. The minicons, sensing the shift in the air, seize the opportunity to engage in playful antics, their carefree spirits a stark contrast to the weight of their masters' responsibilities.

As the Reader and Soundwave observe their minicons frolicking, a sense of camaraderie begins to take root. Laughter echoes through the trees as they exchange humorous tales of their respective charges, each story a testament to the unique challenges and joys of parenthood, even in the most unconventional of circumstances.

In this fleeting respite, the lines that once divided them blur, and they find solace in the shared experiences that bind them together. The forest becomes a sanctuary, a place where the burdens of their roles can be shed, if only for a brief moment.

Sitting side by side, Soundwave and the Y/N began to exchange stories not of battles and conquests, but of the lighter moments they've experienced with their minicons. Laughter, an uncommon sound on the battlefield, echoed through the forest as tales of mischievous minicons and their antics unfolded. For a brief moment, the forest became a sanctuary where the line between Autobot and Decepticon blurred, replaced by a shared understanding of the bond between a warrior and their companions.

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the clearing, the Reader and Soundwave find themselves reluctantly parting ways. Yet, in that moment, they carry with them a newfound understanding – a realization that even in the midst of conflict, there exists a common thread that binds all beings together.

"Maybe you are not much of an ass Megatron says you are." Soundwave said as he gestured it was time for him to go.

[nicoline1998enilocin]

“Are you blind? I love you!” (“I Love You” Prompts List) + “kiss/touch me, everywhere” (Praise/Soft/ETC Smut Prompts) with Tony Stark please? 😃

Secretly in love

PAIRING || Tony Stark x Bounty Hunter!Reader

WORDCOUNT || ~ 950 words

SUMMARY || You and Tony have been madly in love with one another for years, but to the outside world, it looks like you're harboring a deep-rooted hatred for one another. Feelings are revealed when it almost goes wrong during a mission, and the sexual tension between you two is finally resolved.

RATING || Explicit (E)

TAGS || Enemies to lovers. Idiots in love. Mutual pining. Misunderstanding. Use of Y/N.

SMUT || Oral (F receiving). Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!).

A/N || This drabble is part of Nicoline's Summer of Drabbles. I want to thank @ccbsrmsf1 for giving me this amazing idea as well as proofreading! I am forever grateful for you, bestie! 🤍

EVENTS @anyfandomaubingo || Bounty Hunter!Reader @fandom-free-bingo Maritime May || 'My Old Man's Got a Problem' @kinky-things-happen || Cunnilingus

@marvel-smash-bingo || Enemies To Lovers @mcukinkbingo || Trope: There's only one bed @sweetspicybingo Hurt/Comfort || Human shield

Photo: @ccbsrmsf1 || All other graphics are made by @nicoline1998enilocin

Main Masterlist || Tony Stark || Summer of Drabbles

As soon as you got Steve's phone call about a meeting at Avengers Tower, you were on your way, knowing they would need your help once again. A few years ago, you were hired by SHIELD to do your job as a bounty hunter for them when they needed you, and today's one of the rare occasions they have asked for your help.

By now, you knew the drill. Get changed into your tactical gear before heading up to the meeting room, as they will brief you right before going on the mission. Just as you're about to head into one of the gym's changing rooms, you spot the man you're always looking forward to seeing: Tony Stark. However, you'd never tell him that because, to the outside world, you both have a deep-rooted hatred for one another.

He doesn't say anything as he goes to change, though he wishes he could. He has to hold up this facade of not liking you, but he would love to do nothing more than fuck you right then and there as he tells you how badly in love he is with you.

The moment you walk into the briefing room, you're greeted by the happy faces of Steve and Natasha and the seemingly emotionless face of Tony. He's less than impressed with your presence, but you're used to it by now.

"What's got your panties in a bunch, Stark?" Natasha asks, making him glare at her when you can't help but chuckle at her question.

"My old man's got a problem with me being here, Nat. You should know that by now," you say, making her laugh aloud, and Tony rolls his eyes at your joke. Once you've taken your place next to Natasha, Steve explains the mission you've been called in for.

"Y/N, you're here to take Nat's place during the mission. While she's an amazing spy and fighter, we need someone with your abilities, so you'll be going on the hunt with Tony. This will be a perfect bonding moment between you two, and I hope you two will finally learn to behave during the mission. There's no one to save your asses when it goes wrong, so you two must work together to finish this mission successfully."

Once the briefing is over, Tony and you go to the Quinjet, accompanied by Steve, who gives you the last instructions before it's officially time to leave. During the trip, neither of you says much aside from a few short comments, and when you're there, the only messages shared relate to the matter at hand.

Only when Tony throws himself in front of you as a human shield is he getting a reaction out of you, and not one of hate. As soon as the mission is successful, you get to the hotel room and immediately turn to him to give him a piece of your mind.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Stark? I could handle it perfectly-" is all you can say before he cuts you off.

"Are you blind?" he asks with a pointed tone. "I love you!"

"You... love me?" you ask him, your entire demeanor softening as soon as the words leave your lips. After holding up this facade of being enemies, letting the mask slip momentarily feels good.

"I do, Y/N. However, when I first met you a few years ago, I thought you didn't like me, so I put up this front. I guess it was easier to hate you than to show anyone - and more specifically, you - how I'm feeling," he says as he walks closer. With every step he sets closer, your heartbeat steadily rises.

Rather than returning his words, you close the gap between you two as you grab his hair, your lips molding together with his perfectly. The moment your lips are pressed on his, a new world opens for you two, and you're not sure how you ever could've lived without him.

"I love you too, Tony. I want you to kiss and touch me. Everywhere."

With those words, Tony pushes you back onto the bed you were in front of. You land with a smile, enthusiasm, and a need for Tony seeping into every fiber of your being. With skilled fingers, he undresses you completely, leaving not a single inch of your skin covered, before stepping out of his clothes, too.

"I can't believe I finally get to have a taste of you. I've dreamt of this moment so many times, and now I won't let you leave this bed until it's time to go home," he grumbles as he gets onto the bed, your legs spreading as you're waiting for his arrival. As soon as he's comfortable between your thighs, he dives in with an enthusiasm that has you arching your back and pulling his hair, your hips grinding against his face, seeking the friction he's willing to give you.

"Close, I'm fucking-" is all you can say as he latches onto your clit, pushing you over the edge with a scream of his name. He doesn't waste any time as he climbs over you, his cock immediately lining up as he carefully works his thick length into you.

"That's it, you're taking me so well, Gorgeous. It's a good thing there's only one bed here because there's no fucking way you're sleeping anywhere else from now on," he tells you, and you nod as he pounds into you, only prolonging your high with every thrust.

When you two return from the mission, Steve and Nat look at each other approvingly, knowing their plan worked perfectly, and you two are happier than ever.

[athena-xox]

UPDATE!!

I finally finished the timeline!!

Yay!!

For those who don’t know, I have been working on a very extensive timeline of eah including every single chapter from every book, every webisode, ever diary chapter and every special.

I’m not saying it’s perfect and if anyone wants to tell me that’s somethings in the wrong place I am totally up for criticism.

Anyways I’ll link a key here, just because it may be hard to understand. Because it’s so long I don’t think I’ll make a post explaining it, but if someone wants that I’ll be up for that.

Without further ado , I’ll paste the whole thing under the cut

- Shear terror (toh)

- chapter 3 (d. ginger)

- Light and dark (fgt)

- Snacky time (k&s)

- Pretty is as pretty does (asckl)

- Chapter 5 (d. darling)

- Cooking lessons (k&s)

- Mommy makeover (k&s)

- A fairy fitting (fgt)

- Chapter 3 (d. faybelle)

- Banned books (asckl)

- Overly perfect (asckl)

- Chapter 2 (d. dexter)

- Ugly duckling (ntv)

- Tower years (asckl)

- Chapter 2 (d. bunny)

- Chapter 2 (d. kitty)

- Chapter 2 (d. lizzie!

- Prologue (tsbol)

- Introduction (ouat)

- Cedar Wood and the end of summer (ouat)

- Ashlynn Ella and the mysterious woodsman (ouat)

- Hunter Huntsman and the forest maiden (ouat)

- Simply unquestionably perfect (tsbol)

- Briar Beauty and the jewelry thieves (ouat)

- Madeline Hatter and the upside down day (ouat)

- Dexter Charming and the yellow eyed changeling (ouat)

- Darling Charming and the razor eel (ouat)

- Lizzie Hearts and a home for the hedgehogs (ouat)

- Never touch the mirror (tsbol)

- Kitty Cheshire and the tricksy day (ouat)

- Chapter 1 (d. cerise)

- Apples tale 0-3:27 (series)

- Ravens tale 0-3:14 (series)

- Chapter 1 (d. blondie)

- Chapter 1 (d. briar)

- Chapter 3 (d. raven)

- Chapter 4 (d. maddie)

- Always doing in how it’s undone (tsbol)

- Chapter 2 (d. blondie)

- Chapter 2 (d. briar)

- Chapter 1 (d. apple)

- Chapter 1 (d. holly)

- Chapter 1 (d. maddie)

- Maddies chat with the voice (tsbol)

- Chapter 1 (d. raven)

- Chapter 2 (d. apple)

- Chapter 3 (d. briar)

- Chapter 3 (d. apple)

- Chapter 2 (d. raven)

- Chapter 2 (d. maddie)

- Chapter 2 (d. cerise)

- Chapter 4 (d. briar)

- Chapter 5 (d. briar)

- Chapter 4 (d. apple)

- Chapter 5 (d. apple)

- Chapter 6 (d. briar)

- Chapter 6 (d. apple)

- Chapter 3 (d. maddie)

- Chapter 1 (d. ashlynn)

- Chapter 2 (d. ashlynn)

- Chapter 1 (d. hunter)

- Chapter 2 (d. hunter)

- Chapter 3 (d. ashlynn)

- Chapter 3 (d. blondie)

- Chapter 3 (d. cerise)

- Ravens tale 3:15-4:30 (series)

- That dangerous word (tsbol)

- Chapter 5 (d. raven)

- Chapter 5 (d. maddie)

- Apples tale 3:28-4:37 (series)

- Ravens tale 4:31-5:40 (series)

- Chapter 6 (d. raven)

- Chapter 6 (d. maddie)

- Chapter 4 (d. blondie)

- Chapter 4 (d. cerise)

- Chapter 5 (d. blondie)

- Chapter 3 (d. hunter)

- Chapter 5 (d. cerise)

- Chapter 6 (d. cerise)

- Chapter 6 (d. blondie)

- Never after again (tsbol)

- Chapter 4 (d. raven)

- Chapter 4 (d. hunter)

- Apples tale 4:38-5:30 (series)

- The looming threat of legacy day (tsbol)

- Ravens tale 5:41-6:35 (series)

- Apples tale 5:31-7:27 (series)

- Chapter 5 (d. hunter)

- Chapter 4 (d. ashlynn)

- Chapter 5 (d. ashlynn)

- Ravens tale 6:36-8:29 (series)

- Apples tale 7:28-8:30 (series)

- Princely present (ouap)

Chapter 3 (d. cupid)

Chapter 4 (d. cupid)

- Apples princess practice (series)

- Chapter 1 (d. cedar)

- Chapter 1 (d. Iizzie)

- Chapter 2 (d. cedar)

- Chapter 3 (d. cedar)

- Chapter 4 (d. cedar)

- Chapter 5 (d. cedar)

- Chapter 3 (d. lizzie)

- Chapter 4 (d. lizzie)

- Chapter 5 (d. lizzie)

- Chapter 6 (d. lizzie)

- Chapter 6 (d. cedar)

- Here comes Cupid (series)

- Maddie in chief (series)

- catching raven (series)

- Beware of the glare of her fair hair (tsbol)

- A hot mess of wolves and screams and pastries (tsbol)

- Stark mad Raven (series)

- Chapter 6 (d. ashlynn)

- Chapter 6 (d. hunter)

- Cedar wood would love to lie (series)

- True reflections (series)

- The unsigned page (tsbol)

- A hero in every story (tsbol)

- Maddie bothers the narrator again (tsbol)

- Darkness scampering (tsbol)

- Her very name could cause an earthquake (tsbol)

- A horse of a different colour (ouap)

- Briars study party (series)

- The shoe must go on (series)

- Almost through the wall of briars (tsbol)

- Cute and cuddly things (tsbol)

- Plump red apple white (tsbol)

- Maddie pesters the narrator yet again (tsbol)

- Red paint on the wall (tsbol)

- A noticing game (tsbol)

- The undiscovered vault of lost tales (tsbol)

- Trouble with jackalopes (ouap)

- The horrible power of evil (tsbol)

- Born to wear it (tsbol)

- Going off script (tsbol)

- A tale of legacy day (series)

- Chapter 5 (d. cupid)

- Treading water in a well (tsbol)

- Prologue (tuota)

- Chapter 2 (d. holly)

- Not your momma’s fairytale (tsbol)

- Maddie annoys the narrator one last time (tsbol)

- Rewrite ignite restart (tsbol)

- Mysterious epilogue (tsbol)

- The cat who cried wolf (series)

- Prologue (aww)

- A spoonful of porridge (tuota)

- The day after ever after (series)

- In service of destiny (tuota)

- Maddie chats with the narrator (tuota)

- Just be happy torches and pitchforks (tuota)

- Maddie catches up with the narrator (tuota)

- A smile and a friend (tuota)

- Time to take off the hood (tuota)

- A children’s treasury of fairytale heirlooms (tuota)

Chapter 3 (d. holly)

- Maddie gabs with the narrator (tuota)

- Prologue (aww)

- The uni cairn (tuota)

- Banished (tuota)

- Such scullduggery as this (tuota)

- Wisp whispering (tuota)

- Maddie chara with the narrator (tuota)

- Blessed beast of terror (tuota)

- Fairyball (tuota)

- The opposite of quiet (tuota)

- The buzz of a spell (tuota)

- Smile like you mean it (tuota)

- Irrefutable evidence (tuota)

- Maddie pesters the narrator (tuota)

- Happily ever afters (tuota)

- Epilogue (tuota)

- Replacing raven (series)

- Blondies just right (series)

- Chapter 4 (d. holly)

- Chapter 5 (d. holly)

- Chapter 6 (d. holly)

- Chapter 1 (d. poppy)

- Chapter 2 (d. poppy)

- Poppy the roybel (series)

- Chapter 3 (d. poppy)

- Chapter 4 (d. poppy)

- Chapter 5 (d. poppy)

- Chapter 6 (d. poppy)

- Chapter 1 (d. duchess)

- Chapter 2 (d. duchess)

- Chapter 3 (d. duchess)

- Chapter 4 (d. duchess)

- Chapter 5 (d. duchess)

- Chapter 6 (d. duchess)

- Chapter 1 (d. ginger)

- Chapter 2 (d. ginger)

- Chapter 4 (d. ginger)

- Chapter 5 (d. ginger)

- Chapter 6 (d. ginger)

- Chapter 8 (d. ginger)

- Rebels got talent (series)

- Mirrornet down (series)

- Candy wish fish (ouap)

- Class confusion (series)

- Chapter 1 (d. faybelle)

- Chapter 2 (d. faybelle)

- Chapter 4 (d. faybelle)

- Chapter 5 (d. faybelle)

- Chapter 6 (d. faybelle)

- Royally ever after (diary)

- True hearts day (series)

- Once upon a table (series)

- Blondie branches out (series)

- O’hairs split ends (series)

- Birth order (toh)

- Ginger in the BREADhouse (series)

- A delivery for ginger (k&s)

- Kissing booth (k&s)

- Spells kitchen (k&s)

- Dumpty’s doubts (k&s)

- Science and sorcery (k&s)

- The desperate deal (k&s)

- Hocus pocus (k&s)

- Frog talk (k&s)

- Ms. Breadhouse to the rescue (k&s)

- Fairy blackmail (k&s)

- A wonderful wish day (k&s)

- A sleepless night (k&s)

- Frog forever after (k&s)

- Eenie Meenie (k&s)

- The golden rule (k&s)

- A non poisoned picnic (k&s)

- The princess ploy (k&s)

- The ever after swamp (k&s)

- Happy hopper (k&s)

- Chapter 6 (d. cupid)

- Beyond boring (asckl)

- Strong is as strong does (asckl)

- Dexters dilemma (asckl)

- The village smithy (asckl)

- The stress of being distressed (asckl)

- Gallant sir gallopad (asckl)

- Bad news betty (asckl)

- If the suit fits (asckl)

- Princely pox (asckl)

- A cry for help (asckl)

- Squire darling to the rescue (asckl)

- A charming confession (asckl)

- Questions and crisps (asckl)

- Marian by moonlight (asckl)

- Story one: The Spell (cc)

- Story two: Pied Piper (cc)

- Story three: Mad Hatter (cc)

- Story four: Red Riding Hood (cc)

- Story five: King Charming (cc)

- Story six: Snow White & EQ (cc)

- A damsel parade (asckl)

- A knight in dented armour (asckl)

- Happily ever after (asckl)

- Story seven: reunion (cc)

- Chef ginger (k&s)

- When in doubt shout! (aww)

- The lone tree on the hill (aww)

- Maddie converses politely with the narrator (aww)

- The tragedy of Aquilona (aww)

- A baby bandersnatch (aww)

- Maddie tried to just listen politely (aww)

- A twisted kind of wonder (aww)

- Wonder worms are a go! (aww)

- Storybooker share slam! (aww)

- Reasonably by accident (aww)

- A wobble of uncertainty (aww)

- Wonderland found me (aww)

- Trapped! (aww)

- Narrator takes a sick day (aww)

- Swamp juice in your tea cup (aww)

- Running from deadly terror (aww)

- Takes of wandering un-books (aww)

- More vorpal (aww)

- Yellow wallpaper (aww)

- The vorpal sword awaits (aww)

- Beware empathy! (aww)

- Hedgehog croquet (aww)

- A ruler of nothing (aww)

- Madness is life (aww)

- Friends would be aces (aww)

- Accidentally becoming friends (aww)

- Epilogue (aww)

- Next top bird (ouap)

- Kittys curious tale (series)

- Swan song (ntv)

- Royal roomies (ntv)

- Lizzie’s fairytale first date (series)

- A charming crush (ntv)

- The cauldron room (ntv)

- Rebel roll call (ntv)

- Duchess’s dilemma (ntv)

- A scoop of snoop (ntv)

- Madame’s message (ntv)

- Swan secrets (ntv)

- Duchess’s decision (ntv)

- Princess practice (ntv)

- Horse course (ntv)

- Hood’s house (ntv)

- Sweet Sabotage (ntv)

- Fairy dust feast (ntv)

- A house of cards (ntv)

- Broken hearts (ntv)

- Ravens room (ntv)

- A rebel revealed (ntv)

- Ravens ruse (ntv)

- Horsing around (ntv)

- The end is just the beginning (ntv)

- Chapter 1 (d. dexter)

- Chapter 3 (d. dexter)

- Chapter 4 (d. dexter)

- Chapter 5 (d. dexter)

- Chapter 6 (d. dexter)

- Lizzie shuffles the deck (series)

- The beautiful truth (series)

- Maddies hat-tastic tea party (series)

- Duchess’s swan lake (series)

- Cerise’s picnic panic (series)

- Chapter 1 (d. kitty)

- Chapter 3 (d. kitty)

- Chapter 4 (d. kitty)

- Chapter 5 (d. kitty)

- Chapter 6 (d. kitty)

- Thronecoming 0-15:44 (series)

And the thronecoming court is… (diary)

- Throne coming 15:45-45 (series)

- And the throne coming queen is… (series)

- Chapter 1 (d. rosabella)

- Chapter 2 (d. rosabella)

- Chapter 1 (d. darling)

- Chapter 3 (d. rosabella)

- Chapter 2 (d. darling)

- Chapter 3 (d. darling)

- Chapter 4 (d. darling)

- Chapter 6 (d. darling)

- Chapter 4 (d. rosabella)

- Chapter 5 (d. rosabella)

- Chapter 6 (d. rosabella)

- There’s no business like snow business (series)

- Best feather forward (series)

- Spring fairest (diary)

- Spring unsprung (series)

- Ashlynn’s fashion frolic (series)

- Chapter 1 (d. alistair)

- Chapter 2 (d. alistair)

- Chapter 3 (d. alistair)

- Chapter 4 (d. alistair)

- Chapter 5 (d. alistair)

- Chapter 6 (d. alistair)

- Save me darling (series)

- an hexclusive invitation (series)

- Chosen with care (series)

- Just sweet (series)

- Just sweet (diary)

- Through the woods (series)

- Baking and entering (series)

- Date night (series)

- Raven’s review (diary)

- Dexter digs it (diary)

- Driving me cuckoo (series)

- Faybelles choice (series)

- Chapter 1 (d. bunny)

- Chapter 3 (d. bunny)

- Chapter 4 (d. bunny)

- Chapter 5 (d. bunny)

- Chapter 6 (d. bunny)

- Chapter 1 (d. farrah)

- Chapter 2 (d. farrah)

- Chapter 3 (d. farrah)

- Chapter 4 (d. farrah)

- Chapter 5 (d. farrah)

- Chapter 6 (d. farrah)

- Wish list (series)

- Apple’s birthday bake off (series)

- card tricks (series)

- jesters wild 0-7:26 (series)

- Lizzie Hearts (d. wtw)

- jesters wild 7:27-8:19 (series)

- Madeline Hatter (d. wtw)

- Jesters wild 8:20-13:31 (series)

- Apple White (d. wtw)

- Kitty Cheshire (d. wtw)

- Raven Queen (d. wtw)

- Shuffle the deck (series)

- A Royal Flush (series

- A big bad secret (series)

- Rosabella and the BEAST’S (series)

- A letter to my dearest daughter (doaeq)

- The importance of evil (doaeq)

- Who deserves freedom? I do of course (doaeq)

- Shatter the mirror 0-13:19 (series)

- Tips and tricks to bring evil at school (doaeq)

- Casting evil spells (doaeq)

- Shatter the mirror 13:20-17:41(series)

- Note from darling (d. dragon games)

- Note from Holly (d. dragon games)

- Note from Poppy (d. dragon games)

- Note from Raven (d. dragon games)

- Shatter the mirror 17:32-24:47 (series)

- Care and feeding your dragon (doaeq)

- Evil rules

Hatch the dragons 3 (series)

- How to convince someone to be evil (especially if that person doesn’t want to be evil) (doaeq)

- Escape the forest (series)

- Battle the queen 0-6:50 (series)

- Hand over the diary mom, by raven queen (doaeq)

- Battle the queen 6:51-24:47 (series)

- The Evil Queen’s Unjust, Unfair Return to Prison (doaeq)

Moonlight mystery (series)

- Tale of two parties (series)

- Piping hot beats (series)

- snow day (series)

- A wicked winter (series)

- Ice castle (series)

- Crystal rose (series)

- Diary Entry 1 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 1 (tsdoaw)

- Diary Entry 2 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 3 (tsdoaw)

- Diary Entry 3 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 4 (tsdoaw)

- Diary Entry 4 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 5 (tsdoaw)

- Diary Entry 5 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 6 (tsdoaw)

- Diary Entry 6 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 7 (tsdoaw)

- Diary Entry 7 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 8 (tsdoaw)

- Diary Entry 8 (tsdoaw)

- Chapter 9 (tsdoaw)

- Watery witch (fte)

- Corals spell (fte)

- The legacy orchard (series)

- A magic wind (fte)

- Fairest feet (fte)

- Floatation device (fte)

- An Apple day (fte)

Meeshell comes out of her shell 0-0:51 (series)

- Tea trouble (fte)

- A pair of princes (fte)

- StoryTeller2 (fte)

Meeshell comes out her shell 0:52-1:21 (series)

- Above the waves (fte)

- Club day (fte)

- Down the drain (fte)

- Enchanted lake (fte)

- Sports day (fte)

- The secret prince (fte)

- Mirror beach (fte)

- Rescue repeat (fte)

- Out of hiding (fte)

- The true tale (fte)

Meeshell comes out of her shell 1:22-2:02 (series)

- Sugar coated (series)

- Meeshell comes out of her shell (series)

- Happily glees (fte)

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- The Legend of Shadow High

[rosaline-black]

Hi!!!! I loved your Loki x green witch reader story I’m actually obsessed with the concept of the usually moody Loki just enamoured by this ray of sunshine. So is there anyway you could do like a blurb of them pre relationship?? Maybe Loki makes excuses to catch glimpses of her and she takes it the wrong way?

AGHH this request excited me so much I’ve loved Loki x sunny green witch reader for ages and this ignited my want to write so hey this might become a little series if anyone’s interested. The original one shot is here but this can totally be read stand alone!

Loki x fem!greenwitch!reader

Loki couldn’t quite remember how it had started. He remembers the first time he saw you, it was hard to forget after all. You were all smiles and smooth movements, the ethereal sparkles leaving your fingertips so effortlessly he felt like he’d had a spell cast on him right then and there.

Maybe he had. Maybe that was why for the past month Loki had found every opportunity to catch a glimpse of who he now knew to be the green witch.

In Asgardian folklore witches were evil old crones, sharp splintered nails and sneering wrinkled faces, cloaked in dark heavy materials. How wrong they had been. You couldn’t antithesis’ that more.

Your beauty was obvious. Anyone with eyes or ears would recognise that. From how you nurtured every aspect of your life, from the smallest of insects to the mightiest of hero’s. Your kindness was staggering. This naturally intrigued him.

The god of mischief had heard rumours of your origin from other members of the avengers, well heard was pushing it. He had asked. The Robin Hood knock off had mentioned something about you hiding? Spending years locked away in the forest, too kind to fight the cruel hunters so living a life of solitude among the plants and creatures.

Witches were a hot commodity after all. If the impression Asgardians had of witches was anything to go by he could only assume the dimwitted humans had a similar ideology.

But enough about the past, Loki was very much struggling with you in the present.

The first few times it was an accident. You both seemed to favour tea over the dark caffeinated syrup the other heathens of stark tower were addicted to. So when you softly asked him,“Did you have the last lemon tea bag?” With absolutely zero malice, it took Loki nearly twenty seconds to string together some sort of reply.

“Yes… my apologies”

“Ah that’s no problem I’ll have to make some more, I grow my own tea leaves”

Well I guess that was how it had begun. Loki’s infatuation and his over consumption of herbal tea.

He had managed to memorise your schedule. You would spend most of your time in the green houses, flourishing your garden and researching new spells in the hundreds of old tomes and scrolls Stark had helped you find.

In the evenings, usually around 9pm you could be found in the common areas, sat in a corner with a book and of course a cup of tea. Loki suddenly found himself waiting for the clock to strike 9 every day.

The god was casual about it, never approached you or tried to charm you into his company like he would have done in the past with broads upon Asgard. No you were far too special to be smarmed.

So he would just hover like a black cat, observing silently as casually and as cautiously as possible. Just like tonight.

At 9:01 pm Loki strolled into the kitchen, like most (all) evenings and heated the kettle pouring himself a cup of tea. His eyes landed on you like they always did, how could they not. The silence unlike most nights felt thicker, heavier. Something was off, and your sigh filled with unfamiliar contempt shocked him into dropping his tea spoon, the small metal tool falling into the countertop with a loud clatter.

The noise garnered so much volume you involuntarily got out of your chair, slamming your book shut with a pout as you made your way to the door. Just before Loki slammed his head against the wall like a lovestruck fool your voice rung out in the air.

“I know everyone here thinks I’m strange but if you’re just going to stand there and gawk at me every evening I’d much rather you just disclosed your judgments out loud…”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t act so perplexed. I’ve seen you coming here to catch a glimpse of me..”

Lokis heart dropped, you knew?

“…oh look at the mad witch who spends all her time talking to plants I wonder if she’s as nuts as everyone says she is!!”

Oh no. No no no you’d gotten it all wrong. If he wasn’t so stressed about the content of which you were speaking he probably would have been fixed on how adorable you were when you rambled.

“No… no I promise that was not my intention. It probably doesn’t come as a surprise to you that I’m not very well liked by the louder more extroverted inhabitants here…you well you seemed different? Less brash more… calm”

Gods he was such an imbecile. If you didn’t think he was an utter creep before you definitely would now.

The gods eyes were wide and frantic scanning your features for any kind of sign of understanding. Someone must of been looking out for him because the wrinkle between your brow softened and that pout, that intoxicatingly adorable pout curved into what could only be described as a bewitching smile.

“Oh… oh well then it is my turn to apologise… I just assumed you thought… well you know…”

“Fortunately I don’t…”

“Well maybe next time you happen upon me reading you could… join me?”

Loki nearly grabbed his chest to still his beating heart “I look forward to it…” maybe he wasn’t the god of lies after all.

[yoonavii]

𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐀

Gladiator Prince! Eustass x Reader

Summary: Y/n, a skilled ice warrior from the frigid kingdom of Nosta, and Prince Eustass, a ruthless gladiator prince hailing from the enemy nation, the Modora Empire. Their two nations have a long history of conflict and animosity. However, when a dire situation calls for a political marriage to secure peace, Y/n and Eustass find themselves bound together in a union neither desires. As they navigate the treacherous path of diplomacy, they must confront their own prejudices and the weight of their peoples’ expectations. Through adversity and danger, the icy walls between them slowly begin to melt, and they discover unexpected connections and feelings, transforming their initial enmity into a deep and passionate love of the ages.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

In the heart of a snow-covered terrain, one stands amidst towering mountains, a hardy inhabitant uniquely adapted to the harsh winters that intimidate those from distant lands. Encircled by towering walls erected a millennium ago, the kingdom of Nosta has long lived in the shadow of the Modorans, a relentless empire known for their brutal conquests and unyielding warriors. The kingdom’s past has been rewritten by the ceaseless war with the Modora Empire, transforming the once-peaceful Nostians into hardened archers and skilled hunters. Adaptation is the key to survival, and the land’s bountiful resources have turned its people into formidable defenders.

As the first light of dawn breaks over the mountains, you awaken to the rhythmic sound of Lucie’s snores, your loyal polar bear dog nestled at the foot of your bed. The soft glow of dawn spills through frost-laden windows, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow across your chamber’s walls. You stretch beneath the warmth of your fur-lined blankets, feeling the chill in the air that seeps through the thick walls of the stone castle. With a gentle smile, you lean over and ruffle Lucie’s fur, the bond between you and your faithful companion unbreakable. Her eyes flutter open, revealing a mixture of sleepiness and excitement, as if she senses the adventures that await you both.

Leaving the comfort of your bed, you swing your legs over the side and place your feet on the cold stone floor, feeling the shock of its icy touch. You wrap yourself in a thick robe adorned with intricate patterns of frost and snowflakes, a testament to the artistry of Nosta’s craftsmen. As you make your way to the window, you catch your reflection in the frost-kissed glass. Your hair cascades down your shoulders, a stark contrast to the rich blue of your gown, embroidered with delicate silver threads that shimmer like frost in the early morning light. Your eyes, a reflection of the kingdom’s icy hues, carry a determination that belies the challenges you face.

The maids enter your chamber, their footsteps muffled by the plush rugs that line the floor. They offer greetings with a graceful bow, their breath visible in the cold air. “Good morning, Your Highness,” they say in unison, their voices carrying the respect and warmth that has been passed down through generations of Nostians. “Good morning,” you reply with a nod and a soft smile. “Thank you for preparing my bath.”

With a sense of anticipation, you follow the maids to the royal hot springs. The journey takes you through the castle’s corridors, where torches flicker and cast dancing shadows on stone walls adorned with tapestries depicting Nosta’s history. The air is alive with the aroma of pine and wood smoke, a comforting scent that lingers in the halls. Finally, you arrive at the entrance to the hot springs, where steam rises like ethereal tendrils from the inviting water. The surface of the natural pool shimmers with a mosaic of colors, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the opening in the rock above. Your breath catches at the sight, a reminder that even amidst the icy kingdom, moments of warmth and beauty can be found.

The maids bow and take their leave, leaving you in the company of the steam and the echoing sounds of dripping water. Slowly, you shed your robe, allowing it to fall to the ground in a heap of luxurious fabric. With a deep breath, you step into the warm water, a sigh of contentment escaping your lips as the heat seeps into your bones, thawing away the chill of the morning. As you recline in the soothing embrace of the hot springs, surrounded by stone walls that echo with the whispers of centuries, you reflect on the challenges that lie ahead. The council’s rule, your brother’s future, and the unending conflict with the Modorans all weigh heavily on your mind. But for now, in this tranquil haven, you allow yourself a moment of respite, a brief interlude of peace in a world defined by ice and fire.

As you lower yourself into the warm embrace of the royal hot springs, a wave of relaxation washes over you. The steam rises in delicate tendrils, enveloping you in a cocoon of tranquility. The water’s heat seeps into your tired muscles, melting away the residual tension from the challenges you’ve faced.

As your fingers trace patterns through the water’s surface, your gaze drifts over your own reflection. The ripples distort your image, but they can’t conceal the numerous scars that crisscross your skin. Each mark tells a story, a testament to the battles you’ve fought and the obstacles you’ve overcome.

Your fingers brush against a scar on your shoulder, a faint line etched into your skin from a duel that tested your mettle as a young warrior. You remember the intensity of that fight, the mixture of fear and determination that fueled your every move. That scar is a reminder of the raw strength that you possess, a strength that has grown with every challenge you’ve faced since that day.

Your hand moves to a more intricate scar on your forearm, a relic from a training accident that happened when you were just a child. The memory of that incident is bittersweet, a reminder of the innocence you lost as you embraced the warrior’s path. But you’ve come to view that scar not as a mark of vulnerability, but as a badge of honor. It symbolizes the relentless drive that pushed you to hone your skills, to transform yourself from a curious explorer into a formidable protector of Nosta.

As your gaze travels further, you take stock of the various scars that mar your skin – some faded, others still vivid. They are the physical manifestations of your journey, the outward evidence of your growth. Each scar is a chapter in the story of your life, a testament to your resilience and your unwavering commitment to your people.

With a mixture of fondness and pride, you allow your fingers to glide over the scars, tracing the contours of each mark. They are reminders that strength isn’t always about brute force; it’s about enduring, learning, and evolving. The girl who once felt the sting of those wounds has blossomed into the ice princess who now commands respect and admiration.

A sudden shift in the air catches your attention, and you turn your head to see a woman entering the chamber. It’s her – your mentor, a figure of both respect and apprehension. The maids make a futile attempt to halt her progress, their efforts thwarted by her unyielding determination. She strides forward with an air of authority, her presence commanding the room.

As she approaches, her gaze fixes on you, and you feel the weight of her scrutiny. There’s a sense of history between you, a connection forged through years of training and shared experiences. Her voice, gruff and unapologetic, slices through the tranquil atmosphere. “Are you prepared for your coming of age ceremony?” she demands, the question laced with both expectation and challenge.

Meeting her gaze head-on, you don’t flinch under the weight of her scrutiny. You’ve been groomed for this moment, the culmination of your journey towards assuming a greater role in the kingdom. With a calm resolve, you rise from the hot springs, the water cascading off your skin as you step onto the cold stone floor.

“I’ve always been prepared,” you reply, your voice steady and unwavering. “Since the beginning of my youth.” The words carry a deeper meaning, a reflection of the sacrifices and training that have shaped you into the person you are today. Your mentor’s gruff demeanor may test you, but you hold your ground, your determination mirroring the strength that lies beneath the scars that mark your skin.

Your mentor’s expression softens imperceptibly, a glimmer of pride mingling with her stern countenance. She nods in acknowledgement, the unspoken understanding between you a testament to the bond you share. As you move to dress in the robes that await you, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror – a reflection of the ice princess who has weathered countless challenges, poised to embrace her destiny with unwavering resolve.

————

Meanwhile, in a stark contrast to the icy realm of Nosta, the Modora Empire extended across a vastly different terrain, marked by hot climates and diverse landscapes. Their imposing walls stood as a testament to their expansive dominion, a visual reminder of their conquests that stretched far beyond their own borders. These walls were grander, more formidable than those of Nosta, and they conveyed a message of power and might.

At the entrance gates, towering statues of intimidating warriors greeted all who entered, serving as both a warning and a symbol of the empire’s strength. The capital itself was a spectacle of opulence and grandeur, with the palace radiating an air of tremendous wealth that seemed almost casual. The architecture seamlessly blended elements reminiscent of both the Roman Empire and the Nordic Empire, a fusion that spoke to the eclectic nature of their dominion.

As the day’s sun beat down upon the bustling streets of the capital, the people crowded together, their cheers reverberating through the air. A procession was underway, led by none other than Prince Eustass and the Emperor’s battle-hardened military forces. The return from yet another conquest was marked by the visible evidence of bloodshed – the armor and faces of the men bore the stain of the conflicts they had waged.

Amidst the cheers and adulation, Prince Eustass rode at the forefront of the procession, his demeanor one of confidence and pride. His arms opened wide, he basked in the glory and praise that washed over him like a tidal wave. The cheers of the crowd seemed to fuel his sense of accomplishment, and he reveled in the admiration that surrounded him.

As Prince Eustass’s gaze swept across the sea of faces, he saw loyalty, respect, and perhaps even a touch of fear. The bloodshed that stained his armor was, to him, a testament to his strength and the might of the empire he represented. And so, with a triumphant smile, he acknowledged the crowd, his charisma and aura of authority capturing the attention of all who beheld him.

The jubilant cheers of the crowd filled the air, a chorus of adulation directed at the crown prince who rode at the forefront of the procession. “Long live the crown prince! Soon to be emperor!” The words carried a weight of anticipation, a promise of the empire’s future under his rule. The adoration of his people pleased Eustass, the pride in his chest swelling as he soaked in their approval.

Amidst the celebratory atmosphere, his loyal right-hand man, Killer, guided his horse to walk beside Eustass. The swift movement of the horse allowed them to converse in hushed tones, their words hidden beneath the clamor of the crowd. Killer’s concern was evident as he asked, “How is your arm?” The inquiry, laced with a hint of worry, betrayed the unspoken struggles that came with leading an empire through battles and conflicts.

Eustass cast a sidelong glance at Killer, his gaze meeting the unwavering determination in his friend’s eyes. With a fleeting look back at the cheering crowd, he turned his attention back to Killer, his voice low and measured. “Not now,” he murmured, his tone carrying a note of urgency. “Discuss this when we’re in the palace.” The weight of responsibility and decision-making pressed heavily on Eustass’s shoulders, a burden he was all too familiar with.

As the procession continued its triumphant march through the capital’s streets, Eustass’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The cheers of the crowd were a stark contrast to the quiet concerns that resonated within him. Beneath the façade of glory and power, the prince knew that his choices would shape not only the empire’s destiny, but also his own.

Killer's observant gaze flickered over Eustass's armor, his keen eyes taking in the intricate details and the craftsmanship that adorned it. The armor was a work of art, a testament to the prince's mixed heritage. It bore designs that resonated with both the strength of his Nordic ancestry and the elegance of his Roman lineage, a fusion that reflected his diverse heritage. Turning slightly toward Eustass, Killer's inquiry was softly spoken, "New armor?" His voice held a touch of curiosity, the question a natural extension of the concern he felt for his friend's well-being.

Eustass met Killer's gaze, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Not new," he replied, his tone carrying a mixture of pride and reverence. "This armor has been passed down through generations. It once belonged to my great grandfather, a formidable Nordic warrior in his time." He paused, his gaze distant for a moment before refocusing on Killer. "My mother's side of the family carries the Nordic heritage, while my father's side is rooted in Roman traditions. This armor represents both sides of my lineage, a symbol of the strength and values that have been passed down to me."

As he spoke, Eustass's voice held a hint of nostalgia, his thoughts briefly wandering to the tales he had heard of his ancestor's heroic exploits. The weight of history was woven into the very fabric of the armor, connecting him to his family's storied past and the legacy that had shaped his identity. Killer's expression softened as he absorbed Eustass's words, a silent understanding passing between them. The armor wasn't just a set of protective plates; it was a tangible representation of Eustass's heritage and the values he held dear. It was a constant reminder of the complex tapestry of his background.

As the procession continued its triumphant journey, the camaraderie between Eustass and Killer remained unspoken yet palpable. Amidst the celebrations and the weight of their roles, the bond of friendship and the shared history between the two were a source of solace and support. And so, side by side, they rode on, connected by the present and the echoes of the past that shaped their destinies.

As the grand palace gates swung open, revealing the opulent interior that awaited, Eustass guided his horse forward with a sense of mixed emotions. The palace was a testament to the empire's grandeur, yet its halls held the weight of responsibilities he often found burdensome. Waiting for him, just beyond the threshold, was his royal advisor – a figure Eustass often found exasperating, though one he couldn't easily dismiss due to his father's decision.

The royal advisor, his demeanor as posh and condescending as ever, stood with an air of expectancy. Eustass regarded him with a mixture of mild annoyance and resignation. It was a relationship built on necessity, a connection he couldn't easily sever.

Before Eustass could even gather his thoughts, the advisor's voice carried an air of urgency, "Your Highness, you must meet with the council straight away." The words were delivered with a tone that brooked no argument, a reminder of the advisor's influence and the formalities that governed their actions.

Eustass's brows furrowed, his distaste for the council evident in his expression. The council, with their conservative agendas and rigid ideologies, was a constant source of frustration for him. He knew that their decisions often clashed with his own vision for the empire's future. In a voice tinged with both curiosity and irritation, he asked the question that lingered on his mind, "Why must I meet with the council now?"

The advisor's response was notably evasive, his eyes shifting nervously as he avoided direct eye contact. The prince's annoyance deepened, realizing that there was more to this meeting than met the eye. The advisor's silence spoke volumes, even if the details remained elusive. Whatever awaited him in the council chambers, Eustass sensed that it was a matter of utmost importance – one that could alter the course of his life and the fate of the empire he was destined to lead.

As you prepare for your coming of age ceremony, the atmosphere is filled with anticipation and reverence. The great Elders of the kingdom stand by your side, each delicate snowflake-shaped crystal they place on your attire representing a value or quality you embody – courage, kindness, leadership, and more. The crystals form a visual testament to your character, a reflection of the path you’ve walked and the destiny that lies ahead.

With gentle precision, an elder woman steps forward, her hands skilled in the art of cultural markings. Using a paste made from glowworms, she paints intricate designs onto your skin, patterns that will come alive in the darkness, casting an enchanting glow that sets you apart in the night.

Led by the Elders, you move with purpose, guided to the sacred location where your ceremony will unfold. The heart of an icy cave, cradled by a snow-capped mountain, serves as the backdrop for this momentous occasion. The cave’s walls shimmer with an otherworldly beauty, echoing the qualities of strength and grace you embody.

Stepping into the cave, you feel a warmth emanating from your markings, a sensation that guides you forward. The surroundings transform into a tapestry of wonder – a cliff’s edge overlooking a dark, icy lake below. The contrast between the darkness and the radiant crystals mirrors the challenges and aspirations that shape your journey.

As the ceremonial performers start playing their traditional drums, the rhythm fills the air with an enchanting melody. Their music serves as a herald, drawing attention to your arrival. The royal court, dressed in regal attire, and the kingdom’s formidable warriors stand united, a testament to the unity and strength that bind your people.

With a shift in energy, the warriors begin the kingdom’s powerful war chant, a call to arms that pulses with passion and purpose. In their chant, you hear not just a display of their might, but a shared commitment to safeguard and uplift the kingdom. The chant reaches its crescendo, and you stand poised at the edge, your heart filled with gratitude and determination.

Knowing your duty, you stride purposefully toward the edge of the icy lake, resolute in your intent to retrieve your crown. But just as you're about to take that leap into the deep waters, a firm yet gentle hand pulls you away from the edge. It's one of the older ladies from the council, an esteemed member known for her wisdom and respect. Her presence holds authority, and her actions speak volumes about the gravity of the situation.

In a hushed tone, she imparts her message to you – a whispered request to seek out the council once your ceremony concludes. Her words carry an air of importance, a promise of discussions and decisions that will shape the path ahead. With a kind smile, she adds a touch of unexpected advice, urging you to fall off the cliff with your back turned to look cool. It's a moment of levity amidst the solemnity, and you can't help but chuckle softly at her words.

You nod in agreement, acknowledging her request to meet the council and expressing your intent to do so. Stepping back from the cliff's edge, you gather your resolve and take a step forward, allowing yourself to tip over the precipice. In that brief moment, your heart races as the sensation of falling engulfs you.

As you descend into the water, your markings glow brighter, illuminating the dark depths below. Your vision sharpens, and you spot the shimmering crown nestled among the rocks. Without hesitation, you swim downward, your movements fluid and purposeful. The cold water envelops you, and the weight of your purpose drives you forward.

Reaching the bottom of the lake, you grasp the crown in your hands, its intricate details gleaming beneath the water's surface. With determination, you kick off the lake floor, propelling yourself upward. The journey feels both eternal and fleeting, the seconds stretching as your goal inches closer.

Breaking through the water's surface, you emerge victorious, holding the crown aloft for all to see. The cheers that erupt from the onlookers echo through the icy cave, a triumphant symphony that celebrates your accomplishment. The exhilaration of the moment courses through your veins, a reminder of the strength and spirit that define you as the ice princess of Nosta.

——

Returning to Prince Eustass in the Modora Empire, he strides into the council chamber, his boots echoing off the polished marble floor. The grandeur of the room is accentuated by the presence of council members, each distinguished by the wreaths adorning their heads. They sit in solemn attention, their gazes fixed on the prince as he enters. Among them stands the formidable general, his presence a testament to military prowess, and by his side stands his daughter – a woman whose connection with Eustass goes beyond mere politics.

The absence of his father, the ailing emperor, casts a shadow over the room, serving as a reminder of the empire's vulnerability in the face of his health condition. Taking the seat that his father usually occupies at the head of the grand table, Eustass settles in with a hint of impatience already tugging at his demeanor. His fingers drum against the armrest as he cuts through any pretense with a voice laced with annoyance, "What is it? I've just returned and haven't even had a moment to gather my thoughts. Spare me the formalities and get to the point."

The head council member, a figure known for their authority, clears their throat, capturing the attention of the room before responding. Their words carry a weight, the gravity of the moment evident in their tone as they address Eustass, "Very well, your highness. Allow me to be direct. We are forging an alliance with the ice kingdom of Nosta. As a symbol of this alliance, a political marriage is to be arranged between you and their Princess."

The declaration hangs in the air, the room seemingly suspended in the aftermath of the statement. Eustass's mouth opens slightly, his surprise laid bare on his features. A political marriage – a strategic move that transcends enmity and demands personal sacrifice – it's a proposition that upends his expectations. The council's decision to intertwine his fate with the princess of an adversary kingdom confronts Eustass with a complex choice that could reshape his empire's destiny.

In this charged moment, the tension between duty and personal desires is a palpable undercurrent. The choices Eustass faces resonate far beyond his own desires, carrying the weight of the empire's future. As glances flicker between council members, the general, and the woman who holds a place in his heart, a whirlwind of emotions and intricate considerations swirls around him. The atmosphere of the chamber mirrors the intricate path that lies ahead, demanding that Eustass navigate the delicate balance between political strategy, matters of the heart, and the greater welfare of the Empire.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

[pyrettawychwiggin]

Come With Me (Oneshot) - Crow x Guardian (Destiny 2)

The following oneshot contains spoilers for The Final Shape beneath the cut. Tread carefully, Guardian.

What to Expect: SFW, fluff, cute

I put this together shortly after Ch'ak and I completed The Final Shape campaign. I've been a bit of Crow stan ever since I first started playing, so naturally, I ship my own hunter with him pretty hard-core.

That being said, seeing as how my Guardian, Vera, respected and got along well with Amanda, she rooted for her and Crow despite her feelings, honestly feeling that she would be good for him (until they hit their rocky patch). If anything were to happen between she and Crow now, I feel like it would be a bit of a slow burn, so maybe eventually I'll write more about them.

Anywho, enjoy!

♡

♡

♡

Vera sat atop the overlook high above the Dreaming City, one leg tucked into her chest, the other dangling over the ledge. She gazed out to the skies shimmering in hues of ammolite, a stark contrast to the pearlescent white structures towering over the misty green landscape.

The words kept echoing in her head.

Now, you tell the others that this was my choice.

She removed her helmet and set it aside with a huff, feeling more and more constricted by her grief.

My Light.

She felt her chest grow tight, and the familiar sting of tears threatening to fall.

Nobody makes my fate but me.

Her hands burned with the phantom sensation of Cayde's over hers.

You're my favourite. Don't ever forget that.

Her mind returning to the moment Cayde's Light - that bittersweet cataclysm - crashed through her consciousness and brought Doppler back to her - but at a cost she wished he hadn't needed to pay.

"Vera?" Doppler hovered just a few feet away at her side. "Maybe we should get back."

"Sorry, Dopps - just..." Vera shook her head and sniffled, using the palm of her hand to dry her waterline. "Just a little bit longer."

"Well, alright..."

Dopps' robotic tone was still full of concern. Usually his guardian was far more forthcoming with her feelings; she notoriously wore her heart on her sleeve, but ever since they'd returned from the Pale Heart for the final time since the Witness' unmaking, it felt as if her heart had been sealed off in a steel vault. On occasion, he'd see her eyes brimming with the shine of tears, but she wasn't allowing herself to fully break down like he knew she needed to; the next moment, her expression would harden again; as if she were actively reigning herself in - blocking off her feelings, which most certainly was not like her.

"I'm here," he said softly, almost as if he was afraid that breaking the silence would shatter her into dust. "If you need to talk."

Vera nodded before Dopps disappeared to give her a moment of privacy. Perhaps if she wouldn't allow herself to cry in front of him, she'd be more comfortable if there was no one else around.

The area was silent and still once more, but Vera's expression remained blank. She had no idea how long she'd been there, or how long she planned on staying, but she knew if she really wanted, she had all the time in the world; which perhaps made the whole concept all the more maddening.

"Guardian," a familiar voice broke the silence once more, making her jolt a little. "I thought I'd find you here."

Crow carefully approached her, stopping about a meter away to wait for her to respond.

"Crow." Vera rasped, keeping her back turned to him, silently hoping he'd keep this encounter brief. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, for one, you could talk to me." To her dismay, Crow sighed and took a seat on the ledge beside her, giving her a sidelong glance. "You haven't been yourself since we got back. We're all getting a little worried."

"I don't know how to talk about it. This all still doesn't quite feel real, yet."

"Mm." Crow nodded and took a heavy breath, turning his gaze beyond the horizon. "Maybe start with telling me... how are you feeling right now?"

"It changes with each passing thought." Vera frowned and shook her head, furrowing her brow as she attempted to find the words to describe what was in her heart. "I'm furious, I'm heartbroken, I'm confused, but most of all, I feel.... guilty."

"Guilty?" Crow turned his head to look at her again, eyebrows raised in surprise at her choice of words. "Don't tell me you blame yourself for Cayde?"

"No, I... I feel guilty for feeling the way that I do."

"What do you mean?"

"I just can't help but think about the lightless folk. People die around them all the time - and for good - no Ghost to resurrect them from a bullet to the heart or a knife to the throat." Vera hugged her knee closer to her chest. "How many of them have lost people they'd loved and wished more than anything to get to see them one more time; to have one more conversation with them to find that closure they never got to have beforehand?"

Crow frowned and nodded slowly, allowing her to continue her thought.

"We did. We were so lucky to have gotten to hear his smart-ass voice again, and yet I can't help but feel that it just..." Vera's shoulders started to quiver as she felt herself beginning to break. "Wasn't enough."

Crow shuffled closer to the Awoken hunter and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, gently resting his cheek on the top of her head while tears finally started to trickle down her face. She leaned back against him, despite the tingling of her skin that begged her to push him away.

"No amount of time is enough when it comes to someone you love," Crow sighed, feeling his own heart ache for his own losses as well as Vera's. "Were you two really that close?"

"When I first arrived - after Dopps woke me up - I was all over the place." Vera sniffled. "Cayde was also... well, all over the place, but I think that's why I could relate to him. His chaos was like a mirrored version of my own, just so, so much brighter. He was one of my first friends."

"Just friends?" Crow chuckled, giving her arm a playful shake. "I always assumed there was more to it than that."

"No, never." Vera shrugged. She cast her eyes out across the vast landscape and smiled numbly. "He was more like a big brother in my eyes. Or, maybe a mentor - of some sort? I don't know. I loved him with all my heart - but not... like that."

The two Hunters sat in silence for a while before Crow cleared his throat.

"There's a private vigil for Cayde back at the Tower tonight; there won't be many people there, it's really just Cayde's closest friends." He dropped his arm and rose to his feet, dusting himself off and offering a hand to her. "Come with me?"

Vera gulped, staring at his open palm with hesitance. "I don't know if I'll be able to keep it together long enough to be social..."

"You don't have to be social if you don't want to," Crow replied with a sympathetic half-smile and a slight tilt of his head. "Just stick with me; I can do the brunt of the talking today if that's what you need."

Crow... Vera nearly felt as though she'd crumble. He's dealing with his own pain and grief, but he's still looking out for me...

"Okay." Vera wiped her tears off on her sleeve and took his hand, letting him gently hoist her up to her feet, his grip lingering for just a few seconds longer than necessary. "Thank you, Crow. And by the way..."

"Hm?" Crow waited for her to continue.

"I, uh... I like the hair." Vera gave Crow the first genuine smile she'd had for quite some time. "It's nice being able to see the rest of your face."

"O-oh." Crow averted his eyes, his ears darkening slightly in a soft blush. He scratched the bridge of his nose with a bashful chuckle under his breath before silently working up a small ounce of courage, reaching out to softly drift his fingers over her jawline. "Thank you, Vera."

"See?" Glint excitedly popped out from behind Crow's shoulder. "I told you she'd like it."

Crow's shoulders jumped with surprise before he turned and frantically shushed his ghost, making Vera laugh for the first time in weeks.

"I haven't seen you laugh for weeks!" Dopps returned, hovering around Vera almost as if he were dancing with glee, turning to Crow and stating, "you really do bring out the best in her."

"Dopps! Seriously?" Vera hissed, face warm and flushed at the ghost's lack of tact.

Laughing and arm-in-arm, the two hunters transmatted back to the Tower for one last celebration of their fallen hero.

[featherbow]

Please note that these broadcasts are only scheduled for the times listed below.

THE RE-SLAYER’S TAKE

Follow the escapades of the second-coolest monster hunters this side of Exandria: The Re-Slayer’s Take! After six misfit mercenaries are rejected from the elite monster hunting group, The Slayer’s Take, they band together battling supernatural creatures across the rugged continent of Issylra.

Episode 3 releases Monday, June 3rd on your favorite podcast streaming service at 5am Pacific

Episodes 5 releases Monday, June 3rd at 5am Pacific only on Beacon

CANDELA OBSCURA COOLDOWN | CANDELA OBSCURA LIVE | THE CIRCLE OF THE SILVER SCREEN

Join Spenser Starke, Matthew Mercer, Khary Payton, Marisha Ray, Laura Bailey, and Taliesin Jaffe as they discuss the events of their LIVE Candela Obscura One-Shot after the show.

Releases Monday, June 3rd at 12pm Pacific only on Beacon 

CRITICAL ROLE ABRIDGED

All the twists and turns of an episode of Critical Role in half the time! In Critical Role Abridged, the rich tapestry of a Critical Role campaign is lovingly distilled to its most pivotal, hilarious, and poignant moments in about 60-90 minutes per episode. 

Campaign 3, Episode 7 releases Tuesday, June 4th at 10am Pacific on YouTube

Campaign 3, Episode 20 releases Tuesday, June 4th at 10am Pacific on Beacon

Campaign 3, Episode 21 releases Friday, June 7th at 10am Pacific on Beacon

4-SIDED DIVE, EPISODE 24

Discussing Up to Campaign 3, Episode 96

Join Robbie Daymond, Laura Bailey, Marisha Ray, and Matthew Mercer as they discuss the return of Dorian Storm, the current state of the group, and the continuous moon nonsense still afoot! They’ll, of course, also pull questions from the Tower of Inquiry and play a very “relaxing” game called WE’RE DOOMED!

Airs Tuesday, June 4th at 7pm Pacific on Twitch and YouTube

VOD and Podcast out Tuesday, June 4th at 7pm Pacific on Beacon 

VOD out Wednesday, June 5th on YouTube at 12pm Pacific

Podcast out Tuesday, June 11th on your favorite podcast streaming service 

MIDST: SEASON 3

Join our three mischievous and unreliable narrators as they spin a surreal, sci-fantasy, space-western tale about complicated antiheroes making bad decisions in a world on the edge of disaster.

Episode 17  releases Wednesday, June 5th on YouTube at 10am Pacific and your favorite podcast streaming service at 5am Pacific

Unreliable narrators can’t be expected to stick to a schedule??? Episode 19 (the series finale of Midst!) will release on June 12th for subscribers.

CRITICAL ROLE: CAMPAIGN 3, EPISODE 97

Bells Hells continue on their adventure…

Airs Thursday, June 6th at 7pm Pacific on Twitch and YouTube

VOD and Podcast out Thursday, June 6th at 7pm Pacific only on Beacon 

Rebroadcasts Friday, June 7th at 12am Pacific and 9am Pacific on Twitch

VOD out Monday, June 10th at 12pm Pacific on YouTube 

Podcast out June 13th on your favorite podcast streaming service at 5am Pacific

NOTE: There will not be a new episode of Critical Role on June 13th due to our Bells Hells Live Show on June 15th.

Instead, we will be airing a new installment of The Menagerie in a Daggerheart LIVE One-Shot!

CRITICAL COOLDOWN: CAMPAIGN 3, EPISODE 97

Get a backstage pass to Campaign 3, Episode 97! You’ll be right there at the table immediately after Matt says “Is it Thursday yet?”, experiencing the cast’s post-show reactions.

Releases Thursday, June 6th at 7pm Pacific only on Beacon 

[bulkyphrase]

Comfort Podfic Rec List

It's been a while since my last podfic-specific rec list, and with that lore.fm nonsense it seems like an especially good time to highlight the wonderful work that podficcers do!

These are some of the podfics I rely on to cheer me up. They're all sweet, fluffy or funny, and relatively short.

but hey, you're all right read by sisi-rambles (Stucky, 30-45 Minutes, Teen And Up Audiences)

Summary: 'This is not my fault,' Tony lies. 'It was supposed to be a joke! Christ.' 'Thanks to your joke,' says Coulson, 'we now have a code three-four-delta, with the variable being a Russian immigrant. We're checking his background right now, but it might take a while. Meanwhile, I suggest you civilian-proof the Tower. If any SHIELD intelligence is compromised, I will hurt you.' Yes, this is the story where the Winter Soldier is a Russian mail-order bride. Everything goes about as well as you'd expect. Based on the story by beardsley

Baby Steve Adventures read by blackglass (Gen, 20-30 Minutes, General Audiences)

Summary: Captain America gets hit by a spell during a battle. The rest of the Avengers look after him. Based on the story by catty_the_spy (@cattythespy)

The Devil and the Wild Man read by Tipsy_Kitty (@tipsyxkitty) (Loki/Steve Rogers, 1-1.5 Hours, Mature)

Summary: Steve's dinosaur keeps Loki in line on Sakaar. This is not a euphemism, but it is also 100% a euphemism. Based on the story by Effing (@effingunicorns)

More below the cut!

Right In Front of Your Face read by sisi-rambles (Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, 10-20 Minutes, General Audiences)

Summary: Phil and Clint get engaged and go out together to spread the news. but everyone is just shocked to hear they're together. Based on the story by @ereshai

Mixed Ages Classroom read by blackglass (Gen, 30-45 Minutes, Not Rated)

Summary: For this prompt, where the Avengers are de-aged, but to different ages: Clint & Tony to young children (below 10), Bruce to a toddler (whose tantrums involve hulking out to bb!hulk), Natasha & Steve back to teenagers (with scrawny!Steve). In which Hulk is a baby, Natasha and Steve know they aren't real teenagers, Clint and Tony behave badly, and Maria Hill is not a parent but Coulson might be. Based on the story by harcourt (@haforcere)

Protocol 1985 read by sisi-rambles (Gen, 30-45 Minutes, General Audiences)

Summary: “Holy crow, it worked,” someone says. Wherein Clint and Natasha meet Howard and Peggy. Based on the story by hollimichele (@nonasuch)

Fair Shot read by hopelesse (@sheshopelesse) (Stony, 20-30 Minutes, Mature)

Summary: Captain Rogers leaps from the helicopter like a gymnast on the dismount. All the lines of his body are controlled. Perfect. The iconic round shield lies flat across his back. “How does he fit a parachute under that?” I ask. “He doesn’t,” Stark answers. “Marvelous adrenaline junkie, our Cap. Likes to almost break his ankles every time. Makes him feel like a man.” Front Line reporter Ben Urich spends a mission embedded with Tony Stark and Captain Steve Rogers on an Ultimates mission. Based on the story by @isozyme

Dad's Got Skeletons read by sisi-rambles (Steve Rogers/Howard Stark (maybe?), 20-30 Minutes, Teen And Up Audiences)

Summary: “To think he became a dad—your dad. A daddy.” He looked up sharply and saw that Steve’s smile had twisted a little bit, pulled up at one corner like a smirk, except no, Captain America did not smirk. “You know, it’s funny. I called him daddy once too.” Based on the story by kehinki

Sam Wilson: Ghost Hunter read by sisi-rambles (Samsteve, 0-10 Minutes, General Audiences)

Summary: Sam's stuck in a horror movie cliche. Based on the story by kehinki

(the kitten invasion fleet has arrived) read by blackglass (Gen, 0-10 Minutes, General Audiences)

Summary: what if the first contact with nonhuman life forms comes about in a different way? Based on the story by @labelleizzy

someone’s gonna pay for this read by sisi-rambles (Gen, 0-10 Minutes, General Audiences)

Summary: Steve as a cat. Based on the story by @lazulisong

Groundwater read by blackglass (Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers, 30-45 Minutes, Teen And Up Audiences)

Summary: Okay, she thinks, in a zen-like state of calm: given a chump assignment, she not only managed to fall in a well, she somehow dragged Captain America--living legend, supersoldier, level 7 SHIELD consultant, and Avenger--down with her. This means two things: 1) Captain America knows who she is now, and thinks she’s a dumbass, and 2) SHIELD is probably going to make her disappear as punishment (likely by throwing her in another, deeper well and pretending she never existed). “Don’t mind me,” she says faintly. “I’m just gonna drown myself now.” Based on the story by @legete

Dear Clint Barton (Circa Age 7) read by RsCreighton (@rosecreighton) (Gen, 20-30 Minutes, Teen And Up Audiences)

Summary: The most annoying parts of being de-aged (and then re-aged) are your friends. Based on the story by @pollyrepeat

Situation Normal read by quietnight (@quietnighty) (Stucky, 20-30 Minutes, Mature)

Summary: AU wherein Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers never met, Steve somehow manages to rescue the Winter Soldier anyway, and Avengers Tower ends up with the world’s angriest duckling and a whole new brand of entertainment. - (“He was dragging him out of the river,” Natasha argues later. “Nat, be honest, he was going for the Full Monty.” Says Clint. “I’m pretty sure we interrupted him in the middle of giving ‘emergency CPR’,” Tony agrees, “Or the stage after emergency CPR. Emergency Dick? Is that a thing?” “That’s not a thing,” Natasha and Clint reply.) Based on the story by redcigar

How Steve Rogers Singlehandedly Lost the Cold War read by quietnight (@quietnighty) (Stucky, 20-30 Minutes, Mature)

Note: This is a sequel/companion to the previous fic, Situation Normal.

Summary: AU wherein Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes never met, but the Winter Soldier takes an interest in Captain America anyway, and has an odd way of showing it. -- (On the helicarrier, hurrying to reach the central hub of the third aircraft in time, the chip clenched in his gloved fist, Steve turns to find a ghost blocking his path, and is abruptly reminded on what the road to hell is paved with.) Based on the story by redcigar

Get Some Now read by where_thewind_blows (@flowersthroughthecracks) (Stony, 1-1.5 Hours, Teen And Up Audiences)

Summary: Avengers Mansion has a mysterious feline infestation. Meanwhile, Steve just can't figure out how to ask Tony out on a date. And the thirteen teleporting cats sure aren't helping matters any. Based on the story by @sineala

Mercy in You by Sineala read by Pywren (@phyrrhicvictory) (Stony, 1-1.5 Hours, Mature)

Summary: When Tony comes back from a very bad D/s date, in pain and abandoned by his dom, Steve offers to help Tony out and give him all the aftercare he so desperately needs. Based on the story by @sineala

To Keep the Home Fires Burning read by blackglass (Maria Hill/Natasha Romanov, 30-45 Minutes, Teen And Up Audiences)

Summary: Maria does three tours of cat sitting duty before she and Romanoff come to be on a first name basis. She claims a whole shelf in the pantry and sneaks in two more cat mugs too. Based on the story by Woad

[staycalmandhugaclone]

If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved - Echo! You can read this little chunk as a standalone, or head back to the beginning for the full experience!

Febuwhump Day 1 Part 3

Touch-Starved – Wrecker - An innocent request leads Doc to a horrifying discovery that she's quick to remedy.

Warnings: Reference to child neglect/ starvation, star wars cursing

WC: 3,452

Still slightly dazed, I watched my hands gather the last of the medical supplies littering the floor from Tech’s evasive maneuvers. He’d sent the Marauder rocketing between incoming fire and tumbling boulders too quickly for my eyes to even keep up with. Hunter had ordered me to stay aboard the ship for my own safety, but the death-defying stunts we’d had to make in order to meet the others at the rendezvous left me certain I’d have been safer with them.

But then we came into view of the very tail-end of their escape. The Separatist forces were staggering. If not for the unforgiving terrain of massive caverns and towering cliffs, the soldiers would have been overrun. Kriff, as it was, they should have been overrun, but the lethal efficiency driving their movements was… nearly inhuman.

Echo danced between flurries of red bolts, the pistol in his hand firing ceaselessly with frightening precision. Even from above, I couldn’t make out where Crosshair lay nestled against the stone wall, somehow anticipating his brothers’ actions well enough to not only avoid hitting them by mistake, but managing to build off their attacks to setoff explosives midair to cover a greater range. Hunter flitted between the targets so quickly, their own computers weren’t able to keep up, lining up enemy fire to take out handfuls of their own numbers between attacks of his own. And Wrecker…

Wrecker was terrifying in the most amazing of ways. I’d seen him toss 100Ib B1’s like they were nothing, but the B2 droids weighed over six times that, and, still, he heaved them about like it was a game. I could practically hear his booming laughter over the screaming engines, knuckles gleaming white as I clung to the flight harness trapping me into the copilot’s seat. Tech hadn’t even slowed down as we skimmed dangerously close to the ground, strafing low enough for his brothers to leap onto the lowered ramp as we soared past.

Of course, they were given the most dangerous missions – each one of them was a far cry from sane, but armed with the mental and physical prowess to rend reality into whatever truth they deemed fit. Maker, I was glad they were on my side…

“H-hey, Doc?” The hesitation in that gravelly voice instantly drew my attention back to the present, glancing over my shoulder to find Wrecker tentatively shifting his weight between his feet just beyond the doorway in a blindly stark contrast to his earlier display of might.

“Yeah, Wreck? Something I can help you with?” I asked softly, offering a gentle smile that I hoped might sooth his lingering unease.

“Ah, well… not really, just…”  Maker, this man was going to be the death of me. It took every ounce of control to keep from melting into a unprofessional flood of affection amidst the display of sweet innocence before me.

“Why don’t you come in here, big guy? I promise that door won’t lock behind you.” I murmured in as gentle of an invitation as I could manage. His gaze shifted briefly, almost as though he was studying the doorway to ensure I hadn’t added some hidden locking mechanism.

“Right, no – I know that.” He said dismissively, but his movements were still stiff as he walked forward enough for the sensors to automatically slide the door shut behind him.

“Alright, you want to tell me what’s going on? Did you get hurt on that last mission?”

“No-no; nothin’ like that!” He answered quickly, hands shooting up to wave away my concern. I leaned back against the cot, hands resting lightly atop the padding in full view as he chewed absently on his lip for a moment.

“Is this about one of your brothers?” I guessed, eyebrow raising slightly.

“Uh… no?” The tilt in that word finally drew an almost exasperated chuckle from me that finally pressed him to speak, though he still stammered over the words slightly, cheeks flaring red. “Well… so, Hunter an’ Echo mentioned what you’ve been… yuh know, that you’ve been helpin’ ‘em, that it was real’ relaxin’ and…” My face lit up, understanding finally dawning on me.

“Wrecker,” I called quietly, “are you asking for a massage?” The instant I said it, his eyes flew open, lips shifting quickly around some excuse that he hadn’t quite worked out. “Sweetie, I would be more than happy to. Is there a spot that’s been bothering you?” The eagerness in my voice seemed to alleviate some of his nervous energy, shoulders sinking slightly as he watched me step away from the bed.

“No-not, not particularly? Just… sounded nice, I guess?” I had to bite my lips to still the way my heart soared.

“Okay. How about I start on your shoulders and back, and if anything feels tender or you want me to focus on anything, you just let me know?” The warmth in my offer was evident even to my own ears as I gently rested a hand over his arm to guide him toward the cot.

“Sounds o-okay, I guess.” He answered in something of a mutter, that earlier hesitation just granting him the briefest of pauses before taking that first step forward.

“Great,” I whispered, letting a grin stretch across my face. “Are you comfortable taking off your armor and shirt?” I asked, stepping away to retrieve a bottle of oil from my personal supply before adding quietly, “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“S-sure.” I wasn’t used to this side of his normally boisterous personality but was eager to reward this step out of his comfort zone with the utmost care. He quickly shed the outer shell of plastoid and shamelessly pulled the top half his blacks off without bothering to loose the clasp stretching down the left side of his chest, and I felt myself pause.

I’d known the man was strong – all of the clones were careful to keep themselves in peak physical condition, but… the way his amber skin sunk against him to overemphasize the peaks and valleys of each muscle was… excessive. With his focus absently tuned to free his legs of the heavy plates, Wrecker, thankfully, didn’t notice that moment of distraction, and I quickly returned my attention to warming the lightly scented oil. That was a concern I would have to address. Soon. But not now.

“Go ahead and lay down on your stomach for me.” I said, drawing that gentle gratitude back into my voice. “Sorry if it’s a little cold.”

“I run pretty warm, so that don’t bother me.” He replied, infectious smile finally returning to those plush lips as he settled onto the cot, corded muscles shifting with painful clarity beneath his skin. Pushing back that fresh concern, I moved to stand at the head of the bed, pouring the oil generously over my hands.

“Mind if I ask what they told you about my messages?” I started at the base of his neck, gently dragging my hands down his spine before shifting up around the curve of his shoulder blades.

“Didn’t say much, I guess – just that you didn’t need to give ‘em any shots to make ‘em stop hurtin’.” The words were muffled against mattress, but the resonance of his voice still carried easily throughout the room. I fought the initial dismissal, searching for a way to ensure he didn’t grow to expect miracles when moments were dire.

“Certain kinds of pain, yeah.” I said, letting the rhythm of my speech fall in tandem with my movements, gradually adding weight to the heel of my palms to begin working the thick mass of muscle. “If you overwork something, or pull a joint wrong, that’s something I can help with.” His shoulders slowly began to sink further into the mattress. “It’s not a magic cure for everything, but I like to think it helps.” He hummed quietly, the sound rumbling against my fingers.

“Don’ think ‘nything’s helped like that when Hunter has one of th’s episodes.” His mumbling was getting worse, and it nearly drew a huff of laughter from my lips.

“I was really touched with how considerate the rest of you were for him - you could hear a pin drop in this thing.” The light praise flowed softly from my lips, shifting slightly to focus more pointedly on the swell of tissue sweeping from his neck down to his shoulder.

“Hm, when he gets like that, nothin’ we do c’n really help, so only thing we can do is not make it worse.” The subtle groan dragged through his words. “Wha’ver you did’s the first thing tha’s worked.” The heartbreak his absently mumbled comment shot through my chest brought with it the too real threat of tears, and I had to take a slow breath to steady myself.

“I’m really glad I could help.” I whispered as though it was a secret shared just between us. “And I’m really happy you’re giving me the chance to help you, too.” A shy laughter shook through him. “Did Hunter tell you about the breathing technique I had him do?” His head shifted slightly as though to glance back at me before going still once more.

“Don’t think so.” He replied, and I could feel some tension return to his shoulders as his attention tuned in on me.

“That’s alright. Would you mind if I walked you through it?” He shrugged lightly with a hesitant, ‘sure,’ and I fell into that trance-like cadence. “All I want you to do is breathe in for five seconds, and then slowly breathe out for eight seconds.” With Hunter, I’d offered no forewarning, anticipating his own assumptions to throw him off-balance enough to disrupt that impatient reluctance, but, with Wrecker’s willingness to follow my lead, I didn’t want him unbalanced. I wanted him calm and confident, fully aware of what to expect.

“Breathe in for 5…” He readily lost himself in the quiet meditation of those guided breaths, occasionally letting out a small groan as my touch dug between his shoulders. He tensed slightly at the sound, but quickly relaxed at the steady continuation of my count.

As I worked, straining my own muscles to push deep into his, I couldn’t help but cringe at the mass of knots lining his spine and tangling beneath his shoulder blades, certain that the only reason he couldn’t pinpoint a problem area earlier was because everything hurt and found myself wondering if it was a pain he’d grown so accustomed to, he’d simply learned to ignore it. Driving by that fear, I meticulously soothed out each ball of kinked tissue until my sweat-soaked hair stuck to my forehead, straining to quiet my own breaths as I continued quietly guiding him through his.

The unruly mess of knots was only a part of my worry, however. His body was painfully wiry, dense muscles void of almost any protective fat. I knew how readily he devoured his rations, and had seen no telltale signs of illness that might impede digestion, but the man was desperately in need of at least another twenty pounds. The question of ‘why’ settled painfully in my chest. Nothing mattered more to Hunter than his brothers, and I couldn’t doubt that he was both aware of the issue and just as troubled by it as I was. Mind racing over the implications, I tried to keep my mind from wondering too far from the man eagerly turning to puddy beneath my hands.

I’d only just begun leisurely revisiting the worst spots when that deep rumble sounded low in his throat, briefly biting my lips against the threat of laughter, but his next breath shook with an even louder snore, and I couldn’t help the way my slow exhale faltered. Movements unrushed despite how deep in slumber the man was, I slowly worked my way over the broad expanse of Wrecker’s back and shoulders once more before stepping quietly away from the bed to retrieve a spare blanket. He didn’t so much as twitch as I draped the fabric gently over him and silently left the room.

-

“He finally got around to asking you?” Echo was leaning against the wall just a few meters from the medbay entrance, eyes shining with a mirth I couldn’t help but mirror, lips instantly pulling into a broad smile.

“He did.” I confirmed happily, chest puffing out in a little dance of pride. “He just might sleep all the way back to Kamino.” The arc chuckled quietly at my glee, lips shifting with a response, but my expression fell when I caught sight of movement behind him, and he went quiet. Shooting him a grimace of a fleeting smile, I quickly tread passed him.

“Hunter?” I called softly, freezing the Sergeant mid-stride. Eyebrow cocking slightly, he glanced over his shoulder at me as I paused barely a meter away. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” His gaze darkened at the way my troubled words whispered on a hushed breath, giving a short nod before motioning me into the rec room and purposefully closing the door behind him.

“What’s wr”

“Will you take your shirt off?” I interrupted, teeth nervously working over my cheek as my fingers fidgeted against the plate of armor stretching around my thigh. Any other day, the sudden shock that shot over his face, brows arching high above his eyes as his lips fell just slightly open, would have granted me no end of laughter, but the worry twisting through my chest robbed me of that. His expression twitched into a frown, gaze burring into me with that normally unsettling intensity, but, at that moment, I barely noticed it.

“I’m not going to like where this is going, am I?” His voice dragged past his downturned lips with a deep reluctance.

“Please.” I whispered, head tilting slightly, shameless of the desperation in my voice. His gaze turned pointedly away, jaw jutting forward as he released a deep sigh, but with a subtle shake of his head, relented, quickly piling his armor into a neat stack beside him before undoing the clasp of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Fabric still dangling in his hand, he crossed his arms impatiently over his chest and let his eyes sweep back to mine, but I didn’t notice the sharpness of his gaze.

Maker, I could see the outline of ribs connecting to his sternum. Throat shifting to swallow back the sudden stiffness, I stepped closer to him, ignoring the elegant tattoo overlaying his left side as I studied the wretched slenderness of his waist, hips far too visible against the stretch of his blacks.

“Get what you need?” There was a harshness in his voice that only deepened the guilt sinking through my gut.

“Yeah – just lost a bet with Jesse about that tattoo.” I muttered but found no relief in my own wretched joke. “If I drag Crosshair and Tech in here, am I going to be able count their ribs as easily as yours?” I asked, eyes finally dragging up his painfully lean body to see the defensive anger flare through him. The muscles balled against his jaw, tendons gleaming white as his hands tightened into fists.

“Maker, I’ve been with you for months!” I had to turn away from him, hand dragging through my hair as I fought to steady my own breaths. “Kriff, I’m so sorry.” Exhale fleeing in a tense huff, I forced myself to look back at him, to let him see the depths of my guilt and sorrow, and I saw the hesitation tentatively replacing that anger.

“Will you tell me why?” I begged. His tongue darted over his lips, that burning intensity of his gaze studying me anew.

“Can I put my shirt back on first?” Some heartbreaking mixture of laughing and sobbing shook through me, eye slipping closed as my head dropped to my chest with a small nod, absently listening for the shuffle of fabric to cease before looking back at him. He’d turned that glare toward some distant point beyond the far wall, arms once more looped over his chest as his jaw ground stiffly for a long moment.

“The Kaminoans were never particularly considerate when it came to our… differences from regs.” He started quietly, fingers absently thrumming against his forearm. “Wrecker was nearly twice our weight even as cadets, but they barely gave him any extra rations. The rest of us have been… making do – splitting our shares with him.” I went painfully still as he spoke, horrified at what he’d just told me.

“You’ve been… this has been going on since you were kids?” The words barely flitted across my tongue, reluctant to even grant them that much voice. A flash of that anger flared through him as those dark eyes briefly darted back to me, but whatever he saw when he looked at me quickly stifled it, gaze dropping to the metal floors beneath us.

“I haggle for extra food where I can, but, between the regs and the long-necks, there’s not exactly a flourishing network willing to share with us.” He growled, clinging to what safety his anger granted him. Swallowing back my own disgust at that revelation, I turned resolute eyes up to him.

“Thank you, Hunter.” His brow hitched up at my words, but I was already turning away from him, mind churning over how to fix this because if I didn’t, if I let myself fall into the despair of not noticing it sooner, I’d be no good to any of them.

-

I’d spent the next hour rapidly typing out messages and quickly sent them in the brief lapse between lightspeed travel as Tech changed hyperspace lanes, and, the instant we landed, darted quickly down the ramp with barely a word of explanation to the others. They’d be busy with standard debrief for at least an hour, and there was every chance we’d be taking our leave again shortly after. I had to make sure everything was finalized by then.

The last delivery had just arrived when the squad made their way back to the Marauder, and they all stopped short, looking over the half dozen crates stacked up around me.

“That better not be some useless nat-born-” I interrupted Crosshair’s snarled comment by silently tossing a ration bar at him. He easily caught it, gaze lingering over the wrapper for a moment before turning back to me.

“Oh, kriff yeah! It’s all food?” Wrecker boomed, snatching the bar out of his brother’s hand before trotting quickly forward to dig through the open box beside me. I���d didn’t have time to answer, lips only just pulling into a small grin before he shouted, “It is! Aww, these are my favorite, too!” The impressed surprised on Tech’s face sent a flush of heat up my neck.

“How did you manage to requisition so much?” He asked, glancing briefly over the wealth of supplies before looking back toward me.

“I’m your medic.” I started simply. “Regretfully, an oblivious one, but my orders still carry some weight. I pulled rank where I could and called in a few favors to update your base inventory.” The darkness that replaced the fleeting glimpse of confusion lingered for barely a heartbeat before his expression went carefully blank. His head dipped in a small nod before turning to his still exhilarated brother.

“Wrecker, let’s get these loaded. We will need to rearrange the supply room in order for them to fit.” Even the loathsome task of organizing couldn’t dampen Wrecker’s joy, and, before he moved to help, the towering man darted toward me, mischief gleaming in his eyes. I barely had time to tense before his arms darting around my waist, iron hold locking me against him as he hoisted me up in a fit of laughter. My hands darted out to his shoulders, loud gasp tearing from my throat.

“Thanks, Doc!” He set me back down and darted away so quickly, I had to grab onto one of the crates to steady myself, cheeks burning at Echo’s quiet laughter.

“Impressive.” The arc murmured warmly as he tread passed me into the ship to help Tech, the sniper following him with barely a glance toward me.

“I’m not sure if I should be grateful or offended in how quickly you were able to get all this.” Hunter said, stepping quietly toward me. My jaw tensed, again feeling that resurgence of guilt.

“This isn’t a one-time thing,” I murmured, gaze carefully burring into his, “I swear. Hunter, if it’s not enough, you tell me.” He watched me in silence for a long moment, but finally replied with a small nod.

Next Chapter

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[avengerscompound]

The Recruit - 3. Tony

The Recruit - An Avengers Fanfiction

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Clint Barton x Bucky Barnes x Sharon Carter x Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanoff x Sam Wilson x F!Reader

Word Count: 1973

Warnings: Canon Typical VIolence

Synopsis:  When Sam Wilson is set up on a blind date, he doesn’t expect anything to come from it.  He is already in a relationship after all, and not just with one other person, but a whole group of them. You never expected to end up working for the Avengers let alone be dating six of them at the same time.  Now you’re balancing a new job, a new romance, new friends, and a secret that could destroy a lot of lives if it got out.  It’s a tricky balance to get right at the best of times, but when something happens to Steve Rogers it’s up to the people who love him most to get him back.

3. Tony

Tony Stark had had a great night.  He and Pepper had gone to a gala and then an afterparty.  She looked hot.  He looked hot.  They had been surrounded by hot people, most of whom were actually interesting to speak to and had intelligent and useful things to say about clean energy innovation, rather than the usual vapid airheads, narcissists, and sycophants he used to attract.  On top of all of that, everyone partied like people who only had a chance to do so once a year and this was it.

Tony was drunk and giddy and very, very happy to be where was at this exact point in time.

There was a crowd gathered around the entrance to the Avengers Tower.  That wasn’t unusual.  There was always a collection of autograph hunters, paparazzi, fans, and people who either wanted to thank or berate the Avengers for the work they did.

Tony was in such a good mood that he thought he’d give the people what they wanted, and rather than get out in the underground garage away from the crowds, he would do the walk through the crowd at the front entrance.  Happy pulled the car up out the front and ran around to let Tony and Pepper out as the front door security started clearing a path to the door.  The sounds of people yelling out Tony’s name was audible even before the car door was pulled open.  He got out and threw up peace signs as building security pushed the crowd back from him.

It was chaos.  Tony helped Pepper out of the car and then made his toward the front doors of the building, stopping for selfies and to sign things.  He normally hated this kind of thing, but the mixture of alcohol and good mood made this feel good.  Like he was appreciated.

Everything was happening in a blur.  He was posing for a selfie while Pepper spoke to Happy about something nearby.  Someone came out of the building and the next thing he knew, someone was screaming out ‘gun’ and he was being pushed to the ground.  A gunshot sounded out, almost deafening him and making his ears ring, and a scuffle broke out nearby.

By the time he was being let back up by Happy, the crowd had backed off, and one of his security guys was helping you off the back of a man who was pinned face-first to the ground.

“Was anyone hurt?” Tony asked.

“A woman was struck by fragments of pavement but it’s minor.  Ambulance and police are on their way,” Happy explained.  “Boss, that woman saved your life,” he added, pointing to where you were now talking to security, and the gunman was being hauled off the ground.  “She pushed you down as she kicked the gun out of that guy’s hand.  Then she wrestled him to the ground.” 

“I guess I should thank her,” Tony said, though he was already thinking he wanted to do more than just thank you.  Someone who noticed minute details in such a crowded and chaotic space, and was able to react so quickly and effectively were the exact kind of qualities an agent should have.

He approached you as you spoke to one of the security guards.  “I guess I owe you my life.”

You smiled at him and shook your head.  “I would have done it for anyone.”

“Hey now,” Tony said, offering you his hand.  You took it and shook it with a firm grip.  “Let me show you my appreciation.  My wife and I live right upstairs.”

You looked at him and then at your phone.  “I was just…”

“Oh please come up.  Just for a drink so we can say thanks.  We can send you where you’re going with our driver after,” Pepper said.

You put your phone away and gave a resigned nod.  “Sure.  Just a quick drink.  I’m probably going to be stuck here waiting to give the cops a statement forever anyway.”

Tony clapped you on the shoulder and led you into the building.  “That’s the ticket,” he said.  “Might as well wait in the comfort of my penthouse.”  The doors to the elevator opened as soon as they reached them.  “You reacted pretty fast out there,” Tony said as FRIDAY began to take them up.

“Yeah.  I came outside to all those people freaking out over you and saw the guy pull out a gun.  I guess my training kicked in,” you explained.

“What kind of training do you have?” Pepper asked.

“I’m ex-airforce special forces,” you answered.  “Used to surveying the area and reacting quickly to danger.”

“Well we are really glad you were here today,” Pepper said.  “God, I worry about him all the time when he’s out being Iron Man.  Didn’t think I’d have to worry about him coming inside his home too.”

The elevator door opened and Tony beelined up the small set of stairs to the bar.  “What can I get you, ladies, to drink?”

“I’ll take a vodka martini,” Pepper said.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you agreed.

Tony started to make the drinks, watching as you and Pepper moved to the couch.

“What did bring you to the tower tonight?” Tony asked. 

“Oh,” you startled and looked over at him blinking. “I was just on a date.  With Sam Wilson.”

Tony froze mid-shake of his cocktail shaker, not sure if he’d heard that right because if he did there was a good chance you were lying.  “Sam?” he asked.  “But he’s…”

“In a polyamorous relationship with five other people, all of them Avengers?” you finished as Tony trailed off.

Tony laughed.  “You know about that then?”

“Yeah.  I know,” you said and let out a breath as your head rolled back so it was resting on the back of the couch.  As Tony poured the drinks and brought them over, you sat back up and looked between Pepper and Tony.  “You know them, right?  Can I ask you for some advice?”

Tony handed you the glass.  “This should be juicy.  Go ahead.”

“So I was set up on a date with Sam by Joaquίn Torres.  Do you know him?”

Tony nodded and took a seat.  “The baby falcon.  Sure, we’ve met.”

“So Torres says he’s friends with Sam Wilson.  That he thinks we’d be perfect together,” you explained.  “It took forever to set up a date with him, but I was excited.  Sam’s a legend, you know?  The date was perfect.  Fun and easy in all the ways you want a first date to go.  It was comfortable to be around him - like we’d known each other forever.  So he calls me again, and I’m not surprised at all.  He says he wants me to come here and he’ll cook me dinner but I have to sign an NDA to come into the building.  I sign it, turn up and the others are waiting for me.  We talk, and Sam shows up and says he wants to bring me into the group.”

“Wow,” both Tony and Pepper said at once.

“You’d think six people would be enough,” Tony joked.  “So what?  You want to know if they’re worth it?”

“I guess… kind of,” you agreed.  “He told me that I don’t have to date all of them, but he does and with them and Avenging - I can imagine it wouldn’t leave him with much time to date just me as well.  But six people.  It’s a lot.  They all know each other really well and I’d be this new person.  Plus you’re Avengers.  You’re famous, and I know what it’s like to date in the military.  But what I’m really having trouble getting my head around is that I’ll never be able to tell anyone.  I mean, Sam and Joaquίn are friends and Joaquίn thought Sam was single.  Are these guys worth all this risk and potential stress on top of the secrecy?”

Tony took a long sip of his martini as he thought.  “So… the six-person thing is weird.  And I don’t mean that in a judgemental way.  I’ve always had pretty open boundaries when it comes to relationships. I’ve seen thousands of miserable monogamous couples but I’m part of a really happy one.  I think whatever works - works.  And for them, six people works.  But it is weird.  Normally you don’t see closed groups that big where they’re all with each other.  If the world found out, they would be judged harshly.  I mean; Captain America being bisexual would cause a stir as it is, but this?  Even open-minded people would at least raise an eyebrow if they heard about it.  So they keep it under wraps.  Pep and I know.  Bruce Banner, Thor, and a few agents. I think Sam has a sister down south that might know.  But that’s it.  You’d have to keep it from family and friends for a while at least, and that couldn’t be easy.  But… and don’t tell any of them I said this - if anyone was worth it, it would be them.”

Pepper nodded.  “They are good people.  You can trust them not to do anything to hurt you.  Well at least as far as you can trust anyone with that - shit happens.  They seem happy with what they have with each other.  I don’t think they’d intentionally do anything to risk that.  If they’ve asked you to be a part of it, Sam must have felt a strong connection.”

“So it’s worth it?” you asked.

“Maybe.  If you think that kind of relationship would make you happy, they’d be a good group to try it with,” Pepper said.

“Besides - did you look at all of them?” Tony asked. “They’re all hot as hell.”

You laughed and downed the last of your drink.  “Thank you both.  I needed to talk that over with someone and with the NDA…”

“You’re very welcome,” Pepper said.  “Thank you for saving Tony’s life.”

“About that,” Tony said. “You said you were ex-air force?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” you confirmed.

“What are you doing right now?  For work, that is?” he asked.

You shrugged. “This and that.  Mostly working security.  I do some temp work here and there.”

Tony sat back in his chair, smiling at you.  It was just what he had hoped to hear.  “How would you like to come work for us?  We could use someone with your skills.  We have agents that do all kinds of fieldwork for us.”

You raised your eyebrows.  “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.  You’d have to go through our training program, but I’m sure you’ll have no problem with it.  Plus the pay is good, and the benefits are exceptional,” Tony explained.

“How will it work with me dating them?” you asked.  “Wouldn’t that put you all at risk for some serious legal problems if things go south?”

“As long as all that is upfront with HR, and we have someone other than that group making decisions about your performance, we should be fine.  I’ll get Hill to keep an eye on things,” Tony reasoned.  “The group had been dealing with romances within the team for years now.  It could be an isolating job, and everyone became like family.  It was hard to avoid them.  They’d worked out how to make sure everything ran smoothly with them a long time ago.”

“I don’t know who Hill is, but if you can make sure there isn’t a boss/employee conflict of interest, I’m in.”

Tony grinned and patted your arm.  He’d never successfully recruited anyone before - unless you counted Rhodey - which he didn’t - Rhodey had recruited himself.  Tony was psyched to finally have managed to do it.  He stood and grabbed a tablet and handed it to you.  “Fill in your details, and we’ll be in touch.”

// NEXT

[morningstar-chronicles]

pinned.

name: morgan/mac

current interests: friendship bracelets, crystals, spirituality

pronouns & gender identity: they/them, maverique

rules:

don't be a bigot

don't be an asshole

NO israel-palestine asks. why don't i allow these anymore?

anti-shifters keep scrolling

shiftokkers are welcome i guess if you promise to be normal

if you have any questions about my DRs PLS PLS ASK!!! i love to answer asks about my DRs literally so much!!

you can absolutely use my script layouts! i'll link them here if you'd like to use them.

dividers are usually from @cafekitsune and will be reblogged as #dividers

sometimes i post content with sexual undertones lmao 😭 these posts will be tagged as #minors avert your eyes

personal posts are tagged #morgan's personal posts

vents are tagged #morgan vents

mutual interactions are tagged as #morgan's moots

DR names: izabel (royals DR), cassia/cassie/cass (marauders DR)

MAIN DR: red white and royal blue DR

archived DRs: the london institute (tid), royals DR, rosewood, pa (pll), fnaf:sb DR - child, boarding school DR, hogwarts - golden trio era (hp), resort DR, windenshire DR, encanto DR, hurricane, ut (fnaf), liar, liar DR, columbia DR, second chance DR, alt CR timeline

active DRs: waiting room, boiling isles (toh), crossover DR, ny institute (tmi), hogwarts - marauders era (hp), paris, france (mlb), stark tower (mcu), gotham, nj (dc), stardew valley, bc, gravity falls (gf), inheritance games DR, aurora cycle DR, camp half-blood, ny (pjo), arcana DR, cirque du soleil DR, fnaf:sb DR - technician

main DR s/os: jayden finnegan, aven whitmore

DR s/os: *hunter wittebane-noceda (toh), *boscha bennett (toh), jayden finnegan (oc), aven whitmore (oc), *pacifica northwest (gf), *via scully (pr), *tyrone pines (gf), *james potter (hp), *harley keener (mcu), *kit herondale (tda), *michael afton (fnaf), alex aiden mullner (sdv), haley (sdv), shane (sdv), sam (sdv), *luke castellan (pjo), abby bourgeois, julian agreste, mika couffaine, *emira blight (toh), *leo valdez (hoo), *conner kent (dc), *garfield logan (dc), *asra alnazar, *muriel the outsider, *georgie cooper (ys)

possible DR s/os: *livia blackthorn (tda), *draco malfoy (hp), *pansy parkinson (hp), *michelle jones (mcu), *shuri (mcu), *merula snyde (hphm), *edric blight (toh), xander hawthorne (tig), *jameson hawthorne (tig), *tyler jones (ac)

* - has been aged up/down depending on how you look at it (possibly significantly depending on canon)

other blogs: @ohgodimashifter (old shifting sideblog), @thestarsandskyaboveus (fanfic), @stembies (studyblr), @enbygirlblogging (girlblogging), @mysticmorningstar (witchcraft & wicca)

lore: canadian, keeps bread outside of fridge, hates pickleball, was a pole dancer briefly, anti-jean paul

[thequeendomhq]

"Then, the One God said: To you, My second-born, I grant this gift: In your heart shall burn An unquenchable flame All-consuming, and never satisfied.”

Our Road Ahead

Into Hrimthur’s Wastelands the refugees went. For a month they would travel the mountain passes made of ancient stone and twisted like serpents while ice froze the world around them. Mist hung in the frigid air as they traveled up the treacherous cliffsides; the injured carried as they collectively traveled through the snow together. Peaks towered around them from all sides, fjords carved by the Gods themselves sliced the landscape as the traveler navigated narrow passages at the edge of the mountainsides. 

Overhead pregnant dark clouds kept them in perpetual shadows, promising more snow would come. The reprieve of the sun’s light was distant even as they ascended through the banks higher and higher. Thin, rasping air kept them weary and their depleted rations kept them focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The Blight was beneath them now, in the valleys beyond the mountains and those with the taint had not lived long after the Nornwatch Pyre. 

Like glittering stars dotting the landscape, the witchers in their mithril armor scouted to secure the road ahead. Others lingered at the rear and secured those that began to fall behind were hoisted to their feet before they were set forward again. To lag was to risk almost certain death in the coldest, most unforgiving, region of Taravell. 

Into the distance, the peaks soared into the raw sky above, blotted by darkness, their summits were lost in a veil of frosted, swirling mist. In this dark, desolate landscape, there was a raw beauty that spoke of ages past, of battles fought and won, and ofsecrets buried beneath the ice. Stones that glimmered within shone at night, cascading the air with an azure hue that illuminated the snow in places. At night, Hrimthur’s mountains seemed to come alive. Breathing their sigh of auroran air into the sky once the sun set below the horizon; ribbons of these frozen lights shifted and turned about themselves. So close that they writhed atop the Iskarans’s makeshift tents, a companion in the night, but gone by morning’s faded light. 

Every step forward was a struggle against the biting cold, the crunch of snow beneath their boots echoing through the silent valleys. Yet, with each passing mile, the troupe drew closer to their destination, driven by a sense of heroic purpose, or stark defiance against the shadow of death. Iskaldrik was lost behind them, Nornwatch Keep burned in the past, but the promise of Lysara hung like the north star ahead. 

Nornwatch Keep was behind them now. The refugees freeing Iskaldrik were fewer, but still many. Knowledgeable of the terrain and the region, the Legion of the Dead took point. Field Commander Deidameia had died in the assault, without clear leadership the living legionnaires counciled alongside the Iskarans. Witchers, jarls, advisers, and the legionnaires had been plotting their course for weeks, all that remained was to survive. 

The hysteria of Nornwatch had not ended with the executed traitors. The darkspawn’s attack was a nightmare that plagued the minds of everyone, among the troupe some hadn’t spoken since. Children wandered without parents - mothers and fathers ripped underground as the assault made orphans, and widows, out of proudly stubborn Iskarans. They had been caught completely unaware, legionnaires killed from within, and the gate left unlocked. 

Our Trials We’ll Face

Those who could hunt were sent out to do so. These hunters coordinated with the witchers, legion, jarls, and advisors of the crown to mark the maps of the region with potential hunting grounds. Regions with dense forest coverage, and access to fresh water and other resources would be ideal for small and large prey. Rally points were stapled along the way so the hunters could find the troupe when they were successful, checkpoints marked along their paths through the mountains. 

Alone or in small groups, hunters could travel more freely without the cumbersome nature of those who couldn’t navigate the terrain. The horses, the oxen, and the weight of the tents and other necessities for encampment. Among the hunters were legionnaires, witchers, shieldmaidens, jarls, and any able-bodied volunteer willing to risk the dangers of the mountain for assurance that the troupe would survive the travel ahead. Famine and starvation would kill them as surely as the Blight had tried. 

Small, nimble predators like arctic foxes dotted the landscape - watching from a distance with useful, thick fur coats. Hares were a staple of the region, in burrows and more susceptible to snares than arrows. Both blended easily into the landscape, white like the snow and quicker than most of the creatures in the troupe, they’d be spied on in one instance, and then gone in the next. Silent hunters of the night, snow owls patrolled the skies, preying on small rodents and other birds. Moving in herds and seeking patches of vegetation beneath the snow, reindeer roam the valleys and can be tracked more easily than any other. Followed and hunted by other predators, the troupe are not the only hunters after the reindeer, but dire wolves as well. Far larger than their cousins, if those navigating the wilderness aren’t careful, they’ll become the hunted. 

At night, the clouds rumbled in the distance over the greatest peaks in the valley. Groaning in anguish as dramatic clashes of rock and ice shook loose shafts of snow and ice from the sheer faces about them. Witchers spoke of Hrimthursa, towering behemoths of living mountains, battling for dominion over ancient territory. Obscured by swirling blizzards and frozen mists, the closer the troupe would come the more dangerous their journey would be. The ground trampled beneath them, and those who watched the immutable darkness of the valleys below would see the shapes of these ancient behemoths wandering through the valleys below. Felled and fallen from the summit, their footsteps echoed like thunder from the ground below. 

These mountains of Ymir’s most northern Spine are home to other things beyond giants and wolves. Frost Trolls dwell in the deep, labyrinthine caverns that honeycomb through the mountains and the fields below. Cropping up through the ancient mines of an age long forgotten to the annals of time; protected from the glaring light of the sun by the thick clouds of mist, they roam in solitude or small groups hunting and gathering. Their weapons are primitive, their skin hard as stone, and their teeth are hard like daggers do not discriminate between man and beast. 

Beneath the ice are the petrified children of the dark, the draugr. Wights of harrowed flesh and withered bones; soldiers from wars that predate this age of man, they are the undead minions of Lusacan’s prodigies. The draugr are vampiric in nature, however, it’s not blood they crave, but to spread their blight to those they can sink their teeth into. Like ghosts with a physical body, only powerful magic can exorcise them for good, or its antithesis can purge their forms of entropic possession. For those with the ability to do neither, beheading them and torching their bodies is an acceptable alternative. Anyone bitten by these monsters is fated to join the legions of draugr trapped within the ice. 

In the distance there is a roar from a creature that will chill the bone of even the most hardened warrior. Drakes and wyverns are not foreign to the troupe, the Iskarans know these beasts from the mountains that surround their home. They are the lesser children of a greater beast though, one that has awakened after centuries of slumber, growling from the fjords around them, and threatening what little hope remains. 

Our One Hope

Hrimthur’s Outpost. It wasn’t named in any text, or written down on any map, but the name was assigned by the legion rangers who traveled this region before. Shattered, stone homes that are half buried beneath snow and ice with a broken tower at its center. This evidence is all that remains of a proud city that existed in a time that the people have forgotten. 

Runes dot these stones, druidic in origin but to the Iskarans they’d readily claim them as their own. A waygate once existed here but like so many other things it was broken by what they would call a cataclysm. These cold, frozen walls are the only reprieve that the refugees would find after weeks of traveling through the expanse of the wastelands. The Northern Spine of Iskaldrik that saw them trudge endlessly through snow and over ice, their rations gone, and their hope along with it. 

Fires dot the battered homes and line the walls of the tower. The cold wood gathered from old pines does not burn easily, but those familiar with ironwood are well-versed in casting almost anything ablaze. Miserable nights are made more tolerable as the hunters rally at this juncture, holes cut into ice fields yield fish, and reindeer roasts over open flames with the sweet berries plucked from the cold bushes snaking out from cliffs. 

It lacks the mead of a proper feast, but it’s the first good, warm meal that they’ve had in what feels like a lifetime. As the fire dims and thoughts turn towards those that were taken, the looming dangers that lurk in the dark around them are nothing when compared to what lays ahead. These Spines are too cold for the blight to survive, but Isengrim’s Embrace and the Lostlands following will yield horrors unlike any the Iskarans had yet to see. The Legion says this not to quell the flames of the lifting spirits, but to remind them of the vigilance that peace demands. 

What follows is a voice, one that starts small, but is quickly joined by the crowd of refugees. 

“Shadows fall. And hope has fled. Steel your heart. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The One’s Taken

( tw: childbirth )

All for Mother. 

It became hard to tell if you were waking or dreaming, the song guided your hands and work. This one was weak so you cleaved them in two, pulled back their skin, and cut free their entrails. Scraps for the wargs to fight over, flabby meat to fatten your pack. Sister they called you with blackened gums and pointed teeth, snapping for more as they hungered for the sweet. Brother you remarked as you beat them down, swine should learn where swine should sleep. The best of the best was for Her, the Mother of the brood for only Mother could birth the horde. 

Your hands slipped between the folds as another came screeching into the world. Hideous and beautiful and yours to rear. Snapping at your ankles as you carved off scraps, the sweet, beautiful heart for Mother, but the bones left for them to suckle. Something to gnaw and carve, sharpen their teeth, and help them grow. You used to be…. You can no longer recall, but you see the fields of fire for what they are, a garden and a home so hot it might just be cold. 

More. Mother screams. She needs more. You do not defy but your body moves of its own accord, enthralled and drawn about as your broken boots drag against wailing stones. In the dark, you hear a whisper, a song that reminds you of the girl who ran carefree through the woods. The one who split logs, who lifted a splintered shield, and who did not survive all this time to die nameless in a cave. Your lips part as you join her in song: 

“The Shepard's lost. And his home is far. Keep to the stars. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The night takes you, tomorrow you begin again. 

OOC info: 

The next troupe update will be on Friday, May 24th.

The Ones Taken are still captive (big sad I know), they're midwives now. Who knows, maybe someday they'll have a brood of their own <3.

After a long hike through the mountains, the troupe reached what used to be a village. RIP.

The full moon will take place after the happy song, and characters affected by the full moon will be made to shift. Fair warning, if they kill anyone in the village they'll be put down :(

Most of Taravell will now have heard about what happened to Iskaldrik, refugees are washing up on the shores of Caribella and Borderreach.

Any vessels or attempts to enter Iskaldrik have disappeared without a trace.

[space-mermaid-writing]

The witchling and the god [Loki x Witch!Reader] Chapter 22

Summary: The Avengers were looking for someone to help Loki fit in with the team. To become socially acceptable, so to speak. He had been given the choice of sitting in a cell in Asgard or serving some sort of community service probation on Midgard. The Avengers and Shield both felt that as long as Loki was on Earth, he should be under supervision. This is now your job. Why? Because you’re a witch. You’re not sure why this qualifies you, but here you are, giving it a shot. What could possibly go wrong?

Tags: Witch!Reader, Magic, Witches, slow burn, everybody lives in the tower, character development, Loki‘s redemption, Stephen Strange is a friend, Loki and Stephen are frenemies, Tony Stark is a good bro, kids love Loki, Tony has stupid nicknames for everybody, eventual smut

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read it on AO3 | Previous | Next

Chapter’s Note: Funny enough, I started writing this chapter way before Multiverse of Madness came out. There are some magic parallels of specific spells. Beta by @zaria-04

Chapter 22: Questionable Magic

Suddenly the door is kicked open from the inside and your sister appears in the doorway. She walks bent over, and even under the smoke coming out through the doorway, you see tattoos glowing on her neck. She pulls your brother behind her.

Finally Loki releases you and you hurry to meet her. The Asgardian stays by your side, even slightly faster, and together you lie Gabriel on the grass at a safe distance from the fire. As soon as Elizabeth steps out, she takes a deep breath of fresh air. Her tattoos stop glowing as her body takes in oxygen again.

Gabriel's clothes are torn and burned from the flames and his skin is flaming red. He has several cuts on his body that seem too clean to you to be from the fire. Your gaze falls to his forehead and you take a startled breath. There is a symbol burned in there as if it was made by a hot iron. A cross with two bars.

Witch hunters.

"He's not breathing," your sister whines, who has already knelt beside him to examine him. It pulls you back to the present and reminds you to start working. You hear the sounds from the street getting louder, shifting. And out of the corner of your eye you notice movement, probably the fire department.

"Loki," you address your lover without taking the eyes off your brother. The panic inside you hasn't gone away, but you have hope. There is something you can do. "You have to get the people off our backs. Make sure they don't bother us."

The Asgardian merely nods and disappears from your side. You don't see what he's doing, but you trust him to take care of it.

If one of the paramedics takes care of Gabriel, he would definitely die. As great as modern medicine wants to be, it has its limits. And the doctors would not allow you to help, even if you have the more promising methods. They just don't understand it when you go other ways than theirs.

Besides, Gabriel would be taken to a hospital and put on record there. If the witch hunters wanted to verify later if he was really dead, they would find out for sure and come back for him. It's just too dangerous.

From your bag you pull out a jar of paste that you use to cream all the wounds you see, all the burns and cuts. You open Gabriel's shirt, see the crusted blood on his chest. Your breath catches at the sight, but you force yourself to focus.

"Mama didn’t answer my call," your sister tells you between her mumbled words. She has her hands outstretched over the unconscious body, tending to the internal injuries.

"Of course she didn't," you snort, "She doesn't interfere with things like this. Even when it involves the lives of her own children."

You set the jar aside and cast a spell. The wounds under the cream light up and stop bleeding. The smaller ones are already regenerating, the larger ones would take more time to heal, as would the burns. Time you don't have.

"The lungs are clear," your sister informs you.

Loki reappears at your side. "We'll be undetected for a while." He watches you do what you do, but doesn't dare participate in your work. Different types of magic can interfere in a negative way and your spells would be useless.

You try to find out how bad the damage to his head is, if his brain was damaged under the branding.

"His pulse is weak," your sister says, jaw clenched. "We're losing him."

You shake your head. This can't be happening. "We need more time to stabilize him."

You give your sister a pleading look, and she nods. "You have one minute. Make it work."

As you frantically rummage in your bag for something that can help you, Elizabeth closes her eyes, gathers all her concentration, and mutters a spell. A tattoo on her arm moves down to her hand, becoming a dense black area at her fingertips. The same thing happens on her other side. She clenches her hands into fists and extends each of her index and middle fingers so that they cross in front of her. Then, abruptly, a ring spreads from her, a glowing golden hoop that floats in the air around your small group.

Suddenly, everything around you freezes. No sound can be heard anymore, your ears seem to be packed in cotton. Loki turns his head and notices in awe that time seems to have stopped around you.

You come across a vial that you have almost forgotten about. It is a potion you brewed from the scale Gabriel gave you on the day of the Lunar Convergence. Its effect is uncertain. Mermaid magic is as changeable as the sea itself and actually much better suited for curses. But life can be a curse sometimes. With this, you may have a chance.

"Loki, I need your help: make sure they don't get their hands on us."

The Asgardian is watching the fire in the house. The flames are making very slow movements, and upon closer inspection, even the firefighter who was about to step around the corner a moment ago has not completely frozen. Time is just drawn out like a viscous glue trying to hold it in. At your words, he turns his attention back to you and frowns.

"What do you mean?" he asks, but you don't take the time to answer him.

You uncork the vial and let it float in front of you between your fingers. Then you begin reciting a spell in an ancient language. Your eyes turn pitch black and wind comes up. You barely feel it, all of your concentration is on remembering the right syllables. The slightest deviation would be fatal, both for you and for your brother.

Shadows emerge from the ground, taking on elongated shapes, and Loki realizes in horror that they are arms, wrapping themselves around you and your brother, holding you tight. He understands what kind of spell you are casting and silently scolds you for your carelessness in casting it without any protective circle.

He conjures daggers in his hands and attacks the arms. One cut is enough to dissolve the limbs in a 'poof'. Only unfortunately for a new one to immediately grow out of the ground. They are the spirits of the damned that try to capture you. They always appear within a necromantic spell.

Necromancy is a tricky kind of magic - one of the most efficient healing powers; all about life and death, and the eternal circle of it - but also one of the most dangerous if used carelessly. A single mistake can have enormous consequences, such as leaving out a protective circle. Without it, you are much more vulnerable to the damned.

Loki whirls around, but he's not fast enough to keep all the dark arms under control. They are not subject to time, and can move independently. Again and again they reach for you and Gabriel, slowly pulling you into the ground as if it were quicksand.

The liquid in the vial has begun to glow and you move your fingers unperturbed, muttering the incantation as it floats out.

The darker the shadows become, the stronger the vial glows.

"I can't keep time much longer!" your sister yelps. Her expression is strained and she struggles to keep her fingers crossed. A bead of sweat forms on her forehead.

Loki notices that the movements around you are picking up speed, even though everything still seems to be in slow motion.

You let the liquid float in Gabriel's mouth, hoping it will do its job. The dark aura around you remains. You stare at your brother, but nothing happens. He does not move. Instead, you become aware of the arms grasping you. You shift in your seat and lose your footing, immediately sinking deeper. Loki reaches for you. His dagger magically lights up as he frees you.

Your eyes are back to Gabriel. You reach out and grab the shadows that wrap around him, ripping them away with your bare hands before they can sweep him away and bury him.

"Gabriel!" Your voice rough, as if you'd shouted a lot – maybe you have. You weren't paying attention.

In a last, desperate attempt, you gather magic in your hands and slam them down on his chest as if for CPR. A shockwave emanates from you. Loki struggles to stay on his feet, raising an arm protectively in front of his face.

Then it's all over and time returns to normal. Your sister has fallen backward and let go of time. She's getting up and you're both staring at Gabriel. You have dropped to your knees.

All around you, the noise has returned. The fire is crackling, the paramedics and fire fighters are shouting orders to each other, and you hear the sound of a water canon.

Gabriel begins to cough and moans in pain.

Elizabeth breathes an audible sigh of relief as you whisper a prayer. Loki is the one who remains pragmatic. "We should get out of here," he says, looking at a fire fighter coming your way. With the stopping of time and the shockwave, his cloaking spell had disappeared and now you're sitting here as if on display in the garden, probably making a rather strange impression.

"Healer Josiah?" you ask your sister, and she nods wearily.

The spell just now has cost her great strength and you notice you are also reaching your limit. But you absolutely have to get away from here.

You join hands, taking Loki with you, and mutter a spell.

"Hey you!" the fireman shouts with a furrowed brow. "What are y-…" Then you’re gone.

Josiah's healer's house is in Mexico. It's a small farm with a large garden, a place to go for anyone who needs help. However, patients don't usually just suddenly appear in the entry hallway. Someone jumps to the side, startled, as you arrive out of thin air.

"We need a healer!"

The person - a teenage boy - nods and jumps to action to get someone.

Your hands clutch your brother's body. You're exhausted, the spellcasting has taken a lot of your strength, but you don't want to let him go.

Within a short time several people appear, alarmed by the boy and the noise in the entrance hallway. They see your group, see the unconscious Gabriel, the burns, and using a spell to preserve his sensitive skin, they take him away. Loki hands lie on yours to make you let your brother go. You're so wiped out that you didn't even realize you had your fingers clawed into his shirt. You want to get up to follow the healers, but your legs give way under you and you would have fallen if Loki hadn't caught you with his strong arms.

Concerned, another healer steps up to take care of you, but you shake your head.

"I'm fine, just tired. She was in the burning house." You point to your sister, who also looks worn out. She is still sitting on the floorboard where you arrived.

You are overcome with a sense of relief that you are here – at a safe place - and that you are being relieved of your responsibilities. It is now out of your hands. You allow yourself to close your eyes for a moment and lean your head against Loki's chest. Only very briefly.

Someone says something, but you don't listen.

Only when Loki slides his other arm under your knees and you realize you're being carried, you blink up at him questioningly. "We're getting a room," he explains, "You can rest there."

"'m fine," you mumble, but close your eyes again and drift back to sleep.

___________________________________

Me: writing about necromancy magic and black hands trying to drag them into hell because it's a cool theme Multiverse of Madness: Hey, can I copy your homework? (that scene in the movie was so badass and creepy! loved it)

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