#survive and they can die anyway and he can do nothing to stop it nothing at all and he has to go on living and fighting anyway

[unnamed-atlas]

Finally finished sweet tooth s3. Having incredibly mixed feelings

[snarltoothed]

this would be so funny to send as a middle-aged wife whenever your good for nothing husband who fell either into addiction or abusiveness when he got laid off in 2008 starts acting up but you’re 55 looking 45 and he’s ambiguously in his 60s and unlike him you didn’t age out of your sense of humor and ability to socialize so he just has to humble himself and shut up

image found while on google images ©

[pocketbelt]

they announced one of the main writers for FFXIV: Dawntrail is the one who wrote the Shadowbringers trial series, "Sorrow of Werlyt", and the amount of people going "ew no that's the one that redeems Gaius" drives me kind of insane

That storyline takes Gaius and says "Behold this idiot, watch and be stunned as everything he ever said to anyone turned out to be fucking obviously wrong. Watch as the fascist imperialist philosophy he ingrained into his beloved children makes them run to their deaths, even as he pleads them not to, and they tell him to fuck himself and do it anyway. Marvel as he watches them die by your hand, you, who destroyed Gaius himself at the peak of his life, and he can do nothing to stop it", and that's a redemption arc to people

The only surviving kid only makes it because her brother acts to protect her, she doesn't make it because of any act of Gaius'

The entire story is literally "In case you somehow missed it in ARR and most of Stormblood, everything Gaius believed in was horseshit and there's no such thing as a 'noble general in the evil empire'". All his meritocracy bullshit vanished the second he was gone, no-one but his own children believed it or held onto it, and the empire put someone directly opposed to that belief into his old seat when he vanished. No-one cared, no-one else "believed", the Empire was never about that, it was only propped up in his own singular legion by him being there and the second he was gone the legion dumped it and moved on and only Gaius was too naive and stupid to see it.

I mean for fuck sake, the Empire digs up the chemical gas weapon he explicitly had sealed away and destroyed all record of after he's gone and if it wasn't for a particularly dedicated and enterprising catboy and his comedy crew of hardcore engineers, it would have caused the eighth apocalypse

Even the follow-up in patch 6.4, of the family portrait, isn't some "aw he good now" thing. The family portrait you help organise for him has to have four of its six members be projected onto the scene via a machine's reconstruction of them as normal people because they're dead, they threw their lives away because the ideology Gaius taught them meant they could only think to die fighting and nothing else. That's his loving family portrait: four ghosts stood at his back as his last living child smiles through her pain.

"well the people of Werlyt didn't kill him for conquering them" they let him clean up the mess he made (which meant watching his children be killed) and as "thanks" they're letting him stay there to live out the last third of his life or so attempting to atone by fixing the damage he did.

He's 56 at the time of ARR; the Empire he gave 3-4 decades of his life to is gone, it's a smouldering ruin, all but one of the people he loved is dead, his surviving daughter is scarred by the path he led her down, and what few friends he had are also dead. He learned that his beliefs were all horseshit and pretty much everyone around him except for himself knew it, he must live knowing that those beliefs got his children killed, all that he achieved that he once considered "good" was for nothing, he learned that the cool old emperor he idolised who had no magic but built an empire by pulling up his bootstraps and who told him that magic and gods were bad was actually an ancient incredibly magical sorceror attempting to resurrect his own god.

That's not a redemption arc, he's the most owned man still alive in XIV

[seresinhangmanjake]

His and Yours

Summary: When you're told your pregnancy could cost you your life, Feyd demands you do whatever necessary to keep yourself alive. When you decide to have the baby anyway, it creates a rift in your relationship. Only when you go into labor, does Feyd show himself for who he really is.

Warnings/ Notes: Very angsty, but ends on a happy note. Very sensitive topics about pregnancy, abortion, and conversations about potential death. It’s Feyd here people, and we can imagine how he’d be with sensitive topics. Please only read if you understand this. Requested by @tgmreader

**While it is not necessary to read my other work to read this fic, this works also as another part to my "His" series. However, (even though it ends on a happy note) if this content makes you uncomfortable, it is not necessary to read in order to understand any future parts in the series. I know people love them together and that this is a difficult issue, so do not feel obligated.**

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Words: 2950

“Feyd…” you sigh as you watch him pace back and forth. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge you until you attempt to get up from your seat to go to him.

With an outstretched arm and a finger pointed directly at you, he says in a harsh tone—harsher than you’ve heard in a long time, “Don’t you move a fucking inch!”

You plop back into your seat. “We have to talk about this.”

“No!” he snaps. He descends upon you with rushed stomps, his hands gripping the armrests of your chair. You have to tilt your head back to meet his fiery gaze. “There will be no talking about this,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “No discussion. No negotiations. No weighing the pros and cons.” You swallow as a tear builds in the corner of your eye. Feyd groans and pushes away from the chair. “Stop crying.”

“What do you expect from me?”

“To not die!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the vast, empty room. “I expect my wife to do whatever she has to in order to keep me happy! That’s your job!”

You glance down. Your hand runs over the slightly bulbous shape of your stomach. A tear creates a dark patch on the fabric of your dress. A dress he picked out for you. He’d been so enthusiastic about every element related to your pregnancy, including dressing his wife in new gowns as you grew with the passing months. This is one of the first he’d chosen. 

“I thought my job was to provide you with an heir,” you say.

“Not at the cost of your life!”

He had almost missed the appointment for more professional matters. Now you wish he had. When the doctor told you that you might not survive giving birth, he gave you a choice: risk having the child anyway or drink a tonic that will terminate your pregnancy while it’s still safe. You knew Feyd’s mind was made up in that very moment. But yours wasn’t. This is your child, a perfect combination of you and the only man you’ve ever loved, and yet, your questioning of what is best has your husband looking at you like you’ve lost your damn mind; like you’re a fool with a knack for selfishness.

“I’m the na-Baron,” he says. “You’re under my authority. I decide for the both of us.”

You shake your head. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care if it’s fair! We can make a hundred heirs, but there isn’t another you!” he screams. You wonder if the rest of the Harkonnen fortress hears—the soldiers, the servants. You wonder if they fear for their lives because of an outburst that has nothing to do with them. They should. Your husband is likely to go on a rampage throughout the place the moment this conversation ends, should it ever.

When you shrivel in your chair, a crease dents the center of his brow. Feyd returns to you, his warm palms cupping your cheeks, his forehead resting against yours. “You can’t ask me to let you do this,” he says with a subtle whimper. “I won’t ever forgive you.”

“What about my forgiveness of you?”

Feyd jerks back. The pain in his eyes shrinks under darkness. “You have nothing to forgive me for.”

Finally, you stand. “You want me to give up our baby,” you argue. “You don’t think I deserve to–”

“No!” You jump. “I care about you! I love you! Not some thing that wants to take you away from me!”

“Feyd–”

“I refuse to continue this conversation,” he says. “I’ve made the decision. It’s done.”

—

He’d tried everything. He had meal preparers mix it in with your usual dinner drink until the nasty sludge color disappeared. He attempted to have your maidservants slip it into your morning tea, your evening glass of warm milk, and, even more desperately, into your bathwater. However, the only servants close enough to you that he could demand such a task from became primarily loyal to you after your marriage six months prior, and as a result, each one informed you of his plans. Five servants fell to your husband's blade before he surrendered that tactic to attempt anew. But with his final effort, what died between you was nothing other than what had been keeping you together—affection. 

With your feelings numb, there was little foundation for your relationship to stand upon. When he took you and made you his concubine, Feyd kept you safe. He did the physical work to protect you in a newly twisted relationship while you did all of the emotional work. You broke down the walls he’d built, got him to open up, showed him that caring for you wouldn’t be the end of the world. Convincing you to get rid of your baby was the hardest he’d ever emotionally worked for you, and since failure was not a thing he had known, nothing was going to stop him. 

He didn’t understand that kissing you with the tonic filling his mouth was too far, even for what he’d already done. He didn’t understand that he had already lost so much of your trust with his deceit and that that kiss was enough to scorch the rest of it. You might have left him had you not been able to wash the substance from your mouth before it could do its damage. 

When you first turned him away, he threw his fits. He screamed at you and for you every day until you made it clear you weren’t coming to him, but even then, he didn’t allow you to neglect the expectations he had for you. In front of others, you were to act as his wife—stand by his side, attend meetings in silence, kiss him goodbye before his trips to Arrakis—but the larger your belly grew, the less he was willing to have you near. 

You don’t sleep in the same bed now. You don’t take your meals together or bathe together or, frankly, see one another. He looks the other way when he crosses your path. His fists clench like he wants to touch you, his Adam’s apple bobs like he’s holding back from kissing you, but his eyes refuse to meet yours, and he won’t go near you. 

You know he's preparing himself to lose his wife. Anger, while present, hasn’t been the dominant fuel for his behavior for a while, and neither is it yours. You were furious, but with your baby due in a month, you struggle to bear the loneliness, and the longer he continues to treat you like you’re a plague, the more you miss him, and the more you fear for your child. Who will love it if you are not here? Who will protect it and teach it and nourish it? Certainly not the one who should and once promised he would. And as the days close in, you wonder if he was right. If you made a mistake. 

—

I need him—that’s all you can think as your baby fights to leave your body. You need your husband here, and the reasons are far too overwhelming, but you can’t focus on anything else. You miss him. You can’t do this alone. And if you die today, you have to say goodbye. You have to tell him you love him and make him swear to protect your child, or it was all for nothing. 

“I need him,” you screech through your teeth with the contraction that hits you.

“My Lady–” one of the nurses begins. Her voice is shaky, worried eyes flicking back and forth between yours and the doctor between your legs who has just reached for another clean rag after discarding a blood-soaked one. “My Lady, the na-Baron–”

“I don’t care! I need him!”

He must’ve been there, listening, because Feyd’s through the door in an instant, and as his eyes lock on to yours, everything else—all the pain and lies—is shoved behind you. He takes a step forward but pauses, momentarily distracted by the wear on your body, before he blinks and continues forward, shoving people aside to get to you. He falls to his knees by your bed and when your hand reaches out, he clutches it tightly in both of his. Too tightly. You can feel your pulse throbbing harder from the pressure on your veins, but you don’t care. 

“Feyd, I–”

“Don’t do this to me,” he mutters as tears well in his eyes. The first you’ve ever seen. He didn’t so much as shed a tear on your wedding day or when you told him you were pregnant, but as the first one falls down his cheek, you realize he’s about to make up for every missed opportunity. 

You can’t respond. You don’t have it in you to tell him that you won’t do anything to him, that you won’t hurt him, that you’ll be fine, and that you’ll be a family. You’re too exhausted to lie. He seems to know it because he doesn’t make the request again. Instead, he kisses your fingers over and over, repeating words of love that are not often said. 

“My Lady, I know it hurts, but if you can shift downwards a bit,” the doctor starts. “At this angle, we might be able to–”

Feyd wipes his eyes and shoots to his feet. “You can save her?”

“There might be a better chance.”

You groan as you maneuver your body. Feyd does what he can to assist, but it doesn’t ease the searing, stabbing feeling at your core. 

“That’s better,” the doctor praises. 

“She’s your priority,” Feyd says sternly.

You gasp. “N-No…”

Your husband’s head whips back to you. “I’m not watching you die,” he growls. 

“For…our baby,” you say to Feyd’s hardened features. You cry harder for the pain of realizing that out of you and your baby, he would still choose you. You don’t know why you expected any different. In the five minutes of his presence, he gave no indication of a change of heart, but it’s disappointing all the same. “P-Please.”

The doctor doesn’t look up from the task at hand but listens for further instruction. “My Lord?”

Feyd stares at you for a long while, his expression unchanged. He doesn’t squeeze your hand or kiss your forehead or brush away the damp hair from your forehead with your next contraction. He doesn’t flinch at your joining shriek. He’s gone, lost in the world of his thoughts until he decides to come back. His eyes close. He grinds his back teeth. His brow pinches and he shakes his head.

“The baby,” Feyd struggles to get out. He pauses before he says, “And then my wife.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The next half-hour is white-hot, blinding agony. You can no longer move—a statue as the doctor slices pieces of you open to accommodate your child’s position. He doesn’t want to come out. He doesn’t want to leave his mother. You can’t blame him. If you had the same fate awaiting you upon joining the world, you might not rush to leave the confines of comfort either. He has no reason to separate himself from everything he’s known to fall into the hands of a man who does not love him. But his unwillingness to leave you is what will eventually take you from him. 

You can feel it. The draining. Of blood. Of life. Your energy is long gone and at this point, you can’t imagine lasting long enough to be saved, even if you survive just in time to hear your baby’s first cry. 

“We’re almost there,” the doctor says. His words are hazy as your brain drifts, struggling to keep you conscious. But then you feel a release of pressure, a missing weight. Emptiness. Solitude.

“Save my wife!” you hear in the aftermath, but you’re not worried about that. You need to know he’s ok and perfect and that he has all of his fingers and toes. You need to know if he has a dusting of hair on his head, or if he’s like your husband. Does he more resemble his father? Complexion and eyes and lips poutier than yours? You need to know these things about your son. 

But you suppose you never will. Your vision is too blurry to make out his tiny form, but among Feyd’s shouts, you hear a beautiful little wail as your eyelids flutter closed. And that’s enough. 

—

The last thing you heard upon your death is the first thing you hear when you wake. And it terrifies you. Surely, you should not be hearing that sound. If you can hear him, then he’s with you, and he can’t be with you because you’re not here. Not really. You don’t exist on the plane he should be existing on. You exist in darkness now, and he was only ever meant to see the light. That’s what you saved him for. That’s what you used every remaining ounce of your will and soul and heart to do. You left so he could stay. So how could he be with you?

“Can you hear him?” 

Yes. You cannot see him, but you can hear him. He sounds so much like you remember. His coos are not the wails, but the noises are brothers. You part your lips to call his name only to realize you never got the chance to give him one. 

“He’s perfect,” the voice says. “Everything about him.” A tear trickles down your cheek. “I need you to meet him. He wants to see his mother.”

You want to see him, too, so badly, and as you feel the desire, a flash of light shoots across your vision. One flash, and then another. Another flash, and then one more. Brightness obscures every image as your eyes shift, attempting to take in your surroundings. You’re not sure this is better. In the darkness, you can rest. This is simply torturous, and your baby is not even here. 

Heat from a heavy, shaky sigh hits your skin. Relief. Lips land on yours for a long beat before finding your forehead. A skull presses to your skull. The breath is taken from your lungs by another kiss. A droplet splashes onto your cheek. 

“You don’t ever do this to us again.” When your vision adjusts, your husband is there. “Do you understand me?”

You nod before you can think not to, before you can think that Feyd is not meant to be here, either. But if he is here, then why does he look so happy? Would he really rather the three of you be gone forever than to raise your baby without you? You scold your idiocy. Of course, he would. 

“You were out for three days,” he says. “Longest three days of my life.”

Out. Not dead. Not gone. 

Feyd helps you sit up. He disappears and then returns with a bundle of fabric. “Look,” he says, smiling, sniffling, and then smiling again. Two of his fingers gently nudge a section of the blanket aside to reveal a tiny face. Tiny nose, tiny lips, tiny eyes. Lashes that rest on tiny cheeks. A much smaller spitting image of your husband. “He’s got your eyes, I promise,” Feyd says, and your son proves it when his eyelids flutter open. 

“Do you think you’ve got the strength to hold him?”

You nod again. “Y-Yes,” you say, like it’s your first word. 

Feyd uncurls his arms from the baby and settles him into your awaiting ones. He’s lighter than you expected—probably to do with coming a little early—but the weight of him snaps the bits of you that were lagging behind in the unconscious world to the present. You gasp.

You’re alive. Your baby is alive. Your husband is here. They’re both beautiful. “I’m alive.”

Feyd sits back down in the chair that is pulled up to the side of your bed. He swallows. “Yes. Barely, for a moment, but…yes.”

You cuddle your baby to your chest and run your finger down his nose. He’s softer than the blanket that snuggles him. Soft like you rather than his father. He’ll grow strong like the man you can’t help loving, but he’ll have more heart, and that balance will make him a great Baron one day. A great man. 

“Do you hate me?” Feyd asks. “For what I did?”

Your head hurts and you still feel groggy, but you’re aware enough to know that you don’t hate him. You can’t hate him. It shocks you that he doesn’t know that, but then again, he’d never done anything like what he did before, and if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t know that he wouldn’t do it again should you fall pregnant with another child. You don’t trust him right now, and there’s only one thing that could ever convince you to attempt repairing that trust. 

“Do you love him?” you say as you gently rock your baby. 

Feyd glances down at your son. There’s no contemplation. “More than anything.”

“You’ll protect him?”

His eyes flick back up to yours. “With my life,” he says. And you believe him. 

You became a mother the second you felt that little life growing inside of you, but you can accept that upon looking at your son, spending time with him, your husband learned to become a father. Had you died, you don’t know what would have happened, but you can’t dwell on that and hope to keep your family together at the same time. He loves the child you made together, and that’s all you ever wanted. 

“Then, no,” you tell him. “I don’t hate you.”

[i-like-what-this-says-about-you]

every episode of house md part 3

high school teacher: alright class settle down, it is time for chemistry!

the students moan

random student #1: please mr roberts can we just use this period to do homework

mr roberts: no, chemistry is important, you see-

mr roberts starts choking

random student #2: oh my god! someone get him some water!

mr roberts stops choking

mr roberts: sorry about that folks, moving on-

mr roberts falls to the ground, unconscious

*** house and wilson are walking together

house: wilson, my guy, you are wearing a nice tie. you must be cheating on your wife

wilson: you’re just trying to find a way to compliment my tie without seeming nice. so, thank you. anyway, i have this case. high school chemistry teacher keeps randomly choking on nothing.

house: so? he has anderson’s choking disease

wilson: no, it doesn’t only occur when he’s sleeping. not anderson’s.

there is a brief moment of homoerotically staring and grinning at each other

house: ok, i’ll take it.

he grabs the file

***

house: ok people, new case. man can’t stop choking!

cameron: hmmm… can’t be andersons…

foreman: could it be cancer in his throat?

house: that only shows up for a minute or two every few days?

chase: longmedicalnameadocis!

house: good thinking, test for that, in the mean time start him on fancydrugname.

*** in the clinic

house sighs, pops a few vicodin, and enters a clinic room

clinic patient: my knees hurt.

house takes a good hard look at the patient. he’s ancient. every inch of him is wrinkled. his head has only a few surviving white hairs. next to him is who house assumes is his daughter.

house (sarcastically): hhhmmm… now this is a hard one.

daughter: please take him seriously! just a week ago it seemed like he was way younger! he had barely any wrinkles, he was running 4 miles a day- he was healthy and fit! something’s up!

the patient coughs and begins to struggle to breathe. he takes out an inhaler.

daughter: a week ago he didn’t need an inhaler. now he’s using it multiple times a day!

house (not sarcastically this time): interesting… i want to run a few tests.

*** in the office

foreman: fancydrugname made him worse.

house: chase you idiot you were way wrong.

chase: 😣😣🥺🥺

house writes the new symptoms on the board

foreman: i think it’s neurological.

house: okay, what neurological disorder could cause this?

foreman thinks in contemplation

cameron: insertanotherlongmedicalnamehere?

chase: there’s no treatment for that.

house: wrong. we can do surgery

foreman: surgery?

house: take out part of his brain

*** cuddy’s office

cuddy (angry): NO! you cannot cut into this man’s brain with no proof! it’s a rare condition, most people with it die and this treatment has never been used for the condition before!

house: i have proof.

cuddy: oh really?

house: yes. i think it will work and i’m always right.

cuddy shakes her head

cuddy: no.

*** in the clinic, same patient as before

daughter: please tell me you know what’s wrong with him.

the patient has a bag of almonds in his hand. he is shoveling handfuls of them into his mouth

house: jeez, that’s a lot of almonds- **epiphany moment** house: i have to go!!

daughter: what? what about my dad!!!

house (from out the clinic room): get him to stop eating all those damn almonds!!

*** mr roberts’ room

house: have you been exposed to large amounts of almonds recently?

mr roberts: yes, my son just started working at an almond factory.

house: aha! my proof!

house leaves, leaving mr roberts confused and in distress

*** mr roberts gets the surgery and is cured

once again, wilson and house are walking together. wilson is eating almonds

wilson: want one?

[jobean12-blog]

For the First Time and Forever

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader (princess!reader)

Word Count: 1,181

Summary: Marcus can't stay away any longer and comes to you in the middle of the night with a confession and so much more.

Author's Note: First of all, why are summaries so hard- ugh and I suck at them haha- anyway, I reallllllly loved writing this one. It's their first time together and I wanted it to really feel extra deep- hopefully that comes across. Extra thanks to all the lovely people who have been so kind and supportive with my little stories, I really appreciate you! Thank you all so much for reading and much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you sweet Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: sweet softness, fluff, lots of love, fluffersmut (best way I can describe it haha), lots of feels, love making

Marcus Acacius Masterlist

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

The jiggle of the iron lock startles you from your reading and you jump up from your bed and hurry toward the door. You wait, your breath caught in your throat, for a signal.

A book slides under the small space at your feet, stopping when it hits your toe. You bend to pick it up, smiling before pressing it to your chest and quietly unlocking the door.

He has never been to your room, and when he walks in, he barely glances at anything, his eyes trained on you. His hands cradle your face, and he pushes you back toward the wall, his mouth firm on yours.

As gentle as his hands are on your skin there is nothing gentle about his kiss. It’s hard and desperate, a hunger that he can’t seem to satiate.

“Marcus,” you gasp, grabbing his wrists.

His eyes seem to refocus at the call of his name and when you look over his shoulder at the open door, he mutters a curse and quickly walks back to shut and lock it.

In seconds you’re back in his arms, his hands gripping and pulling ineffectually at clothing that is in his way.

“I am sorry my love,” he whispers against your lips. “But it seems you have me losing my mind. I could not wait another second to see you.”

The only light in your room is from the small oil lamp hanging near your bed and it casts a small burst of warm yellow light around the pillows.

He kisses you again then pulls away to watch you walk backward toward your bed.

“Marcus, I…”

“Undress for me.”

You take a deep breath.

Looking down at your clothes you lift shaky hands to your tunic and slowly unwrap it from your shoulder and torso. The linen falls to the floor and you’re left in nothing but your two pieces of underclothing.

“Your nervousness makes me think you do not know that I am in love with you Princess.”

You lift your gaze, eyes wide and hands frozen.

“I love you,” he repeats.

You’re silent as you reach behind you to unravel the linen that covers your breasts. It falls at your feet followed by the fabric you loosen at your hips.

“I love you.”

The words are a whisper on your lips, and he takes a step closer, his dark eyes wandering reverently over every inch of your bare skin.

“And I’m terrified.”

He takes you in his arms, all your softness pressed firmly against the hard lines of his armor.

“I would be lying if I did not say the same,” he murmurs. “I am frightened I put you in danger each time we are together. Frightened that I may not survive your father’s plans and our time together will be far too short.”

You gently touch his face, tracing the outline of his jaw until you find his lips.

“I will not watch you die,” you whisper. “It will not be so.”

Your movements are delicate and slow as you untie the cuirass and remove it from his chest, next pulling the scarf free of his neck.

You press a kiss to his neck and feel him swallow against your lips.

When you have his belt loosened it falls to the floor and you start to lift his tunic, ridding him of the last piece of clothing before looking your fill.

He breathes out your name, his voice shaky with distracted and insatiable desire.

“And I will have you know, Princess, that each and every moment spent loving you have been the greatest I have ever lived.”

And in that instant everything became about the feeling of his mouth on yours, the feeling of his hands on your body, his lips pressing more words of love into your skin. You feel every breath he takes and absorb every sound that leaves his lips.

His mouth grows hungrier and more urgent as he lays you on the bed and moves down your body. Slowly, he presses two fingers inside you and slides his tongue through you. He takes his time, savoring and teasing until you cry out his name.

“You are stunning beyond compare,” he whispers when you’re finally still and he crawls over you. “It is overwhelming how it affects me so.”

You reach up and drag your nails along his chest, grabbing his shoulders and urging him closer and then pushing him back so you can watch when he reaches between your bodies to position himself against you.

“Please” you whisper.

He groans, exhaling as he lowers his body over yours and pushes into you fully. The sensation is blissful. The stretch rides the edge of the most pleasurable pain and the feeling of his skin against yours, his face buried in your neck, and his hair silky between your fingers, is everything all at once.

His hands pull your thighs around his waist and his hips pivot as he moves inside you.

You’re out of words as he rolls you on top of him and he watches your face until it’s too much, too intense, and you’re falling together, your lips pressed to his and his arms keeping you impossibly close.

Marcus is curled up behind you when the sun barely begins to lighten the sky. His hair is rumpled, curls wild as it frames his peaceful expression. He’s hard and pressing into your back, gently rocking his hips, and not saying a single word when he realizes you’re staring.

His hands are calm and deliberate, teasing. He starts to build a slow burn under your skin, kissing you everywhere, touching you just how you want, just how you need. The sun has barely broken the horizon when you collapse together again and fall to sleep.

He stands quietly, crossing the room and retrieving his clothing and armor. Before he’s fully dressed he leans over you and whispers, “my love. I must go,” against the shell of your ear.

Goosebumps break out over your skin, and you stir, mumbling with a stretch.

“I do not want you to go. Ever.”

He braces his hands on either side of your head and hovers above you.

“You are even more gorgeous in the morning light. Did you know that?”

“Yes?” you smile, lifting your hand and brushing your thumb across his bottom lip.

He sucks it into his mouth then releases it to lean down and kiss you. The sounds of a rainstorm begin as water pelts the roof and thunder rumbles in the distance.

Your lips move from his mouth and to his ear. “I am sore but in the best way.”

You rock your hips against his. “I want more.”

“Woman,” he growls. “I will never tire of hearing those words.”

Pushing on his chest, you roll him onto his back. “Do not go Marcus.”

The sheet falls away and he grabs your hips. “I love you,” he whispers. “I will do anything you ask of me.”  You bend down and capture his lips, breathing the same words into his mouth.

@hiddles-rose @blackwidownat2814 @tripletstephaniescp

[that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction]

I wanna write a really mundane magic reveal.

This has definitely been done before (please send fic recs) but I’m procrastinating and really want to write it.

Literally nothing is happening, Arthur is having a bath, Merlin is tidying up in his chambers one night and everything is basically fine.

Arthur asks Merlin how he manages to always get the bath water perfect and Merlin jokingly says “must be magic” while he’s distracted, Arthur stops and starts thinking about all the fallen tree branches, how his armour is perfect and even if Merlin is late, his food is always hot.

So Arthur realises Merlin is a sorcerer, but not a very good one if all he can do is boring stuff with chores. And if he’s not using magic to defeat all the bandits, it must be because he can’t defeat all the bandits. Not that he’s trying not to die or anything. In fact, the thought of killing Merlin, or of Merlin being punished for his magic, never even crosses his mind.

Arthur shrugs, because Merlin made the joke before, it was just his fault for not noticing it, also his father is still king, so it’s probably for the best that Merlin never said anything, and he tells Merlin to be careful about his magic and to only use it if he’s locked the door.

Merlin’s too shocked by the easy acceptance to panic, so he’s just like: “you’re cool with it?”

And Arthur, oblivious but in love, is just like “well, at least you’re good at something.” Because, sure, Merlin isn’t powerful, but he’s not about to piss off the guy who gives him perfect baths. Then he’s like, “maybe figure out how to lie so my father doesn’t find out about you though. We can figure out the ban once I’m king”

I’m picturing this to be in early/mid season two. Morgana never turns evil, Merlin helps her with her magic because I said so.

So Merlin and Arthur have a while for Arthur getting used to Merlin magically lighting fires, sharpening his sword, adding protection charms to his armour, heating his baths, removing stains from his clothes and even putting them back to being like new if they lost buttons or anything.

Then they go to find the dragonlord, Balinor survives also because I said so.

Merlin tells Arthur Balinor is his father in the inn before they meet him. Arthur is a little worried for Merlin, but ultimately happy for his friend.

Then Merlin uses magic infront of Balinor and Arthur after Merlin told Balinor that he’s his son. Balinor shoves Merlin behind him protectively and Arthur is confused, “why would anyone assume he’d hurt Merlin? It’s Merlin. If anything, he’s more useful as a servant and more honest as a friend since he found out about the magic.”

Balinor is floored by it, and starts treating Arthur a lot better. Arthur gets to ask about pre purge stuff, Balinor tells him a bit about his mother from when her parents visited his when they were kids, then about Ygraine visiting the dragons and how she, Balinor and others in court at the time were friends.

They take him to Ealdor after the dragon is defeated/banished and Arthur looks over at Merlin and realises “oh my god, you summoned the wind.”

And Merlin is like, “yeah? No big deal.”

So Arthur is left wondering why Merlin is downplaying what he thinks is the strongest bit of magic he’s ever done. He comes to the conclusion that Merlin is embarrassed that it was a fluke, he tries to reassure Merlin that he can always practice and learn to do stronger magic like that. Merlin is confused because the wind wasn’t strong magic?

Balinor realises what’s happening and decides he wants nothing to do with it so he stays quiet. (He’s already sensed a lot of power from Merlin, so he knows he’s strong.)

Anyway, they keep going to Ealdor. Merlin still hasn’t caught onto the fact that Arthur thinks he’s a weak sorcerer, Arthur hasn’t caught on to Merlin being strong and just thinks he’s a little bit embarrassed about not being that strong of a sorcerer.

Then they get to Ealdor, everything is great for about two days until it starts down-pouring. Enough rain to flood the village and everyone is worried because Cenred or Lot(?)(I don’t remember when Cenred dies in canon) isn’t going to do anything because he just doesn’t care so their fields will flood and they’ll starve and not be able to afford taxes.

Arthur tries to reassure Merlin that it’s okay, but Merlin just hums. He asks Arthur if they can still lie and say they were on a hunting trip if he does something about the rain, Arthur tells him he shouldn’t push himself or anything, but Merlin says he won’t and Arthur trusts him so it’s fine. Merlin then goes outside and casually stops the rain, clearing the clouds and moving the rainwater into the river.

Arthur is shook.

Then he’s got to realise that Merlin is powerful, but again he never lied about it so he can’t really get mad, so he decides it’s better to just be shocked and carry on as usual until he gets used to the idea that Merlin is stronger than he looks.

There’s also a little bit of a bi panic in there somewhere because Arthur definitely has a thing for competency. We all saw his crushes on Gwen, Merlin, Lancelot, Mithian if she wasn’t just the wrong person for him, I’m pretty sure Percival too. There’s definitely others I haven’t noticed or forgot about. You get the idea though.

He sees Merlin being good at Magic and is suddenly very confused by the feelings he’s too emotionally stunted to recognise. Even if it’s just small things, Merlin is good at something and ‘what the hell happened to the bumbling idiot who forgot to hand him his sword the first day? What? Huh?’

Then after he accepts Merlin is really good at magic, he decides: “great! He can train with me now! :D” and he drags Merlin out of Camelot to spar which is basically just Merlin teaching Arthur how to defend himself against magical attacks. Arthur thinks he’s helping Merlin to protect himself because ‘if all he can do is wind that’s hardly an offensive attack so he needs more help mastering that. And considering no one else knows, it’s my responsibility to make sure he’s safe if he ever needs it.’

Merlin is just glad to be accepted and that Arthur is willing to learn how to protect himself against the numerous magical attacks every week so he lets Arthur think whatever he wants about why they’re sparring.

But yeah, there’s minimal trauma, it’s not a big deal and they get the happily ever after they deserved.

[feyascorner]

Ok but what if tav is the hero of baldurs gate right, the god killer, slayer of the chosen three, savior of the emerald grove etc etc and after all that is told they had this incurable illness that the parasite had only slowed down. Now, with it gone, it’s progressing again and Tav can’t help but feel so stupid, weak even, that such a mighty hero could be struck by the weaknesses of their own body

Maybe pushes everyone away when they find out, too afraid to tell them that after everything they’ve been through after surviving all of that that they were going to die anyways

AND THEN ASTARIONS REACTION!!! Because surely he would not take that news sitting down (if he found out at all)

a/n. anon how did you know this type of prompt is exactly my cup of tea <33

It's not fair.

You did everything right. You saved the grove, the Tieflings, the Druids, the gnomes, the city, and even those who did not deserve saving, you always came to their aid. You've slayed gods, mind flayers, githyanki, even a bloody elder brain. And now, finally, after so long, with the brain having been defeated, and nothing but pure bliss occupying your headspace, you think you finally have time to relax.

Instead, you're reeled over the bathroom sink, eyes blurry from how much your body seems hellbent on making you miserable.

Ah, you remember. No matter what you've done for others, no matter what you've sacrificed, you're reduced to nothing but a sick patient. One that has no hope for a cure.

The months spent with little to do with your illness has left it to come back tenfold, and now all you can do is grovel on the bathroom floor, head in your hands as you understand that this is all you were meant to amount to. In the end, you were always destined to rot away by yourself and succumb to this gods forsaken disease. You are no hero. This is what you truly are---the pitiful remains of someone who longed for more.

The weeks following the defeat of the elder brain are filled with mournful streets for those who lost their lives and the joyous laughter of those who live on for them. Celebration--though it's difficult with half the taverns having collapsed in the battle--is not out of the ordinary. Strangers and friends alike come together every night, singing praises to whichever gods they worship. Your companions are no exception.

But each and every time, you deny their offers. You've become quite skilled at making up excuses about feeling tired, about having errands to run, or having loose ends to tie up. In reality, you're a coward. Despite the trust they put in you, you cannot provide it back--not in matters like this. Not when you've all been through so much, just for your own journey to amount to nothing.

It's not like you haven't known about this disease. You knew your death was imminent. But now, after experiencing just a fraction of what life has to offer, you no longer want to let go.

It's just not fair.

For what seems to be the millionth time this week, you hear someone knock at your door. Whichever one of your companions it is, you don't bother taking a step from your bed, face still planted into your sheets. You don't have the energy to move, and the useless healing herbs scattered across the room don't exactly hide your secret. So instead of standing, you bury your face deeper into your bed.

"You can't stay in there forever."

You flinch as you realize it's a voice you've dreaded hearing. One that invokes so much love yet fear as you remember that if you see him right now, it might be your last. And you don't want that. Not at all.

"I don't know what we've done to make you push us away like this," he says through the door, and your fist tightens in front of your chest. "But this is getting ridiculous, darling. You have to come out eventually."

You remain silent.

"Gods, just--" he stops, and you can hear the hesitance in his voice. You swear it almost cracks a little. "--Have I done something wrong?"

At this, you're suddenly on your feet, rushing to push yourself against the door, but unwilling to open in. "No, Astarion, you haven't done anything wrong. Don't you dare think that way."

You can hear him shift. "Then why do you avoid me? The others, I can understand, but me?...I mean, I thought we were more than that..."

"We are, it's just..."

"Just what?"

The final thread of your resolve snaps, and you reach toward your lock. Your hand falters for a moment, but you eventually open the door slowly. And if the way his face falls tells you anything, you must look absolutely dreadful.

"Oh, my sweet, what's happened to you?" he whispers, his eyes widening even more when he sees the mess of your home behind you. The clothes all over the floor, the blinds shut despite there being no sunlight to shield from, the healing potions and herbs messily tossed around...you'd feel ashamed if you weren't so tired already.

"...Are you sick?" he steps inside, taking his time to take in the state of what you call home. When you don't answer, he whips around to you, alarmed. "You're sick. Is it a cold? Flu?"

You shake your head, sick of having to lie to the one person you don't want to deceive. "It's a long story."

"I'm undead, darling. I have all the time in the world."

"It's not a very nice story."

"If I wanted a nice story, I'd be listening to a bard someplace else," he says, and you feel your eyes bubble with tears as he steps closer. "What's happened?"

The words spill out like vomit, and you're soon telling him what's been weighing on you for so long. You find yourself sliding down to the ground, and he goes with you, letting you grasp desperately at the sleeves of his shirt while you tell him everything. You can barely breathe with how fast your talking but you're afraid you won't say everything if you get any slower. The entire time, he just stares at you, his arms circled around you, and only when you're done does his gaze finally flicker.

"...Surely, there must be a cure." He's suddenly glancing around the entire room, at pieces of herbs. "Surely, at least one of these would--"

"None of them work, Astarion."

"Then we can find the finest healers in the city--we can even go back to that damn druid, and ask him."

"I've tried."

"Well, you haven't tried hard enough, obviously, if you haven't found a bloody cure!"

You give him one hard look--one with dark bags under your eyes and a weariness that stretches on for weeks--and his temper seems to cool. His shoulders slump, but he reaches for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just felt so weak," you whisper. "I didn't want you to think that too."

Immediately, his eyes harden, and he takes both sides of your face in his hands. "No. I don't think you're weak, and that's not going to change. You've proven yourself more than I can count, and I know you enough to know that you can't let it end like this, love. You can't leave like this."

"Astarion..."

He shakes his head. "I won't let this take you from me. There have been too many opportunities for us to lose each other, and we've overcome them all. We'll just do it again. We'll go to the most skilled healers in Faerun. We'll go to all of them if we have to, and we'll start tomorrow."

You can feel yourself tear up again, and he kisses your tears away while you sob in his arms.

"I'll save you," he mumbles against your temple. "Even if it's the last thing I do."

[flwrkid14]

The Immortal Weight of Tim Drake

There’s a part of Tim that he keeps buried deep inside, locked away so no one can see it—will ever see it. He can’t let them know. Not Dick, not Jason, not Bruce. Hell, not even Steph or Cass. It’s better this way. Because the truth is, Tim Drake isn’t like them. He can’t stay dead.

No matter how many times it happens—how many times a blade finds its way into his gut, a bullet catches him in the chest, or a fall from a skyscraper crushes every bone in his body—Tim comes back. Not right away. No, it takes minutes, sometimes agonizing minutes, where he lies broken, breathless, and unmoving, with nothing but the darkness pressing in. He feels it each time. The quiet nothingness of death that should be final but never is.

He’s not like Jason.

Jason died. Really, truly died. He was buried, mourned, and remembered as the second Robin. His grave sat cold, a monument to a boy too good for the world, too bright to last. And Jason, when he clawed his way out, became a zombie in every sense of the word—not quite living but not quite dead either.

Jason knows what it’s like to rise from death, to feel like he doesn’t belong, like a walking corpse.

But Tim doesn’t know that part.

Tim knows what it’s like to die. He knows the brief moments of oblivion that come with it, the aching cold, the stillness. But he’ll never stay dead. His revival is a guaranteed, while Jason's was a miracle. He’ll never have a grave. Never be mourned, because he’ll always come back.

And that’s what hurts the most.

No one sees him die. He’s careful. So damn careful. On the rare occasions when he can’t hide the fact that he’s dead for a few minutes—those close calls where he doesn’t get up fast enough—he brushes it off, masking the pain with a smile and a joke. If anyone noticed the blood pooling in his suit or the sickening sound of his heart stopping for too long, they never questioned it. The danger passes, and life goes on.

For them, anyway.

For Tim, it never really stops. Every death, every time he’s pushed past the edge, it weighs on him. He knows he’s playing with something dangerous—something unnatural. But what choice does he have? The truth is, it’s not just that he can’t stay dead—it’s that he should be dead. So many times over, in fact.

There are days when Tim wonders if he’s meant to be this way. Maybe, in some twisted, cosmic joke, the universe decided that Tim Drake would be the one who can’t die. Maybe it’s because Gotham needs someone like him. Someone to shoulder the risks no one else can take. After all, if Tim can’t die, what’s one more mission where death is a near certainty? What’s one more gamble with his life? It doesn’t matter anymore, right?

And he doesn’t want them to know, because the moment they know, everything changes. If Dick saw Tim’s body cold and unmoving for just a little too long—if Bruce knew Tim had been gone, even for a heartbeat—what would they do? Tim knows exactly what they’d do. They’d stop sending him on the dangerous missions. They’d protect him, smother him with concern, lock him away to preserve him like some fragile thing that can’t be touched.

But the truth is, Tim’s more dangerous now than he’s ever been. Because he can go where no one else can. He can risk everything, go into every deadly mission, every impossible scenario where the chance of survival is zero. Because he’s already proven that, for him, death is temporary.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean he isn’t scared every single time it happens—when he feels life slipping away, the weight of his body going limp, his heart stopping, his breath gone. There’s that brief moment, that flicker of panic in his chest as he wonders, Is this the time I don’t come back? Is this the one that sticks?

But then the pain rushes back, and so does his heartbeat.

He’s alive again, and no one’s the wiser.

Tim can die a thousand times over, but he’ll always get back up. And that’s his curse. To always come back. Even if it means he’ll always be alone in the moments that matter most.

He’ll never have a grave. Never be mourned. But maybe that’s the point.

Jason can have the grave, the tragedy, the return from death that breaks the world apart. Tim just… dies. And he’ll keep dying. Keep coming back. Because that’s what he’s meant for.

It’s better if no one knows. If they don’t know, they won’t hesitate to send him on the missions no one else could survive. They’ll trust him to do what they can’t. And Tim will keep shouldering that weight, carrying death with him like a shadow, never far from his heels.

Because for Tim, death isn’t an ending. It’s just another step in the fight.

[circeyoru]

Shadow and Void = Requested

The Request

[Yandere!Sung Jinwoo x Enemy Monarch!Reader]

Part 1 (here) ― Part 2 ― Part 3

WARNING: This story is going to be heavy spoilers to people who haven't read the manhwa or novel but want to enjoy the anime for Solo Leveling. I suggest NOT reading if you don't want spoils. Plus you might not get the references if you have no knowledge of the manhwa/novel.

You, as the Monarch of Void and King of Mist, could be said to be the weakest or among the strongest. Weakest because you lacked the army like other Monarchs and the motivation to be more active in all things cruel. Among the strongest because your powers could single-handedly devour all the other Monarchs and their armies. For you essentially control space and could be dubbed a celestial being. 

Unlike the other Monarchs, you never joined in on the war directly, you merely managed some gates here and there and moved armies to level the playing field. All that to ensure you weren’t a target and wouldn’t be endangered. If you did at least something, the other Monarchs wouldn’t target you or name you a traitor and the Rulers will see you as too weak to bother. Because you were a Monarch unique from the others, you had a particular relationship with the strongest Monarch, Ashborn. 

To him, you were like a little sibling, in human terms. He looked after you and like having you around for nothing in return. In exchange for his indirect protection, you would help him with his army and lend your power to him. As best to describe your powers and abilities was that it was a supporter base, it was better for you to use on others than yourself. That was how you get by. The strongest Monarch would have a grip on you, in exchange for their protection you’d strengthen them. Once you were by Antares’ side, now you were on Ashborn’s because he never forced anything.

“I’m going to have a successor.” Ashborn told you one day. “Can you watch over them for me?”

“I’m a Monarch, Ashborn. I won’t help humans and only aim for my own survival.” You dully told them. It was true, even after the kindness and care Ashborn showed you, it wasn’t enough for you to change your ways for who knows how long. 

“I have a feeling you’ll change your tune later on.” Ashborn spoke with certainty.

You raised a vessel of your own, unlike the other Monarchs however, you preferred staying on Earth and away from the Monarchs. Humans were weak beings even with awakened powers. Their strongest —National Level— Hunters weren’t enough to take down a Monarch’s army, well, not that they were enough to put you down.

Over years, you’ve enjoyed the spoils of human society, moving from place to place and understanding their play. It was tragic to see them burn once your other Monarchs arrive to wreck havoc and the war between the Rulers and Monarch will commence again, but you weren’t going to try to put a stop to the war just because of some human inventions. It’s not like you can’t make it all again after the war. You knew the method so…

“Ow!” You accidentally bumped into someone. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The old looking man gave you his hand. 

You subconsciously took his hand and got to your feet, dusting yourself off once you were stable. When you looked over at him, your eyebrows furrowed. A light fragment. “You’re going to die a painful death.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” You turned and walked into another direction. What would be the chances of meeting a sleeping light fragment? None. Because you’ve been very distanced from the Monarchs and Rulers, you figured they might have forgotten about you entirely. You lacked a presence to begin with anyways. 

Above all, you hated how you played a part in the betrayal of Ashborn. Both Rakan and Baran were idiots in your eyes, how could they just do that to Ashborn when he was against the Rulers like them? If you weren’t a passivist, you would have knocked them over. You looked in the distance before disappearing through a gate of your own creation, a misty surface, you wondered where or when Ashborn’s vessel would appear so you could stay by his side once more.

“Bring me to that light fragment inside that human.” Sillad, The Monarch of Frost and King of Snow Folk, demanded while you were enjoying a bowl of noodles in your apartment. 

You glared up at him, “Why? Did you get Antares’ permission to do it?”

“Since when does a Monarch need such a thing?” Sillad scoffed. “Are you still waiting for Ashborn to return? So pathetic. Antares’ waiting for you, you know?” He sighed and spoke his mind, “I’m doing everyone a favour by eliminating the light fragments before they become a hindrance. So?”

It was your turn to sigh, “Give me a location or description of the person…”

Sillad grinned. “Hunters Association, the Chairman’s office.” 

You landed at the top of the Hunters Association building while you placed the entire office in a separate location where no one could bother the two. So long as they don’t focus on the barrier that bounds the space, it will be unbreakable and maintained. The city is peaceful, but with Sillad’s appearance, you knew your days of leisure was done for.

It wasn’t long until your barrier actually broke and something crawled out of the broken glass wall. Your eyes recognized it as a giant ant in black colour with misty purple smoke patterns, it reminded you much of Ashborn and his army. Perhaps his vessel was finally complete and he’s back? 

Your thoughts halted as your eyes caught Sillad racing out to destroy the ant. You hummed and opted not to aid him and see the condition of the Chairman. You found him on the ground in a pool of blood, your indifferent tone rang in the room, “I told you you’d die an agonizing death.”

“Monarch… of… Void…” Gunhee choked out, you moved your feet away to avoid his blood. “You’re time for neutrality… ends now… You must pick… a side…”

“I don’t want to pick a side,” You crushed down, looking into his eyes, “It’s not my style.”

“Don’t be his enemy…” He advised. “If you do… Your fate… will be… death…”

Your eyebrows furrowed, so long as you hold the title of Monarch, you’ll be Ashborn’s enemy, right? By now, he knew you’re the one that gave those two idiotic Monarch the power boost needed to betray Ashborn. So there was no way you could escape your so-called fate with death. You got up with a chuckle, “I welcome Death with open arms. As long as he’s back, I’m grateful.”

Your snapped to your senses when you sensed an attack aimed in your direction. You panicked, how could Sillad do something like this?! There was no way he didn’t know you weren’t in the area, in fact, he’d expect you to check up on the Chairman after he left. What was his deal?!

Before you raised any defenses to protect yourself (and the Chairman indirectly), he got up and shielded you. You grasped and caught a glimpse of Ashborn’s vessel appearing out of thin air to deflect the blow. While Ashborn’s vessel was enraged for some reason and aimed another attack at Sillad, the Chairman’s form relaxed and leaned back into you, you hastily gripped a hold of him by the shoulders. By now, blood had soaked your pants and dirtied your form. You let him lay his head on your lap as you kneeled Japanese style on the ground.

“Let me try to heal you.” You raised your hand to his wound. If Ashborn came to protect this human or fragment, you’ll try as well. But try as you might, as a Monarch, you couldn’t heal a fragment of brillant light. 

“Beru!!” Ashborn’s vessel shouted and a giant ant, this time with a humanoid figure, appeared within seconds across from him.

“You called, My King?”

“Save him, at all costs!” The vessel ordered. 

Seeing some hope, you tried as well. The Chairman’s eyes peeked open weakly, at the healing received. But the giant ant called Beru spoke, “My King, my healing spell… Isn’t working.”

“Monarch of Void… You can stop too…” 

You flinched at his words.

While Jinwoo was troubled by the presence of another Monarch after the last one, he took priority in the Chairman’s survival. He took out of the <Holy Water of Life> thinking it might work. Yet, the Chairman grabbed Jinwoo’s hand and the potion, “Don’t…”

Your brain seemed to have disconnected from the situation while the Chairman was talking to Ashborn’s vessel. As much as you wanted to congratulate Ashborn’s return, you know how to read the room. Maybe he has grown attached to someone during his time on Earth. Odd that you didn’t, well, you did but it never lasted long due to the trials of a human life. 

You didn’t even register the Chairman advising Jinwoo to take you with him by his side. A heartbreaking moment that you couldn’t connect with emotionally, yet for some reason, water came out from the corners of your eyes. You blinked. Was this sadness? Guilt? Why were you feeling such emotions or why was your body reacting in such a way? Was it because Ashborn’s vessel was feeling the same and you’re mimicking?

Why?

Why??

WHY???

���Ahhh!!!” Daggers pierced into your shoulder and knee joints, pinning you to the wall like a doll. Your head dropped down in pain and exhaustion. “Ashborn… You’re really mad at me… Aren’t you… I deserve this…”

The vessel raised a brow, “Why are you calling me that? I’m not Ashborn.”

You looked up at the vessel with dull and almost lifeless eyes, “You’re right, you’re not him, but his vessel. Your days are numbered…”

“Why do you say that?”

“Ashborn will take over your body once its ready for him. He’ll make his return. So for now, I’ll stay by your side until he is back.” You spoke monotonously. “You can torture me or ask my anything, it’s not like it matters if you’re disappearing soon.”

Note: This request is a bit on the complicated side and I honestly have no idea how to do though~ Haha. This is a bit of a test to see if you guys like this one and if not, it won't continue. Do let me know your thoughts!

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

[maybeiwasjustjade]

This is the last time I’m gonna talk about this topic, mostly because it’s hiatus era and I would like to be able to write fics without outrightly bashing s2 Alicent, but I do think it needs to be said.

There’s nothing defendable in what Alicent did when she gave up her entire family on a silver platter for Rhaenyra.

So many takes about how we—the ones who found that scene abominable and abhorrent—misread the scene, or purposefully misinterpreted just to hate her; that what Alicent did was a good thing because it would have spared her entire family if only she let Aegon die. Giving up Criston and Gwayne’s location to be slaughtered (in what is most likely going to be Butcher’s Ball) wasn’t the intention; Alicent would never do that to her family and this was the only way to ensure survival en yada yada yada.

Yet the only person she said anything about saving was Helaena and Jaehaera, the latter of which is still continued to be dehumanized by no one referring to her as anything but ‘child’. Alicent put no thought towards Daeron—her innocent 16 year old son, who has done nothing—who was now joining a war that she started by declaring his brother king. Daeron, who’s flying alongside the Hightower army, in a war that will not end just because the Dowager Queen decided enough was enough. Who might die, and actually will die, before he ever sees his family again.

And even if she believes Rhaenyra executing Aegon would end the war (which it won’t), what made s2 Alicent think that the deaths would stop there?

A son for a son? Rhaenyra didn’t even remember that Jaehaerys had already been murdered for Luke. What made Alicent think that Rhaenyra would spare fucking Aemond of all people??? Aemond, who killed Luke and Rhaenys, who’s now Prince Regent because Aegon’s heir is dead? Who rides Vhagar, and would rather burn the world down than cleave to Rhaenyra? Who’s committed the majority of the crimes that make up Team Green? No, Aemond will have to die.

Daeron will have to die.

Jaehaerys, had he lived, would have to die anyway.

Maelor if he existed too.

Otto, Criston, Gwayne—all dead by virtue of being active participants and commanders in TG.

The only way Rhaenyra can claim that throne and ensure she can hold it is by eliminating the rival claimants, down to the youngest son.

That was something s1 Alicent knew, had raised her son on the belief they would die if their sister ascended, before the writers butchered her to a million pieces and left a caricature in her place. The claims go down son to son before it reaches daughters, which meant killing Aegon wouldn’t stop Rhaenyra’s troubles. She’d have to go after his sons and brothers too before the throne is legally hers.

There is no version of this story, where war has already started and a king crowned, that would end with little bloodshed beyond the death of said king.

In a different world, an argument could be made to spare some of them. If Rhaenyra had ascended untouched, then perhaps deals could’ve been made. Aegon would still have to die, I’d imagine. Take the Black at minimum, with Jaehaerys following in his footsteps as an adult or perhaps the Citadel. As long as Aegon’s line persisted, there would always be a chance of rebellion happening once Jace becomes king. So that whole line would have to be removed.

Aemond and Daeron would be less dangerous, but there would be little chance they’d be spared. The Black for Aemond, because I can’t see him agreeing to be a Kingsguard. Daeron would go to the Citadel without question. Jaehaera would either be married into the main line via Aegon III like in canon, or Rhaenyra would arrange for her to marry Jace to solidify his claim. He’d have a better claim through Jaehaera than Baela, after all.

And even then, that was still best case scenario. Worst case they’re all executed to protect Jace. Because Rhaenyra’s reign might somehow be mediocre and peaceful (really she has no makings of a great queen), but Jace’s will be a landmine. Between two legitimate brothers and no sisters to marry them to and trueborn cousins and uncles, Jace’s ascension was going to be a massive clusterfuck that would make the Dance look like a play.

[picaroroboto]

one of my favorite WoL Moments is still this dialogue choice in Heavensward:

Context is that during the HW roadtrip, the party gets caught in this Catch-22 where the dragons won't let us pass through unless we get the Gnath to stop bugging (lol) them, but the Gnath have summoned Ravana. It seems obvious that the WoL needs to kill Ravana in order for anything to progress, but Alphinaud asks to make sure they're willing first.

There's a lot you can dig up in this seemingly simple interaction - first, Alphinaud's side of things: during late-ARR and it's post-patches, there's a lot of evidence to be found that shows he treats the WoL like a bodyguard, like a weapon, taking their strength for granted for his political ends while giving little, if any, thought to their own thoughts and feelings. It's not outright malicious manipulation, just a sort of blindness. Since the betrayal at the banquet he's been humbled, and grown closer to the WoL thanks to their continued support of him despite the fact that his vanity caused the disaster. Him asking the WoL is they're okay with fighting Ravana, even though it's a given that they have to, can be seen as him not wanting to repeat the same pattern of using them.

For the WoL, the "choice" seems obvious - kill the Primal. Their first Primal battle, Ifrit, was a fight for survival brought on by a twist of fate. Every one since then has been an active pursuit by choice - if you can even call it a choice when they're the only one who can do it and many people would die if they didn't. By HW they're already firmly locked in to their role of being the guy who kills Primals, and whether they like it or not they continue to choose to fight. By choosing the upper line here they confirm that, while also giving some cool and heroic bravado to reassure Alphinaud. But notably it's just to say that they don't fear their duty. They may hate it, regret the choices that lead them here, all manner of things, but they are not afraid of fighting Primals.

Or they could simply say nothing. Giving silence also recognizes that their choice doesn't really matter and they're going to have to fight anyways. When it comes to silent protagonist-type characters who have few dialogue options, every option they're given has all the more weight. There are cases where choosing to say three ellipses "..." says a thousand things more than not being given a dialogue choice at all, and this is one of them. It's as if the two choices here are actually "Be the Hero" or "Be the Hero (not happy about it)".

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (23)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: masturbation, sexual tension, smut, angst, manipulation, blackmailing and threats ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Alys had always known that, like any bastard child, she could only rely on herself. Her existence was merely an unfortunate accident to her father and brothers, with which they nevertheless came to terms, and she, in their minds, should be grateful for being allowed to stay and serve in Harrenhal.

Indeed, she never considered herself to have been significantly harmed by fate.

Compared to women who had to sell their bodies for money in order to survive, her function as herbalist and wet nurse completely satisfied her.

Milk filled her breasts along with the baby that one of the guards had put inside her. When he pressed her against the wall and lifted her gown, panting that he had desired her for a long time she did not stand up to him, even helping him by bending over and spreading the folds of her womanhood before him so that he could more easily hit the right spot with the thick tip of his length.

This particular man never aroused her desire, however, he supervised her chambers, and since she allowed him to enjoy the pleasures of her body, he closed his eyes to when and where she went out, giving her more freedom.

His wife, however, was not comforted by the fact that her husband had a mistress.

She could not conclude that her husband was a good lover; his hands only clenched greedily on her firm breasts, his thrusts violent, fast and deep. She knew that as he chased his fulfilment hissing that he would fill her with his seed, it did not even cross his mind to touch her between her thighs or ask what would give her pleasure.

She did not, however, resent him.

She recognised that this was how men were.

Although she tried not to think about it, the sight of his wife, one of her father's servants, filled her with remorse, for although she knew that this woman did not love him, she humiliated her every time she took away what belonged to her.

She had nothing to justify it, but she knew that if she told him to stop she would arouse his anger and his behaviour towards her would change.

He might want to take revenge on her for rejecting him.

She couldn't allow this to happen.

What he didn't know was that he wasn't the only man she allowed to sink between her thighs for the benefit; it was easier and sometimes even more enjoyable than trying to bribe them with money, which she didn't have much of anyway. What she was able to do perfectly was to observe people from the sidelines − their reactions and desires, coming to her own conclusions about what they needed and wanted.

Usually these men wanted not only sensation and elation, but also reassurance, a warm word and understanding; they lay with their faces cuddled between her breasts, muttering for her to stroke their heads, and she did so, allowing them to turn from men into innocent children for a moment.

The women in the fortress began to whisper among themselves that the ease with which she seduced men and with which she maintained her beauty despite her age was due to the fact that she was a witch.

She smiled piteously as she strolled through the corridors of the fortress, overhearing their conversations from afar, hearing about the potions she gave to poor, unaware men so they could not forget her, that she bathed in milk and blood to keep her face young and bright.

She did not deny the accusations, because she derived satisfaction from the fact that they feared and avoided her.

Fear, however, also tended to provoke interest and curiosity, and the young, newly arrived servants who were just learning their trade could not tell what they thought of her.

When she needed a break from the men's sweat and their aggressive, deep thrusts she sought peace and solace in the arms of young girls, much more gentle and understanding when it came to the nature of female fulfilment, their sweet moans and surprised expressions as she caressed them made her feel a pleasant pulsation between her thighs.

Although the prospect of becoming a mother did not fill her with particular joy, when she woke up one morning, feeling a pool of wetness under her thighs and saw blood, the squeeze in her throat and the tears she felt under her eyelids were proof that some part of her hoped she could love this innocent creature that was growing inside her womb.

This did not happen, however, and she, not wanting to waste her milk, from which her breasts had already swollen, decided to feed the children whose mothers had too little nourishment.

She considered her life quite prosperous and peaceful until her father and half-brother died in a fire.

Until Larys became the Lord of Harrenhal.

Everyone, including her, feared him.

He was like a writhing viper, tightening slowly around the necks of those who aroused his suspicions, his gaze black and completely blank, as if he experienced nothing, felt nothing inside himself.

He could not be seduced, appeased, pleaded with, persuaded.

He was like a stone, merciless, cruel, taking satisfaction in domination and power.

She never got in his way.

One evening, however, he summoned her to his chamber, and she feared what he desired.

When she stepped inside he was sitting at the table, having just eaten his evening meal. He smiled slightly at her in a way that made her feel the cold sweat on her back; his eyes remained indifferent, glowing mischievously in the firelight.

"Sit down, sister. I wish to discuss something with you." He said softly, and she swallowed hard, keeping an indifferent, satisfied face, looking at him from under half-closed eyelids. She sat down opposite him in one of the chairs, spreading out comfortably in her seat, sighing quietly and nodded for him to speak.

"We will have guests of honour. Prince Aemond and his wife will be arriving here within two days to spend the night here and then head off the next morning to meet Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon." He said calmly, putting a few pieces of cake from the tray onto his plate, with a hand gesture he encouraged her to eat as well, but she shook her head, analysing his words quickly.

She had heard of them.

Prince Aemond had married and taken his niece's maidenhood on the same night he chose Maris Baratheon as his wife.

His brother the King, to save the situation, married them in the eyes of the Seven before an enraged Borros Baratheon could arrive in King's Landing demanding justice.

There would not have been all the commotion if Prince Aemond had taken her as his second wife, but he clearly only wished to have one, therefore, Maris was sent away with only a dowry and humiliation.

Her half-brother continued, seeing the lack of response on her part.

"I want you to host them well. Both of them, if you understand what I have in mind. Myself and his grandfather do not believe in the success of their mission. Like most of the kingdom we know how it will end: with a war. A war we wish to win. However, our Prince, if I may say so, does not think with his mind now, but rather with what he has between his thighs. He gives in to his wife and her persuasions to bring about a reconciliation. I know you are well acquainted with human nature and will surely win both her trust and his heart."

She chuckled under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief as she looked at her fingers, trying to hide the horror and squeeze in her stomach she felt.

He wanted to expose her, to put her head under the Prince's sword if it turned out that her attempts would only enrage him, and he could wash his hands of everything.

"In any case, in a few days' time the matter of the succession will resolve itself with the help of my birds in the Eyrie. They know what to do. Of course, I'll let our Prince believe that his decision matters, however, everything is already arranged. I hope this should settle the matter. With the help of the gods, the girl might try to take her own life for the second time. Let us raise our cups for that." He said lightly, as if indeed such a course of events would please him the most; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking that she had not even noticed when he had become such a disgusting creature.

A monster that, like a black, empty hole, was consuming everything around him, destroying it and crushing it.

She wasn't in a position to refuse, and he knew it.

That was why she walked out with him to greet their guests, thinking she would simply do what he ordered her to do.

She blinked as the figure of a petite, pretty girl jumped down from the shimmering blue and silver dragon, her long, dark hair of a shade similar to hers tied into a braid, its unruly strands dishevelled by the long journey through the skies.

She stepped out in front of them, breathing heavily, her eyes big, full of curiosity and uncertainty, her gaze warm, kind, her cheeks all flushed from exertion. She stopped in front of them and forced herself into an innocent, almost childlike smile, from which she felt a squeeze in her gut.

Gods, have mercy.

"Your Grace. What a joy." Said her brother. The girl blinked, not knowing for a moment what to answer, shifting from foot to foot.

"My Lord Strong. Thank you for being willing to host us." She muttered at last, clearly tense − her was voice pleasant, melodious, soft, the kind that gives comfort with ease, brings peace of mind.

They all turned their faces towards the approaching figure as they heard his footsteps; Prince Aemond in his long black leather coat and black eye patch indeed looked like someone menacing, commanding, as powerful as the great dragon he was riding.

What immediately caught her attention was that as his gaze traveled over their faces he stopped at his wife, assessing her figure from afar as if quickly examining whether she had suffered any damage after such a long journey and whether she was well.

He must have evidently concluded that she was, for his gaze turned after a moment towards her brother.

"Lord Strong. Take us to our quarters."

The Prince and her brother moved first, followed by his wife, looking around the interior of their fortress with genuine curiosity, not even listening to what her brother was saying.

She didn't even notice that her uncle was glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, checking that she was near and in no danger.

She thought he would sooner stab her in the heart than take her to his bed.

Her brother opened the door of the chamber that had been prepared for him, the largest in the entire fortress, not coincidentally located close to hers. The Prince, however, did not look impressed; his lips pressed into a thin line in disapproval when he heard that Lord Strong had assigned his wife other quarters.

"No need. My wife will spend the night in my chamber." He said coolly, as if the very suggestion was offensive and insulting to him.

He had kept her with him the whole time, she thought in disbelief, glancing out of the corner of her eye at the girl standing next to her.

She stood, gazing at her uncle as if she were looking at a statue of one of the gods; her bright, shining eyes large and filled with affection, devotion, longing, even though, after all, he was standing in front of her, at her fingertips.

She realised, swallowing quietly, that he had not taken her by force the night he married her or any night after.

How long had they looked at each other like this?

"As you wish, my Prince. However, I will leave the rooms I spoke of at your wife's disposal for her own convenience. I have also assigned her a servant to ensure that while we men are conversing, she will have company. There are several matters I would like to discuss with you." Her brother replied.

Prince Aemond then looked at his niece with a gaze as if he was about to explode − his wife pressed her lips into a thin line, immediately understanding what the expression on his face was meant to convey to her, her look of understanding and sigh was meant to add to his patience.

His gaze softened and after a moment he nodded, letting her go.

The girl looked at her, so she smiled quickly and pointed with her hand the way they should go to her quarters. Before moving behind her she looked at her husband, the Prince leading her away with a cold, sharp gaze.

Overwhelmed by this revelation, no longer knowing herself what she thought of it or what she should do in such a situation, she simply followed her into the room, closing the door behind her. She watched quietly as the prince's wife walked to the window, placing her hand on the glass, and smiled slightly, noticing something outside.

Had she been like this all the time?

"Do you desire to change into something…more comfortable, Your Grace?" She asked finally, recognising that she needed to start any light conversation, to try and understand who was standing in front of her.

The girl shuddered and blinked, as if forgetting her presence for a moment, turning to face her. She nodded, forcing herself to smile, unsure and embarrassed, playing with the fingers of her hands in a nervous reflex.

"Yes. What do they call you?" She asked lightly and kindly, willingly shortening the distance between them, which surprised her.

Usually women of her ilk took satisfaction in calling her Lady Rivers, reminding her every time that she was a bastard.

But she, even if she was married to the Prince, was also one.

She was her relative, her brother's daughter.

She swallowed hard at that thought, feeling a squeeze in her throat.

"Alys, Your Grace."

She lowered her gaze, as if pondering something for a moment, and then her bright eyes looked at her again.

She thought with pain that she was like a small flower, a daisy or a forget-me-not, which one picked to weave into one's hair, to feel as innocent as a little child again.

"I would not wish to… misunderstand who you are and what you have in common with Lord Strong, Alys." She muttered with some sort of embarrassment, from which she involuntarily burst out laughing.

Good gods.

"I am not his mistress. I am his relative, though I do not bear his name, as any bastard would." She said softly, amused; her gaze shifted, her brow furrowed in concern and curiosity.

She knew what she was going to ask her, she could feel it in her bones.

"Did you know my father?"

She named him as her father even though she was officially Laenor Velaryon's daughter.

She admitted to her that she too was a bastard without a grimace of embarrassment.

"Yes, Princess."

Her whole body tensed, her hands clenched into fists.

"His death wasn't an unfortunate ordeal, was it?" She asked in a trembling voice, and her lips involuntarily lifted in a dangerous smirk at the thought that her directness was surprising her.

Was this how she spoke to her husband?

Was this how she forced her way into his heart?

"There are no such thing as unfortunate ordeals, Your Grace."

A silence fell between them filled with the weight of their words and what they meant; she licked her lips involuntarily, feeling that she was incapable of denying herself the pleasure of having to see her reaction to her words.

To see if she was right.

"After the word has reached us here all the way from King's Landing, I have been looking forward to our meeting with impatience, and while I will admit that it is not what I expected, I am beginning to understand your husband's desperation." She said with amusement, feeling a tingle in her fingertips and in her lower abdomen at the sight of her flushed cheeks.

"What do you mean?" She mumbled quietly, embarrassed; however, it was not shame feigned and exalted, but more an expression of genuine surprise and excitement at her words.

"Men are easily driven to desperation, though it usually takes time. They like to gain and take pride in what they have conquered; the greater, in their mind, the value of what they enclose in their embrace, the less they are willing to let it go." She said calmly, turning her head away, immersed in her own thoughts.

"Your husband follows you with his thoughts even when he is not looking at you. His head, even when he is not speaking to you, is directed towards you so that he can see you out of the corner of his eye. When he feels discomfort, he involuntarily seeks your face to experience understanding and comfort."

She looked at her, wanting to see her reaction, and sighed almost imperceptibly, feeling heat in her lower abdomen at the sight of her parted, plump lips, her dreamy, hot gaze.

She knew that she had felt something at her words, that it had taken deep root in her heart and made her return with her thoughts to her husband.

Was this how she had looked at him when he made love to her?

She could not imagine that he could take her maidenhood brutally and cruelly, that he would allow her to cry beneath him in pain.

No, she thought − he surely took her with slow, lazy thrusts of his hips, letting her get used to his shape deep inside her, assuring her in a whisper that just a little more.

She felt a strong throbbing and tickling between her thighs at that thought and licked her lips, looking up at her again − her gaze lowered meekly to the stone floor, a soft, thoughtful smile on her face.

She decided on second thought, helping her change into one of her gowns, touching her soft skin, smelling the wonderful scent of vanilla in her nostrils, that she would braid the most elaborate hairstyle she could think of on her head, just so she wouldn't have to leave her chamber before supper.

She knew that her half-brother expected her to then take the opportunity to venture into the Prince's chambers to make sure he was not missing anything.

Therefore, she began to braid her soft, long, dark hair, creating a beautiful, complicated hairstyle surrounding her head.

She escorted her to the proper quarters and bowed, Larys gave her one impatient look.

She felt a cold sweat on her back, leaving immediately.

He was not pleased.

She thanked the gods that the Prince's wife had summoned her herself, wishing her help with her bath, giving her another reason not to head to her husband's chambers.

She thought that if she went on like this perhaps the situation would work out in such a way that she simply wouldn't have the opportunity to do anything, though even if she did she wasn't sure Larys would believe her.

As she walked into her chamber she saw that she herself was trying to untie her bodice, so she approached her, undoing the tangles with ease, looking at her face with curiosity.

"Was the Prince pleased with his wife's appearance, Your Grace?" She asked softly, noticing from the corner of her eye that the girl had lowered her gaze, ashamed and saddened.

"Yes. Though he expressed his opinion that he prefers it when my hair is loose." She said with resignation, and she couldn't stop the smile that appeared on her face.

Of course, she thought.

The sight of her loose hair reminded him fondly of how it had been spread in disarray around her head, shining in the darkness of his chamber as he fucked her greedily.

"Oh, that's understandable. He surely associates it with your intimacy and closeness, as any man would. The entwined curls and braids are for those around you, meanwhile the softness of your hair, the smell of them, the sight of them spread on the bed is something meant only for him." She replied lightly, for some reason wanting to lift her spirits and comfort her; she heard her move in place, the sweet blush appearing on her cheeks again.

She was embarrassed, she thought with disbelief and tenderness, as if she were looking at a small child.

She was so innocent.

Was that what attracted him to her?

The idea that he was surrounding her with himself like a dark cloak, devouring her again and again?

"You know a lot about men…don't you?" She heard her uncertain, curious voice; she looked at her in the reflection of the mirror, noticing that she immediately lowered her gaze, as if she could not bear the intensity with which she was looking at her.

"Yes, Princess."

"Have you seduced many yet?" She asked intrigued, and she smiled again involuntarily.

"Yes."

When her gown finally fell to the floor she saw her girlish, pleasing curves peeking through from under her nightgown. She watched as, with a light, confident step, she walked over to the bath and bore herself into the hot water, tilting her head back, sighing in relief, her head still adorned with the braids she had woven herself.

Such a pretty little thing.

"I would like to … make my husband happy tonight. I know he needs relief from what's about to happen tomorrow. However, I can't do it, at least for now, in the way I usually do." She mumbled out at last, looking at her with those big, warm eyes of hers, seeing in her apparently her guide, someone who could help her with these complicated and intimate matters.

She felt a pleasant squeeze in her lower abdomen at the idea that popped into her head.

"The easiest thing to do in that case would be for you to use your mouth." She replied amused, drawing out of her exactly the reaction she wanted − her cheeks turned scarlet, her gaze fled downwards, her tiny long fingers clenched into small fists.

She was wonderfully embarrassed, so sweet that he would have gladly shown her everything, step by step.

"I'm…inexperienced in these matters." She confessed with shame, and she involuntarily licked her lower lip with her tongue, feeling the throbbing between her thighs at her words, her nipples hardening under the material of her gown.

Gods.

"I see." She muttered, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad as she moved slowly towards her, her surprised gaze lifting to her as she knelt right next to her tub, cupping her wrist in her hand.

Her skin was as soft as silk.

Her gaze escaped involuntarily to her breasts, now perfectly visible through the wet material of her shirt clinging to her bare flesh; she felt a tickle in her swollen lips at the thought that she longed to lick and caress them.

She was sure that as he teased and sucked her nipples she moaned sweetly beneath him, begging for more, and he always, always gave in to her.

Because how could he refuse her?

"I can show you how you should do it, if that's what you wish, Your Grace."

She saw her pupils dilate in disbelief, her lips parted as she swallowed hard, her chest beginning to rise and fall in accelerated breaths.

"…How?"

She couldn't stop the smirk that appeared on her lips, nor what she did next.

She heard her sigh quietly, surprised and thrilled when her lips ran over her pointing finger, enveloping her skin with her hot breath.

"Imagine that this is his manhood. Men don't say it out loud because pride won't let them, but they adore it when a woman shows them with gentle, tender caresses." She whispered, running her swollen lips up and down her finger leaving a sticky, warm trail of her saliva on it, surprised at how wet it made her between her thighs, how wonderfully arousing it was, how obscene it was.

She heard her draw in a deep breath without moving away, but as she guided the tip of her finger between her lips, teasing and licking it lightly with her tongue, out of the corner of her eye she noticed that her thighs clenched in some helpless, subconscious reflex.

What other reactions could she draw from her?

"− and then − when he begins breathing faster − when you feel he's completely ready −" She sighed quietly as she suddenly slipped her whole finger deep into her mouth, feeling her swollen folds pulsate hard again and again as she began to suck it in slow, steady movements with the quiet click of her saliva.

She heard her gasp on the verge of a moan as her tongue began to trail over her skin with her low murmur of satisfaction, her free hand involuntarily sliding down to the material of her gown, wanting to slip under it and bring herself to fulfilment with her own touch.

She slipped her finger out of her mouth with a loud plop and looked up at her − her face all flushed, her gaze dreamy, hesitant and warm, as if she herself didn't know what she felt or why.

Something in her gaze made a pleasurable heat spill over her lower abdomen as she dug her own fingers into her fleshy folds, all sticky with her moisture, pulsing aggressively with her every stroke in pleasure.

"− you pretty little thing − it’s usually him taking care of you, isn’t it? − he can’t deny himself − I can’t blame him −" She whispered, trying not to move her hips so that she wouldn't notice anything; she lost the battle with herself as she felt herself getting closer and closer to fulfilment, pushing against her own slit with the tips of her fingers.

Unfortunately, it turned out that her husband was more vigilant than she thought.

When he burst into his wife's chamber she barely had time to remove her hand from under her own skirt and let go of her, standing quickly and bowing before him.

"My Prince."

"− get out −" He growled, and she walked out obediently, grateful in spirit to the gods that he hadn't stopped her to question her, that he hadn't noticed the glistening wetness on her fingers.

Or he saw it and it infuriated him, she thought with amusement, feeling her heart pounding like a mad in her chest.

She finished what she had started in her chamber, bringing herself to fulfilment with sure, swift strokes of her fingers, driving their tips into her sensitive, fleshy womanhood, able now to afford to moan and rock her hips, imagining her body peeking through from under her wet nightgown.

She imagined that she knelt before him to lunge and soothe him, that she barely fit his fat cock in her small mouth, all swollen from the desire she had always aroused in him, that this proud, dark, cold man whimpered before her like a small, innocent boy when he finally gave in, thrusting again and again deep into her warm throat.

She came with a low moan of relief, panting heavily, hugging her face into the pillow, rocking her hips for a while longer, slowly coming down from her peak.

She was sure that as she lay half asleep, feeling a blissful, pleasant peace, she heard their moans in the distance and grinned involuntarily.

Of course he forgave her.

He always did.

She often had dreams whose meaning she did not understand; she saw people she had never met before, observing events that might as well have happened in the future or in the past. That night, however, her dream particularly troubled and worried her, as she had no idea what it actually meant.

Two streams of blood finally merging into one, flowing like a river, which then, however, became a lake that reminded her of a dragon's head in a crown, only to spill over after a while, and she saw nothing but red.

Was this what was about to happen?

Would Princess Rheanyra and Prince Daemon be murdered and another dragon's reign begin upon their blood?

She swallowed hard, thinking of that young, cheerful girl, of how obvious it was that she was not aware of anything, that whatever her uncle-husband knew, he had not shared it with her.

She thought that if he betrayed her, she would wilt like a flower, fade like the sun in a setting sky.

She stood up and headed for his chamber.

His gaze expressed nothing less than disgust and rage at the sight of her. He reached for his tunic, dressing it hurriedly, tense and pale, knowing full well what was to happen if the negotiations did not bring the results he hoped for.

She wondered if he realised that even if he didn't give the order, they would be murdered anyway.

"You will betray her." She said indifferently, and he threw her a quick, horrified look, his nostrils quivering in disbelief.

He knew perfectly well what she was referring to.

She thought that sometimes all it took was a gentle push, putting a mirror in front of someone's face to make them think carefully again about whether they were ready for the consequences of their choices.

"You will betray her at the moment she trusts you the most. You will break her. You will achieve victory, but she will never let you touch herself again. You will come back here to face your nephew and you will take me, because you will decide that I am similar to her enough to satisfy your pain and longing. You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death."

She said and grinned, seeing that he shuddered all over, that his mask had cracked, his lips parted as if he wanted to groan in despair.

She knew he saw it in his mind, felt it in his heart, and she left his chamber without a word.

She let out a loud breath as she walked down the empty corridor, thinking with some kind of hope that her words, the vision she had invented to break him would terrify him enough to make him fall to his knees before his wife and confess everything he knew.

And if he doesn't, if in fact he betrays her, it will prove that he was never worthy of her.

She had come to her summons when she wished to clothe herself; she saw, crossing the threshold of her quarters, that she too was frightened and anxious, only for completely different reasons.

She wished for them to come to an understanding.

She believed it was possible.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought, at the realisation that she was alone in a world where everyone but her craved war, craved power, craved the throne.

She did not look at her face, at the clear command of her husband not allowing herself any closer proximity to her, which she accepted with understanding.

After she had fastened the buckles of her leather coat, however, she allowed herself to take her soft hand in her own, stroking it with her thumb.

She hesitated and furrowed her brow, but before she could move away, she began to speak, forcing herself to whisper, fearing that her brother's servants might have heard her.

"Do not return here. Fly from the Eyrie straight to King's Landing. I saw in my dream a river of blood taking the shape of a dragon's head wearing a crown. I saw red flooding everything around me." She said quickly, feeling a squeeze in her throat.

She thought in disbelief that she pitied this girl.

"This warning, these words, are my gift to you. Look after yourself. Trust no one."

[beastofburdenxo]

Hypothermia

Emmett shares a bed with you on a particularly cold night. 1.6k words Tags: dry humping, wet dreams, reader is a virgin.

Emmett promised your parents that he would take care of you if anything happened to them. Not realizing that, not long after he promised them that the creatures would come. Sadly, neither survived and you were stuck with Emmett. Nothing against him of course, he was an alright guy. He was a family friend; someone you saw all the time at the house on the weekends. He was quiet, reserved, resourceful. Emmett also lost his family not long after yours so you two were all each other had. You two toughed it out together, he taught you how to hunt. He taught you which plants were edible, and which were not. You taught him how to patch up his clothes when needed. The both of you were a team, working together to stay alive.  

Instead of moving out and going to college, you moved what little belongings you could to an old factory on the outskirts of town with Emmett. He found it on a supply run without you and thought it best to move away and stay hidden from the creatures. Besides, there wasn’t much left to salvage anyways, what you two haven’t already scavenged to use was in disrepair and too time consuming to try and fix. Emmett was a bit of a loner anyways, so moving away from the few remaining living souls didn’t bother him a bit. Not you though, you didn’t like the idea of leaving the only home you ever knew. But you went ahead and did anyways, because you knew you couldn’t make it without him. You two made the basement of the old factory your home, considering it was almost soundproof. Emmett brought down a mattress he found in an empty house to sleep on, not realizing it was going to be a tight fit for both of you. During the summer, he refused the makeshift bed, insisting you take it. He crafted a pallet out of old covers and towels that he slept on next to yours.  

One particularly cold winter night, you lie in bed, feeling your fingers and toes start to turn blue. Every piece of clothing you own is on your body on top of what little covers you have, but it’s still not enough. With teeth chattering, you look over at Emmett’s still figure wondering if he’s about to go into hypothermia as well. “Emmett,” you whisper in the dark, “Are you sleeping? It's so cold in here my body hurts.” Emmett turns towards you, “No, I can’t sleep either. It's an awfully bad night tonight. Would you like some of my covers?” A shiver runs through your body as you try to still your chattering teeth. “I don’t think that’s going to cut it here Emmett, we both need body heat or we’re not going to survive the night. Will you come closer?” A long pause sits in the air before you get an answer. “Are you asking me to get in bed with you? You trying to cuddle?” he asks with a chuckle. “This is serious, if you don’t get over here, we’re both going to freeze to death. It's not like I have anyone else to choose from. I'll behave, I’m just trying to not die tonight.”  

You feel a bit more weight on you as Emmett takes the covers off his pallet and throws it on yours. Before you can plead with him, he lies down beside you. “Alright, here I am, now go to sleep.” It is a tight fit with him beside you, both being on your backs, so you turn to the side away from him to make room. The heat radiating off Emmett’s body helps, but it’s not enough to knock the chill off your body. You try and scoot closer to him, much to his dismay. “Just what do you think you're doing? You wanted me here, so here I am. What more do you want?” You start to feel him move away. “No please don’t go.” you whine, “I’m just so cold and I know you are too. Please come here. Wrap your arm around me Emmett.” With a sigh he replies, “Only because it feels below zero tonight. Don't get any ideas here.” He pulls you closer to him, his body heat enveloping you. He has both of his strong arms around your waist as the two of you stop shivering. “Now was that so bad?” you ask. You get a scoff in response. You feel him move around. “What are you doing? I can’t sleep with you thrashing!”  

“I’m taking my shirt off.” Your eyes get big at his words. “Why in the hell are you doing that?” Emmett sighs, “Did I teach you anything? Survival 101, skin on skin contact is the best against hypothermia. It's dark and neither of us can see the other, so just do it.” With a gulp you shakily remove your shirt, goosebumps hitting your skin at the thought of being next to him in your bra. This is all new to you and you’re trying to remain calm and adult like about it. “My pants too?” you nervously ask. Emmett’s strong arms go back to being around you. “That’s up to you. Considering the layers are thin, I think we’ll be fine like this. Now let's get some sleep.” He was right about the skin-on-skin contact, it was almost too warm now. You were able to feel his broad chest directly on your back, his light coating of chest hair tickling your skin. Part of you wanted to turn around and face him, but you didn’t want him to leave either, so you stayed where you were. Your little heart was pounding, you’ve never had a man be this physically close to you, much less Emmett. You hoped he was too far gone in sleep to notice. “Just breathe, you know Emmett, he wouldn’t hurt you.” you tell yourself over and over until your breathing finally slows and sleep takes you in its hold.  

In the middle of the night, you awaken to Emmett still holding you to him. But this time, something is different. One arm is still around you, the other is next to you, his hand squeezing your hip. Something is also digging into your back. You move slightly trying to get comfortable, and Emmett softly moans. You realize what it is, Emmett is hard in his sleep. Trying not to panic and wake him up, you wonder what to do now. If he wakes, he’ll freak out at the situation and possibly get mad, so you just lie there for a bit. “It’s not like he did it on purpose, he’s dead asleep!” you think to yourself, “He has no control over his body, it’ll go away, just chill out!” at that moment, Emmett slightly moves, pulling you even closer to him, his dick even more prominent to you now. The hand on your hip now slowly strokes your side. His breath is still slow and labored, he’s still out cold. Emmett slowly starts to grind against you, the friction pulling down your loose pants, exposing your ass to him. His face is buried in your shoulder, panting heavy at his motions. You try to reach behind you to pull your pants back up, but there’s no room between you two, and you wind up touching his toned stomach instead. You freeze as a whine leaves his mouth, thinking you woke him up.  

Luckily for you, he’s a heavy sleeper and he goes back to dry humping you as you take your hand back. You must admit, it doesn’t feel terrible. “Do I just lie here and let him grind on me?” You like hearing his moans too, but you’d never admit that. You wish you could see the look on his face right now, but not daring to turn. His hand comes up and cups your breast through your bra, softly squeezing. “Yes,” he breathes into your ear, “Yes baby like that.” You close your eyes and pretend that he means that, that he knows it’s you and he really wants you; not pretending that you’re someone else. You softly place your hand on top of Emmett’s, not brave enough to do much else. “Babygirl, yes, right there, please.” That causes a moan to come out of your own mouth. Goosebumps return to your skin, but for another reason. Nerves be damned, you can’t take much more. You take the hand on your bra and slowly guide it downwards, reveling in his rough hand on your body and how good it feels. Reaching your soaked panties you wonder, “Am I seriously about to do this? Am I going to take advantage of a man that has been nothing but good and kind to me?”  

Before you can answer yourself, Emmett moves again. His bodyweight on yours makes you turn over on your stomach. He is directly on top of you now. With your legs slightly more open than before, you can feel him right where you want him. Now Emmett is just rutting against you without abandon, each motion moving your panties against your clit. It takes all you have in you to not answer his moans with your own. Right before you feel like you could come for the first time ever, he growls your name as you feel hot liquid seep onto your panties. Emmett slows, his high receding, softly panting as he moves off you, flopping onto his back. Your mind is reeling, “Did he just say my name as he came? Did I hear that right?” You slowly look over at him, for some reason expecting him to finally be awake after all that. But his breathing is the same as earlier, slow and soft in dreamland. “Well at least he’ll sleep good tonight, I sure as hell won’t.” You curl back up, parts of you demanding more attention after being rudely interrupted. It was a long night for you indeed.

[bloodynectarine]

Boiling point

After weeks of holding himself together and setting clear boundaries, only for them to be broken over and over again, MC snaps.

tags. male mc, post-lesson 16, belphie is his own trigger warning, angst, ptsd, mild violence, hurt and comfort.

notes. i don't want therapy, i want revenge. everyone got over belphie killing us way too quickly, and i find it frustrating. you know what would be really fun? to punch belphie. love him, but the amount of serotonin he would bring into my life if i could just… punch him once. a boy can dream.

Dying and somehow living to tell the tale was not exactly in your plans when you decided to help the demon stuck in the attic.

Sure, you knew it was dangerous and sure, you understood it was a gamble. But you never quite got that your life was at stake until you felt Belphegor's cold grip around your neck and your vision started to get fuzzy at the edges.

Oh, you thought, with startling clarity.

I'm going to die.

You may still be here, but no, you did not survive Belphegor's wrath and hurt. The sensation of phantom hands pressing down your throat never quite left you.

And Belphegor is nothing but a cruel reminder of the night you died.

First, comes the terror. Even with the pact to protect you, in the days following the event, you can't help but freeze every time Belphegor is in the same room.

As you get used to his presence around the House of Lamentation, as he insists in siting next to you during breakfast and in holding your arm on your way to class, the terror slowly subsides, opening way for a different, less familiar feeling.

Annoyance. Anger. Borderline rage.

Who does he think he is?

Who does he think we are? Best friends, family?

“Belphegor…”, you call for the demon that's already laying on top of your lap, with a tense smile hanging from your lips.

This week's movie night was held in your room. It was one of the rare occasions in which all the inhabitants of the House of Lamentation were present. Even Lucifer is here, looking comically out of place, regal and all seriousness, as if he were in the middle of a meeting and not watching a three-hour-long romance anime film.

Mammon got off from his “rightful place” (“DIBS”, the demon of greed shouted as soon as you sat down, throwing himself across your lap), to rip the remote control out of Levi's hands, who kept rewinding the same scene over and over again (“It's really important for the plot!!!”).

And in the middle of the squabble, Belphegor appeared out of nowhere to climb into your lap, and just. Cuddle.

At your call, he looks up and blinks lazily at you, with his big eyes and his messy bedhead. And the image should be endearing, really, but your chest feels cold, and you can feel your limbs locking in place. You feel trapped, uncomfortable. Ah, it's fear.

“I need. A bit of space. Could you sit somewhere else?”, you manage to let out, and your voice is the only sound in the room. Quarrel and movie long-forgotten, everyone is watching the two of you. Beel was the one who took over and put the film on pause.

Belphegor blinks the drowsiness out of his eyes. His brow furrows, just a little, and if anything, he looks put off by the question, a little lost.

“I don't want to sit anywhere else. I know Mammon was here just seconds ago, but I'm a better cuddle-partner than him anyway. You can ask anyone.”

And he doesn't move. He lays his head against your chest with a yawn.

“I don't…” want to be close to you. You stop yourself from uttering those words, mindful and considerate, truly doing your best. You don't want to lie either, so you decide to play around with the phrasing. “I'd rather you gave Mammon his place back. Or, you know what? I can change seats myself.”

Your tone is as lighthearted as you can manage, and you start to get up from the couch, with Asmo, who's sitting next to you, moving out of the way to give you the space that you need. The space you very specifically asked for.

But Belphegor's weight is heavy against you and traps you in place. Not only that, but his hand reaches for your arm and pulls, looking at you with the same bewildered expression as before, genuinely confused. When you fall against the couch, still under him, you're reminded of how strong he is. Of how weak you're in comparison.

“Oi, Belphie. No one is better at cuddles than me”, says Mammon after a too long pause. “And of course he wants to be with the great Mammon, everyone does. Now move, we still have, like, two hours left of the movie and if we don't finish it tonight, Levi is going to complain all week.”

Levi, who would normally jump into the conversation to defend himself, is barely visible, half hidden between Beel and Satan. His eyes dart between you and the hand that's holding your arm.

“Well, we are already so comfy, so I won't get up”, you wonder who “we” is. Belphegor talks lazily and moves the hand that isn't holding you in a dismissing manner, as if this was not more than a bothersome request, interrupting his nap for nothing.

Your teeth grind together, and there it is, once again. The ugly pressure that holds your gut in a tight grip, the heavy discomfort in your throat. Once foreign, but now you can tell it apart so easily. Anger.

“Belphegor. You heard him already.” This time, Lucifer is the one talking, and he sighs as he gets up, coming closer in an attempt to pry him away from you.

“Oh, please.” Belphegor rolls his eyes, clearly irked by Lucifer's intervention. “We are okay. Right?”, he looks back at you, and this time around his voice is filled with doubt, bordering hopeful, searching for something in your eyes.

“We aren't.” At last, you say it, flatly, and it comes out sharper than you intended, if the way Belphegor flinches and Asmo whimpers is any indication. You're tired, what little patience you have left is quickly running out thanks to the stubborn remarks and your words falling on deaf ears. “Let me move.”

The demon on your lap has the gall to look affronted, hurt. His bewildered expression does nothing more than increase the feeling already boiling deep within you. You can feel Satan's eyes boring in your cheek, but you refuse to look at him.

“Hey… Relax”, Belphegor mutters, now looking a little concerned too. For you. He's worried about you, and yet he still won't get up. “Are you okay? What's wrong?”

What's wrong.

What's wrong?

You're so taken aback by the question that by the time you react, his hand is already on its way to hold your cheek.

The most violent of flashbacks comes through you, a whiplash that hits you with the force of a truck. His handprints on your neck, trying to catch your breath, feeling cold all over, with the only warmth coming from your own blood ringing loudly in your ears, flowing right next to his voice, so full of hatred.

You can't freeze this time around, you need to move, you need to run, you need to do something, anythi--

“Belphie, I don't think you sh--” Satan tries to warn him, but it's too late.

By the time Belphegors fingertips touch your cheek (and this time they're warm, not dead-cold, you notice with surprise) your fist is already hitting against his nose, punching him right in the middle of his face, with a force you didn't even knew you had in you.

Not that you've ever done it before, but you can imagine this is what it feels like to hit a wall. Your hand hurts and goes numb.

The impact pushes Belphegor against the cushions, his hands flying to cover his nose. And any other day it would have been impossible, your punch would never land (he's that much faster, that much stronger), but right now he was so worried about you, so desperate to stick by you. His guard was as down as it will ever be.

His nose is bleeding, you notice, at the same time as Asmo gets up with a gasp. Levi shrieks in the background, and Mammon let's out this weird noise, a mix between one of his “Oi”, your name, and a scream.

Everything stands still, and, to your credit, you're just a shocked as everyone else.

With the punch, all anger has left your body, and now you're just a bunch of nerves, looking at Belphegor with big eyes. Belphegor looks back at you, so shocked, and you suddenly feel like crying. Oh, how much you hate being an angry-crier.

Satan is the one that breaks the silence, with a heavy sigh. “Told you so.”

Beel comes next, taking two steps in your direction but stopping when you raise your palm. You're trembling, but you come close to Belphegor all the same, refusing to back down.

“Asshole.” It's the first thing you say, and defying the impossible, Belphegor's eyes grow even wider as you tower over him, kneeling on the couch.

“Are you deaf? Wasn't I clear enough? Loud enough?”, and when you raise your fist in the air, Lucifer approaches, but all you do is gently punch Belphegor's chest. Again and again. “I told you to move. Several times. And still, you didn't. I was… I was dying of fear, and you weren't moving.”

“You, inconsiderate shit.” Punch. “You, deaf moron.” Punch.

“You… Stubborn cow.”

Belphegor has let the blood simply flow across his face, and now he's kneeling in front of you, holding his own hands, the same surprised look on his face.

And that's that.

You let your arms fall with a groan and simply sigh. For Diavolo, violence really isn't for you, you are so tired.

“S-Should we separate them?” Levi asks in a trembling voice, frantically waving his hands, unable to decide whether to approach or flee.

“No. He has more to say.” Satan gently holds Levi's wrists, and waits.

That's when you realize that yes, you got more to say. In fact, you've had something to say for way too long, and now you're dying to get it off your chest.

“I gave you my trust, and I knew I was being childish and reckless in doing so, but all I wanted was to help. I cried for you, I felt for you, and I did everything I could to be by your side even though all I had to offer was just. Just me. Mortal, human. And in response, you killed me.” Belphegor recoils at your words, but you go on.

“It hurt. It still hurts, even now. Sometimes I see you and all I can think about is your betrayal.”

Belphegor looks down, biting his lips, in silence. You can see his hands shaking, and you remember your talk under the stars, his eagerness when he offered you a pact. When he gave you the control you needed. His hands were shaking back then, too.

With a groan, you reach out to hold his chin, lifting his face. You take the long sleeve of your pajamas and begin to wipe the blood running down his chin, across his lips. Slowly, with care.

Your fingers run through his hair just to be able to look directly into his eyes. He looks anxious, fearful, and you know that your next words have the power to break or mend his heart.

So you decide to, once more, open yours and leave the rest in his hands.

“I don't hate you. And this isn't me cutting our ties. I understand your pain, I really do. Please, understand mine.”

Your thumb caresses over his forehead. Carefully, gently.

“I need time. I'll let you know when I'm ready.”

Belphegor inhales and exhales deeply, holding your gaze. Slowly, but surely, he takes your hand between his, from his forehead to his lips, leaving the lightest of kisses against your palm. You feel the pact mark that binds you together tremble and sing.

“I'm sorry. For the pain, for my insistence, I just… Wanted to be close. I need to be close. I'll wait for you.”

Straightforward as ever. But you are struck by the sincerity in his voice, in his eyes, and this time around it takes you no more than a second to nod.

“Right. Be good and wait for me.”

Unable to resist, you pat his head, just as you would to a small, rebellious child. He's the baby of the family, after all. He groans, and you laugh, feeling so much lighter. And unbelievably tired.

By the time you remember that you're not alone in the room and turn around to placate the others, you make eye contact with Satan.

He's looking prouder than ever, the little smile on his lips telling enough. “Go on”

The brothers needed no further prompting to launch themselves at the two of you, a jumble of limbs and shrill voices.

“MC, that was, as usual, reckless. From now on, fist fights are forbidden in and out of the house. Evade further conflicts.”

“B-But wasn't MC so cool?!?! Belphie is so much stronger, but he was down with one punch! W-way too op, MC!!”

“Oi! Human, how dumb can ya be?! Tell me before you go around punchin' demons, I can punch them for ya!”

“I knew you were good at controlling your anger, but I never imagined that much. You are full of surprises.”

“Belphie, gosh, your clinginess finally got you in trouble, mh? Your surprised face was so cute! Do you need concealer?”

“Belphie, does it hurt? Do you need ice? We have popsicles in the freezer… Wait, I ate them all yesterday, sorry Belphie… Do you want me to go and buy more? MC, which flavor would you like?”

“We are good, Beel.” Belphegor answers, still looking at you. “Right?”

You laugh at his not-so-subtle search for assurance, and your chest feels astonishingly full. “We will be, for sure.”

Movie night turns right into a sleepover after that, as every single one of the demon brothers refuses to leave your room. Lucifer might roll his eyes, but he still settles on your couch, right next to Satan.

And for the first time in weeks, you're able to close your eyes and rest, feeling safe and at home.

ao3 ― writing tag

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

You're Pushing Me Sideways, but You Won't Let Go

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Vampire!Daryl)

Setting: Saviors Era

Warnings: Blood; Injury; Biting to feed; Suggestive dialogue

Summary: You rescued Daryl, once and then twice.

A/N: Just a quick little thing to satisfy this vampire Daryl obsession that I have.

You knew breaking him out of the sanctuary would be dangerous. It was a suicide mission. You knew you wouldn’t come out unscathed. You were blinded by your rage, your determination to pull Daryl to safety. Once you saw him, you had not a single doubt that you had made the right choice. They had tortured him with the sun, no animals on which to feed. He was burnt, the right side of his face blistered and raw. He couldn’t heal. He was weak, barely able to run fast enough to ensure the escape you had planned so carefully.

It was that hindrance that left you with a through and through bullet wound to your thigh. The femoral artery had been hit. With a makeshift tourniquet, you had been able to get him out, covered in a blanket to shield him from the dangerous rays that would kill him slowly, drain him of vitality until he was nothing. 

Now, in the cover of the forest, he lay starving while you lay dying. There was really only one resolution and you knew he wouldn’t like it.

“Take my blood.” Your voice scraped against your vocal chords, mouth desert dry. Somehow summoning the energy, you looked up at him. He sat beside you with your head on his shoulder. His jaw was set, but the pain in his eyes remained unhidden.

“No.”

“Daryl, I’m dying.” You could feel it. You were cold, tired, the wound no longer hurting. Your blood seeped out, soaking your jeans. The tourniquet wasn’t enough against an entry and exit wound. “I can still save you.” You knew he could smell it, his heightened senses reacting unbidden. He was fighting the hunger. He always had, especially when it came to you. He would tell you how sweet your blood smelled while he moved inside you. How just a taste would never be enough. He turned to carnal pleasures to overshadow the desire to feed from you.

“I ain’t bitin’ ya.” He sounded desperately determined, still gazing straight ahead. His breathing was bordering erratic, chest heaving. “I’d kill ya. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

“Then don’t. Take what you need, I’m dying anyway.” You stated nonchalantly. You didn’t need long to come to terms with it. Everyday was a battle to survive. You’d been lucky to make it as long as you had. Now, it was all about saving Daryl. The community couldn’t lose him, and you couldn’t die knowing he would follow. “Please.”

“Said I ain’t doin’ it!” As much as he tried to sound undaunted, his voice cracked. 

“Please, Daryl.” Your vision was graying at the edges. “Let me do this for you.” You felt him shift, his movements stiff but deliberate until he was in front of you, irises an intense red instead of the mountain lake blue. You loved both of them, both sides of him, but you knew what this meant and you hoped against hope that he would follow through. He was grappling for control, on the edge of giving in to your request.

“Can’t lose ya. Won’t.” He ducked his head, intending on avoiding the plea in your eyes, forgetting the bloody mess of your leg. When he snapped his gaze back to your face, his pupils were dilated, he was panting harshly through his mouth with the tips of his fangs visible behind his lips. “I’ll do it, but Y/N—” You shivered, the cold fingers of death scrabbling for a permanent grip on your consciousness. “I ain’t losin’ ya.”

He dove forward, pulling on your shoulders to meet him halfway. You always wondered what it would feel like to have him bite you. It wasn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but you were pounding on death’s door, your skin cold and on the edge of numb. There was a pull when he drew out the first mouthful, a groan vibrating against your neck. He jerked you closer for a better hold and it actually hurt, but you could feel his strength returning, eager to see his face without the burns, without the pinched lines of pain and hunger. Realistically, you wouldn’t. You knew that. You’d be dead by the time he stopped.

Your heart that had been pounding a tattoo against your ribs was now a gentle cadence, a rhythm that held its melody even as it slowed. He jerked you again with a growl that rattled you to your core. It was enough to know that because of you, he would survive. 

“I—I love you.” And with that, your reserves were spent. You surrendered to the pull of nothingness, ready to exist in the darkness, but Daryl would live.

Then you were cold, chilled to the bone. 

You had always read in the books that vampires were much like walkers in the sense that they held no body heat, there was no heartbeat, but also no reflections in the mirror, they would burst into flames or glitter in the sun. None of that was true. Daryl was a human space heater and you could tell the moment he pulled away from you. 

He didn’t drain you. Why? DId he not realize that you were still alive? Were his senses so scrambled that he couldn’t hear your heart still beating? It really didn’t matter. You were dead anyway. He had only unintentionally prolonged the process. 

“Told ya that I ain’t losin’ ya.” His face was suddenly hovering over you, the moonlight carving out his silhouette like a painting. He was beautiful. He was healing. He was—biting his wrist? You were pretty sure that meant something but your brain was shutting down, making coherency impossible. As the urge to close your eyes grew too intense for you to fight any longer, you let them slip shut, the last image being the glow of red morphing into a bright blue that you prayed would surround you in death.

“Daryl.” You breathed. 

And then there was nothing.

With a deep inhale, you shot upright, the moonlight bright and the sounds around you amplified. You felt your heart begin to race, your breathing a panicked cycle of inhales and exhales. You could smell everything, hear everything. The hole in your leg was gone. When you bit your lip, the sharp tip of an elongated canine broke the skin. Overwhelmed, you sought out your peace, the one thing—the one person— that could tether you to reality, ground you. Daryl was sitting across from you, a fire burning between you.

He smiled, fangs still stained with your blood—and his own.

“Told ya that I wasn’t losin’ ya.” You blinked at him for a moment before you couldn’t help but smile back. “An’ I meant it.”