#then hands him over to Dream for an eternity of nightmares

[homelanderbutbig]

With You By My Side (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1842 words. Hurt/comfort, and a bit of angst. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

Homelander hurts you during a nightmare, and somehow he's more affected. Inspired by this ask.

While you don't know the full extent of Homelander's past, you know how he struggles to sleep at night. He may start out normally, but like clockwork, there is always a nightmare. Remnants of his traumatic childhood that still infest his psyche, jolting him from his slumber. You've seen him in the morning, waking from his horrid memories with a haunting gasp. Despite his heightened fear he still allows you to comfort him, snuggling his head into your chest and calming him down with your soothing words.

It isn't a perfect way to deal with his trauma, but it helps having someone there to guide him through it. Knowing that he can be safe in your arms no matter what he's dreamt brings him a meager level of solace he never was allowed to experience.

But this time, that didn't happen.

The evening comes and goes as normal, ending with the both of you sleeping in his bed. It must have been very late when you stirred awake hearing noises coming from beside you. You usually are a pretty sound sleeper, this was the first time you've caught him mid-nightmare. He's in an absolute state of disarray; his breaths are frenzied, his eyes are twitching uncontrollably, and his fists are clenching his bedsheets so tightly you swear he ripped them.

"Hey, wake up honey," you whisper, reaching out to touch his hand. You aren't really sure of the protocol to wake someone experiencing night terrors, but all you understand in this moment is Homelander needs help.

What ensues is faster than you can react. Your nudging indeed jolts him from his dreams, but even just a simple touch creates an automatic fight-or-flight response. With a guttural yell he launches upwards, eyes alight with a crimson heat as he swats fiercely at the imagined danger laying a finger on him.

In his dreams he was reliving a crystal clear memory of when he was a child in the lab, surrounded by doctors preparing another experiment on him. They were poking and prodding, sharp instruments gliding all over his body, his skin perceiving the searing and stabbing pain like it was truly real. When one particular touch pushes him over the edge, he awakes and immediately attacks in an attempt to protect himself.

However, instead of the familiar faces of the doctors he grew to despise, Homelander sees nobody in front of him. The ghosts of his past have released him from their grasp. Catching his breath he scans what is in front him, and begins to recognize his surroundings. He's safe, he's in his bedroom… but then…

Oh no.

In his bid to force whatever was touching him away, his large hand struck you so hard that he broke your wrist. He can easily see the extent of the damage with his X-ray vision. And you're glancing up at him in utter shock, clearly in pain but the extent of it not entirely hitting you yet.

His lasers dissipate as he stares directly at you, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth slightly open but unable to form a sentence. Everything around him no longer feels like reality. His heart is beating out of his chest, tears flowing down his cheeks as he is consumed by the realization of what he's done. The one thing he swore he would never do, hurt the sole person on earth that he loves.

He doesn't say one word to you before he frantically runs out of the bed and flies away from the balcony launchpad. He doesn't even take the 20 seconds to put his suit on, he couldn't stand the sight of what he'd done any longer.

Now you're alone to deal with the injury he's caused.

~~~

You're eternally grateful that there was still security roaming the Tower floors so late at night, and that nobody was questioning why you were walking around Vought wearing your pajamas. Everything that happened after Homelander broke your wrist was a blur, you were running on pure adrenaline. After he flew away, you rushed out to the elevator and went down to the main floor, calling out for help which luckily was not too far away. You were whisked away to the hospital, where your wrist was X-rayed and a cast was applied. Now with your pain under control, the doctor asked where you would be staying while you healed.

By the time you return to the penthouse, it's late in the afternoon. You considered not going back at all, perhaps just renting a hotel room and spending some time away from Homelander to process what transpired. But realistically you knew that was never going to happen, when you're dating a man who can hear your heartbeat from across the city. It's best to just confront him, and hash out these problems together.

Walking through the rooms, you notice how it doesn't seem like he's been back yet. Or so you thought, as peering into the bedroom reveals that his suit is missing from his bedside stand. He must have returned at some point to dress himself, but making certain that you weren't there. You can't say that it isn't something out of the ordinary; he will avoid you if he's feeling guilty about upsetting you with one of his shenanigans. And this time what he did was a doozy.

While contemplating in his bedroom, you hear the familiar sound of Homelander touching down on his balcony. He couldn't bear the long elevator ride up to the penthouse, and he's had enough time to be alone with his thoughts. After fleeing last night he hid out in the only place he can find reprieve in, his cabin. Yet he couldn't sleep, he was relentlessly pacing back and forth trying to come to terms with what occurred. He's always so careful to mind his strength, but he always knew this would happen eventually. There was a reason Madelyn never let him touch her; she was like you, a measly human. You might be intellectually on the same playing field, but physically... not only does he tower above you, he can also crush your skull with a flick of his wrist. One wrong move on his part and your life would be snuffed out.

And now you both have to come to the conclusion he's been obsessed with since he's gotten close to you. Your relationship was never going to work, it was doomed from the start.

You sigh to yourself, seeing him standing like a statue in the living room. Although he's facing your direction, his eyes are strictly planted on the ground. He's clearly held captive by his thoughts, the fear of what might happen next overtaking any rationality he usually possesses.

"Homelander," you call out to him, snapping him out of his dissociation as he jerks his head up. Now being able to see his face, you can tell how distressed this accident has been for him. His hair is unkempt from a lack of styling, his expression is dishevelled and drained, his eyes are bloodshot, and the residue of tears shed not long ago stain his face. He is a mess, but a mess of his own creation.

Because he was worried about you.

"Come lie down with me," you coax him as you use the stepping stool placed on the ground to maneuver on top of the bed. At first he refuses to move, but he can tell by the determined look in your eyes that you won't be taking no for an answer.

Tensing his jaw, he walks to the side opposite of you and hesitantly descends onto the bed. He's as still as a corpse in a coffin, petrified to move even in the slightest bit. Even moreso when he sees you shift closer to him, leaning against his pillow so you can look down at his big head.

"S-sorry…" you hear him mumble. The silence between you two was beginning to eat at him, and he had to say something… even if he was scared that you wouldn't forgive him.

"Sweetheart, it's okay. It wasn't your fault, I still love you," you reassure him. You can tell he's still struggling to accept your unconditional affection, especially now that's his greatest fear has been realized. He's hurt you, how can you even think of staying with him?

You're aware Homelander had an isolated childhood, and as a result he tends to overexamine his relationships. Every time he gets close to someone, he must look for the slightest hint of that person getting ready to leave him. They always do. It's times like these that really exemplify how despite being a foreboding eight foot tall giant, breaking through his 'tough guy persona' reveals that he's just a lonely, vulnerable child at heart. One who's only ever been abandoned, and who's desperate to never let that happen again.

"You know what humans and supes have in common?" you question him, smiling as he shakes his head no. He hasn't taken his eyes off you since he's lied down. "We're resilient. We might get hurt, but we all have the strength to heal the best we can. And I will heal too, with you by my side, there to help me."

With your one good arm you stroke his cheek with your palm. He wastes no time in angling his head into your delicate touch, craving this intimacy that he fretted he was going to lose forever. And the longer you pet him, the more his self-imposed burdens ease. The creases on his forehead and his furrowed brows have finally relaxed, leaving him with nothing more than to melt into your affection.

"You look like you're exhausted baby boy, you haven't gotten any sleep huh?" you ask, observing how Homelander is fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. And you're feeling quite tired yourself; you've been wired awake since your wrist was broken.

"I-I… I can't…" he stutters, tears once more forming in his eyes as a fresh wave of anxiety builds in his chest. "W-what i-if…"

"What if nothing," you cut him off, halting his crying once you lean down to kiss his forehead. "I'm not going to abandon you. If you have another nightmare, so be it. I will be here for you when you wake up, same as always. I promise to help you heal too."

Sighing deeply through his nose, he gives a nod in agreement to your words. He's too tired to fight back against your suicidal decision to stay with him… not that he'd want to anyway. Resting his big head against your chest, he's quickly lulled into slumber by the dulcet sounds of your heart in his ears, and the pleasant sensations of your fingers running along his scalp.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Homelander wakes up in the morning feeling peaceful. He's safely snuggled up against the love of his life, and you kept your promise. You helped protect him from a nightmare.

[seonghrtz]

teen!megumi ★ seeing you hurt is one of the things that has terrified megumi since he was a kid !

Megumi has always loved you. Perhaps from the moment Gojo carried him to your house when he was younger. You were the mother figure he never had, the person he knew he could rely on in any situation, the person he didn't have to be mature with all the time. You were always his safe haven.

Megumi may not have known how to express his own feelings or how to verbally express his adoration for you ⸻ he wasn't like Gojo, who was always making declarations of love to you. Sometimes Megumi envied Gojo for the ease with which he could say 'I love you' to you. But it never seemed to matter to you whether Megumi expressed his adoration for you verbally or not, it wasn't necessary as you understood it through his actions. You knew Megumi like the back of your hand and he was eternally grateful for that.

That's why one of Megumi's worst nightmares was losing you.

If he lost you, what would become of him? How would he manage without your care? How would Megumi survive in this world without being able to hide in your arms?

So when Megumi saw your exhausted and bruised body being thrown across the battlefield, he felt his whole body tremble and a sense of despair consume him.

Desperate, Megumi ran towards you, leaving Itadori and Kugisaki to fight the curse. And when he saw you lying on the floor with your eyes closed, bruises all over your exposed skin and bright crimson blood dripping from your forehead and mouth, Megumi's legs went weak and he fell to his knees beside you. With trembling hands Megumi grabbed your shoulders and rocked you, hoping that you would open your eyes and say that everything was fine. But unfortunately this utopian fantasy didn't come true.

Maybe it was all just a dream. A nightmare of that night ⸻ the night you sacrificed yourself to save Megumi when he was still a child. And if it was just a nightmare, Megumi would wake up at any moment and run into your arms. You would hold him with such affection and love that he wouldn't be able to hold back the tears because he knew you were all right.

But Megumi didn't wake up.

And it wasn't a nightmare, it was reality.

Megumi's voice faltered and he held back his tears, you were there, in front of him, injured, on the verge of death, and he could do absolutely nothing, powerless in a critical situation.

"Hey, Fushiguro!" Yuji ran over to where Megumi was standing, "I think I'd better take Kamo-sensei to Shoko-san, Nobara's already called Kiyotaka-san.” The pink-haired boy looked at his friend and felt sad for him. Itadori had heard Megumi's story and how Gojo and Kamo had saved the little boy (and his sister) from the clutches of the Zenin clan. And Itadori also knew how much Megumi admired and loved the woman he called his mother, it was evident in his expression. "Come on, Fushiguro, we'd better go quickly if we don't want to lose her."

Without saying a word Megumi slipped his arms around your back and behind your knees and started to run with you in his arms to where the car was parked, waiting for the sorcerers.

The corridor was dark and cold. Megumi was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, his head down, holding back his tears. He couldn't cry, he had to be strong ⸻ be strong for you. Megumi had to stay positive, Shoko would save you no matter what.

"It's going to be all right." Gojo's voice echoed through the silent corridor. Megumi raised his head and met his sensei's crystal blue orbs. "Y/n is one of the strongest sorceresses there is, she's seen worse.”

"It's my fault." Megumi's voice was deep, "It's my fault that she's in this situation..."

"Don't blame yourself Megumi. It wasn't your fault."

"I should have paid more attention and listened to her instructions."

"Situations like this happen all the time when you're a jujutsu sorcerer, don't blame yourself for something you couldn't do. And Y/n is fine, she'll be fine, I know my wife very well. And I also know that she would hate to see you get hurt on her watch, so don't blame yourself for giving her life to save you." Gojo's hand reached for Megumi's head, ruffling the boy's ebony locks. "You better go to your room, I'll call you when she wakes up."

"I don't want to go."

"Don't be stubborn. Y/n will make me sleep on the sofa if she finds out I've let you sleep in the hallway."

"That's your problem, I'm not going."

"Come on, Megumi! I thought we were past that stage." Gojo sat down beside Fushiguro. "Are you going to get the silent treatment now?" A short laugh escaped Gojo's lips when he noticed Megumi's lack of reaction. "Okay then…”

The next day, Megumi woke up to a conversation next to him. He noticed Gojo and Shoko talking outside the room you were in.

"Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?" Gojo smiled in the direction of Megumi who got up from the floor and stretched slightly, "She wants to see you."

"Is Mom awake?" He asked hopefully.

"Go ahead, I'll be right back with breakfast." Gojo gave Megumi a light squeeze on the shoulder before leaving with Shoko.

With a little trepidation Megumi slowly opened the bedroom door and saw you lying on the bed in the corner of the room, close to the wall. With light, quiet steps, the boy walked to the edge of the bed and stood, watching you. You were clean, not a drop of blood running down your face, and the bandages on your wounds were clean too. You were well. You were alive.

"Megumi..." You spoke quietly and opened your eyes, startling the boy a little.

"Mom..." his voice was weak, surprised and relieved at the same time.

You raised your hand and brought it close to Megumi's face. The boy, who had expected you to stroke his cheek with your thumb, was surprised when you tugged at his ear.

"Mom!"

"I told you to stay out of danger, Fushiguro Megumi." You said seriously, but then stopped pulling on his ear and hugged him, "Thank you for saving me.”

"You scared me..."

"I'm sorry, my dear." You smiled and released Megumi from your embrace, "I wouldn't let you get hurt, not for a second time."

"I'm not a child, I can take care of myself." A pout formed on Megumi's lips.

"I know, I know." You laughed at the younger man's reaction, "And of course you know how to handle yourself, you're my son, but you'll always be my little boy.”

Without thinking, Megumi hugged you again. Sinking his face into the curve of your neck, he felt a motherly affection that he had never known until he met you, and he let the tears roll down his cheeks.

After all, you were his mother and he was your son.

© seonghrtz, 2023. all rights reserved, please do not copy / steal / translate / modify any of my works !

[sinsirellaxx]

Toxic!Slytherin boys and them actually falling in love with the reader? Like the Slytherin boys don’t just want to have control over the reader, they want to have a future together after they realize their true yet toxic love for the reader.

I just love the idea of these hurt toxic boys tryna be better.

Toxic Slytherin boys – When they actually fall in love with you

Warning: Kinda toxic yet not so toxic boys

Mattheo …

… chokes on his saliva when he realizes. He’d been having weird dreams – more like nightmares – of losing you and the relief that washes over him whenever he finally manages to wake up makes his heart skip a beat.

… would try to shrug it off and push it to the back of his mind until he couldn’t anymore. You growing more confident and making new friends felt like a bucket of ice cold water emptied on his head: he loved you and he couldn’t risk losing you.

… had to take a different approach with you, because with time you noticed the very subtle changes in him and started resisting his controlling nature.

… for the first time ever, grew insecure in your relationship: The more he fell in love with you, the brighter you shone.

… would be clingy – but not in the “You can’t go out wearing that skirt” kind of clingy, but the “let’s cuddle in bed all night, love.” Kind of clingy.

… found himself dreaming of your future life together – he suddenly wanted to have kids. But only with you.

… would put in so much effort: He’d take you out on romantic dates, buy you things that he thinks you might like, hold hands with you all the time and press the back of your hand to his lips before letting go of you, whenever you had to part ways.

… can’t go a day without hearing your voice.

… would even stop skipping classes and stop drinking if that ever bothered you.

… is afraid that you might get involved in his Death Eater business and will do anything to protect you from it – even if it meant locking you up some place far away.

“I just can’t imagine a day without you by my side.”

Theodore …

… is shocked. Flabbergasted. Stunned. At a loss for words.

… had thought he wouldn’t be able to love another woman after losing his mother. He didn’t expect he’d ever be ready to be vulnerable again. But there you stood, with that beautiful smile and those bright eyes.

… doesn’t know when it happened – it was probably, when you made pistachio cannoli in the school kitchens and presented them to him proudly. He had returned your sheepish smile with his eyes blinking dumbly at you as he tried to understand the situation. “You made them for me?”

… was head over heels for you after that day. You’d have him wrapped around your pinky – whatever you want, you’ll get.

… would be even more protective of you and glare at everyone talking to you – even his own friends weren’t spared.

… asks you to cook with him – to cook and bake for him. He’d watch you in the kitchen with heart-eyes – his mind wandering off to places.

… would plan to propose to you as fast as possible. There is no way he’d lose you.

“Amore, I know we are young. But I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Lorenzo …

… notices the little changes in his own behavior: he hugs you a little longer and a little tighter whenever you embrace him. He’ll squeeze your hand tight, whenever you’re holding hands. He’ll always wrap his arms around you protectively, whenever you are close enough.

… is scared at first – which resorts to him being even more controlling and overbearing. He’ll even consider a Blood Oath or the Unbreakable Vow to bind you to him for eternity – but when he watches you sleep on his chest at night, with a peaceful look on your face, he inwardly kicks himself for his stupidity.

… will be more patient – more respectful with you. He constantly has to remind himself that love is not about control and owning but about trust and respect.

… struggles at first. But when you take notice of the effort he puts into your relationship – into loving you – you let your guards down completely. You truly feel comfortable around him.

“I’d do anything for you, princess.”

Draco …

… struggles with the onslaught of emotions and distances himself from you.

… would be scared to show you his true feelings – but he’s also scared of pushing you away with his past behavior.

… would grow quiet and carefully think about what to do next – about how to approach you. He’d stop playing around with you.

… gives me the vibes that he’d immediately start planning your future in secret – if he is really sure about you, he’d probably confide in his mother.

… would be a complete gentleman: would buy you flowers, write you letters, spend quality time with you and really listen to what you have to say.

… he’d be much more selfless with you – what you want is more important to him than his own selfish needs.

“What have you done to me, princess?”

Blaise …

… pulls you into a soft kiss the moment he realizes. He’ll wrap his arms around you and hug you to his chest. He needed to feel you close – to know you’re there and not just a dream. Because this boy is scared you’ll disappear into thin air.

… wants nothing more than spend time with you. He’ll almost always text you first. Will initiate soft touches and innocent kisses.

… will be so soft for you.

… would claim he couldn’t sleep without you, just to watch you fall asleep in his arms. Knowing that you’ll be there in the morning when he wakes up – safe and sound.

… is still overly controlling – but just because he is afraid to lose you.

… won’t have any problems with showing his vulnerability.

“I’m scared of losing you, love. Please stay the night.”

Tom …

… is angry. Angry with you. Angry with himself. Angry with his stupid heart.

… would feel guilt settle deep in his stomach whenever he was mean to you, which bothered him because now he had to think twice about it before saying anything.

… can’t stand the thought of you spending time with other people.

… is even more jealous and protective than before – because now he actually cares.

… thinks of the Unbreakable vow as well but will actually pull through and manage to make you consent to it. He couldn’t risk losing you.

“I’ll always protect you. You are mine forever.”

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: female reader, non - con, manhandling, religious subtext (it's sydney)

Sydney has never felt this way before. He doesn't know the name of that feeling, the warmth that fills his chest and tightens his throat and reddens his cheeks as you sit before him at the library counter. He can't explain the pulse in his loins and the sweat that sticks to his back when you lean in to ask him something and your shirt opens up slightly, revealing such soft, mesmerizing skin. His hands start to itch and his mouth waters and he feels almost thirsty - but water never seems to quench whatever it is he's deprived of.

He wants to ask someone - maybe brother Jordan or his father, but something deep within him, some basic instinct, rings a bell, a reminder that there is nothing pure or holy about the feelings he harbors towards you. He knows love. He's read about it - he knows he loves God, he loves his church, his friends, his books. He knows love is gentle. Love is caring and tender and quiet, love is giving.

But when it comes to you, he only wants to take. He wants to bite your cheeks when you smile, to squeeze you in his arms until he hears your fragile bones crack. He wants to rip off your skin and crawl in your shell - to see your insides, to admire every inch of your flesh for his own sick satisfaction. He even keeps a box of everything you've ever lost - small trinkets, cheap bracelets, ripped socks, locks of hair... Anything to feel closer to you.

And yet Sydney tries to fight his urges - he averts eyes when you bend to pick something and pretends not to notice your bare legs in those mini skirts, the way the school swimsuit hugs your curves perfectly, or how your lips part when you bite down on a pencil. Or the marks of you teeth on the yellow wood, your smugded lipstick as you leave the bathroom, your hands on his shoulder with your nails digging in—

Sydney is a man of God, but you make him question his faith. In the sunlight everything is brighter, but when night comes, so do the nightmares. His pillow becomes softer, warmer - it lingers with the scent of your hair and he can't help imagining you laying next to him with an adoring smile on those luscious lips of yours. And as fatigue spreads over his tired body, his prayers long forgotten, the same dream haunts him - the one he's had since the day he first saw you.

You're no longer laying next to him - you're under him instead. Your hair isn't spread out angelically, but twisted and disheveled, wrapped around his fist. He's towering over you, tilting your chin up - holding you so tightly against his body you can't move an inch. Your eyes are red and swollen, lips bruised and bitten bloody - and you're trembling like an injured animal. You look so small, so pathetically adorable, so very naked and afraid, and splayed out like a feast in front of him, and he just devours you like the predator he knows he is.

You whine something incomprehensible along the lines of a plea, begging to be let go - but all your words become white noise to Sydney. His hands circle your throat painfully and only a few broken moans escape before you shut up completely. The man keeps thrusting into you without a sense of shame, egged on by the deep, inaudible sobs that shake your body to its core. The voice inside his head chants "mine, mine, mine" like a spell, like a curse that binds you both for all eternity.

Sydney always wakes up in cold sweat, unable to catch his breath. It's terrifying, seeing his darkest desires play out over and over each night. And as he tries to catch his breath and forget the taste of your neck on his tongue, there is one thought he never seems to fully rid himself of. How long until dreams are not enough to feed the monster inside of him?

How long until it all becomes reality?

[feyascorner]

before my nails dig

summary. in which one of Astarion's especially vivid nightmares results in him waking up to Tav at the mercy of his own hands...and the shame that comes with it.

warnings. angst, fluff, comfort

pairing. Astarion x GN!reader

a/n. someone pls get this man therapy that's all i ask,,, also this takes place sometime during act 3 before you confront cazador!! first post too so pls forgive typos

Had breathing always been this hard?

It's not like he had to breathe anyway. The undead have more perks than one would think, and having no need for air was one that became particularly useful in unexpected ways. Yet as he stands in Cazador's dungeon again--a place he longs to rid from the darkest corners of his mind--all he can do is stumble over his own breath, crimson eyes darting around frantically in search of an exit.

And suddenly, his siblings are at the mercy of the ascension, floating helplessly in the chains of a red aura--Cazador's aura. Despite the chaos, Astarion's eyes narrow in on the one pedestal with no occupant, and he realizes it's his own designated place.

It's getting harder to breathe now.

A breath creeps up behind his shoulder, sending pure dread throughout his entire body as he hears Cazador's voice far too close than he ever wanted it to be.

"Wake up, child. This is all you've ever been meant for."

Astarion whips around and lunges at the man, his hands wrapping viciously around the throat he's fantasized about ripping apart for the past two hundred years. His nails dig into the flesh of the vampire lord's neck, leaving indents in the shape of crescent moons, just enough to cause panic but not enough to draw blood. But Cazador only cackles, his eyes staring right into Astarion's as he hollers over and over again.

"Wake up."

"Wake up!"

"--Astarion!"

The spawn's eyes snap open, recognition finally flooding his expression as he finds himself staring down at you. The very face he sees in the softest of dreams, the lips he longs to kiss at every waking moment, and the eyes that gaze at him with the love and adoration he's been missing for most of his wretched eternal life. Though he'd never admit it, you saved him. From the moment he'd threatened your life at the nautiloid crash to the moment he held you close to his chest in the confines of his tent, he would be by your side until you tired of him and threw him away.

All he wanted--all he could wish for--was only a fraction of it in return. And you'd given him that, and so much more.

But now, you're scared. Terrified, even. Of him.

With horror, he realizes his fingers are digging into your throat. Your precious, tender throat that you offer him not for something in return, but simply because you care for him.

All at once as he tears his hands away, he wants to cut them off and bury himself in his own grave again. He doesn't meet your eyes, afraid of what disgust might be held in them, but he knows you're too kind for that. Too kind to see the kind of monster he is.

You're gasping for your breath, and his stomach knots in a way that would have sent him hurling if it weren't for the fact that he's too occupied drinking in what he's done. To you.

"I'm okay, I'm okay, Astarion," you choke out, perching on both your elbows as you struggle to recover. Even now, all you seem to care about is him. He almost hates you for it--hates you for not stabbing a stake through his heart the moment his hands met your neck. "Astarion-"

"Your throat," he croaks, despising the slight crack of his voice as he reaches for your cheek, but stops before he even gets close. He doesn't trust himself to open his mouth again.

"It's okay, really, I can just get Shadowheart to heal me," you shake your head, and he finds himself in disbelief as you crawl toward him, tossing the sheets to the side. He shifts the slightest away and you understand, immediately sitting back down. You look like you want to say something, but you close your mouth and watch him patiently, as if waiting for him to make the first move.

After a suffocating silence, he turns his back to you. "I'll be sleeping elsewhere tonight."

He intends of never sharing a room with you again, in fear of what he could possibly do to you as a result of his selfish desires to keep you close, and you seem to pick up on the tone of his words. You always do. "Astarion, please."

"I do apologize, sincerely. I'll form a better apology tomorrow, but for now, I'll fetch Shadowheart or that damned wizard and-"

He fights the urge to shiver when he feels your hand on his. How you manage to have such an impact on him with a simple touch he does not know, and does not care because all he wants is more. To pull you close, to beg you to keep him, to use him, to punch him, strangle him for all he cared, in hopes you'll even consider ever speaking to him again. Instead, he turns to look at you.

Gods, you're beautiful.

Even with those terrible bruises he'd go to hell and earth to take back, your beauty in unmatched with anything he's ever seen. Even with the bed hair and the anxiousness pursing your lips, he can't bring himself to look away again.

"Please stay. I'm not mad, nor afraid."

The words sound like honey on your tongue.

"Please," You say again, slowly this time. "Stay."

His chest feels tight, threatening to tear itself apart as his voice comes out in a crooked whisper. "I could have killed you."

"You didn't."

"If you died too, I don't know--what would I even do with myself? What would I-" He hates it when he sounds like this. Vulnerable, or as Cazador liked to call it: pathetic. But he can't help the words tumbling out his blasted mouth with the way you're gazing at him with nothing but worry. Somehow, with you, it feels strange.

Refreshing, almost.

Your hand squeezes around his as if to remind him you're still here. He meets your eyes again and it's all it takes to break what little will he has left, as he lets you pull him close in a crushing hug--one that's all too welcomed.

And as the two of you lie awake in each other's embrace, he thanks all the gods he doesn't worship for putting you on his path.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Clad in sea (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: It is not Harrenhal, what drives Daemon to the Gods Eye. It’s the memories of you and your daughter.

Warnings: ANGST. Suicide. Canon levels of violence. The afterlife. Guilt, suicidal thoughts. Harenhal’s induced nightmares ™

A/N: It’s angst but with a happy ending (Sort of) Come with me into a deep dive into Daemon’s mental torture. You only need to know the reader really loves the sea, and watch closely. Pay attention, everything has a reason.

As a young girl, you had always dreamed of the sea. There had been nothing you loved more than walking to the docks, and looking at the waves crushing under you, extending into the horizon.

It made you feel small, in the good sense. As if you were insignificant in the great scheme of things. The sea had been there when you had been born, and it would be there when you died. It would go on.

At night, you could still feel the waves under you, rocking your body. Sundrunk and deliriously happy, you always fell asleep in peace after spending your days in the beach.

The memory soothes you as you place your baby in front of you, watching her small body be rocked by the waves. She had felt so cold in your arms, and you had not dared embrace her in her last seconds, only hold her hand. Her stomach had been pierced by a sword, and moving her too much felt cruel.

You had never wanted your daughter to know pain. You had known it was an inevitable fact of life, but you had hoped she had more time.

Daemon had left. He had done something horrible, the men had said. Killed a boy. So now, they would kill the two of you and present your heads to him.

It sickened you, to imagine your beautiful daughter wandering the earth without a head. Of these animals desecrating her body, perhaps doing unspeakable things to you because of a war you had no interest in.

So you had picked her up and ran to the only place you had ever felt safe. And as the ocean welcomed you into her arms, turning you as cold as your daughter was, you could finally embrace her again.

You did not regret it. Not even as saltwater crushed your airways, and your lungs filled with water. Not even when you emerged, voice raspy with salt, and your daughter held against your chest, full of righteous fury.

There had been a girl once, with hair as dark as ink, and eyes full of constellations. Her lips had always been chapped, for her land had suffered a drought so long, they didn’t have a word for water. Instead, they called it Life.

The girl had a gift. Somehow, she always managed to find Life, wherever she went. It was no causality, her mother told her. Their God was taken with her, and gazed at her every time he could. Through the small ponds, the droplets of dew, the very waves crashing on the shore. She had to be careful because no matter how useful her gift, if she looked too much into her reflection, he might pull her in.

“Are you afraid?” Daemon had whispered, as the two of you laid in bed one night. The sheets were sticky with his spent and sweat, but both of you were too lazy to change them. Instead, you were carefully laid on your side, body curled against his, careful not to touch the pool of seed.

“Of what?” You had looked up at him, and Daemon had been distracted by your beauty. In the soft light of the eternal sunsets of Essos, you looked otherworldly. With your face shining with a light layer of sweat, and your neck and chest covered by his marks, you had to be a goddess.

You took pain like the best of his men. You looked much more beautiful than any of them had ever done.

“What?” You insisted, poking his ribs.

“Of dying?” He felt sick for even mentioning it. You were so alive, so vibrant in his arms, so full of life. As if aware of his thoughts, your hands went to cradle your stomach. Your pregnancy was still fairly new. It didn’t show yet, but his child was growing inside of you.

Daemon pressed his own hands over yours. You let him help cradle your child, and leaned back against him. The thought of you facing the birthing bed made him anxious, and he had to squeeze you to make sure you were still there.

His last memory of Westeros had been Aemma’s death. And while Essos had more advanced healing arts, and you were no Targaryen, he feared his seed might make the pregnancy harsher on you.

“I am of the sea, Daemon.” You had smiled at him, so happy it hurt to even recall it. “I was born from her, foam and blood. And to her, I shall return when I die. I do not fear death. There is no end in a circle.”

No end in a circle, you had said. But an Ouroboros died regardless. Daemon clutched the letter until it tore.

You had made truth of your promise. Somehow, while grievously wounded, you had managed to carry your daughter to the sea. In the soft sand, your footprints had never faltered. The two of you had made a path towards the foam, and disappeared into the water. Perhaps, sensing that if you left your bodies behind, they might have been desecrated. Or perhaps because you were a woman of your word.

The Gods knew what anguish you had suffered, watching your girl die. It was a pain no mother should have to withstand, and yet, you had had to because Daemon had inflicted it in Helaena to avenge the one inflicted on Rhaenyra.

A circle has no ending. He cursed the day he had thought stepping foot outside Essos was a good idea. Daemon should have never left you. The world was not a safe place, not with the reach of the Hightowers. You had not stood a chance.

They had come into the night, and made you watch as they murdered his daughter. Then, they tried to injure you. But somehow, you had managed to escape.

Broken. Bleeding. With a dead toddler in your arms, and perhaps a babe in your belly. Daemon could not recall the last time you were in your moonblood, before he left. Perhaps you had gotten it after. He would never get to know.

No one had been able to stop you. Not even the men who had hurt you so. They had been unable to find your bodies, lost in the waves. The sea had raged that night, mourning the loss of her daughters. No one could have survived that.

Still, hope blossomed inside his chest every time he thought of it. The feeling was paralyzing. It didn’t allow him to grief normally. He kept thinking the two of you may be alive somewhere, lost in the sea. That a fishing boat might have picked you up, and helped you hide.

Because if you were truly dead, Daemon would have felt it. He was certain of it. Caraxes, who had always been finely attuned to his sister, this other sea goddess, would have felt it too. He would have cried in the manner Syrax did, when Rhaenyra took to the birthing bed.

His dragon had a connection to you. He knew your touch, your voice from all others. Both of you had been born out of the sea. You had ridden him as many times as Daemon himself. At least he would have known.

But not a peep had been heard from Caraxes. Ever since they had arrived at Harrenhal, he seemed subdued, as if preparing to hibernate. Sedated. He no longer wanted to fly, no longer wanted Daemon near.

Daemon thought he would have known, but perhaps, he had been unworthy of it. And Caraxes sensed it. He knew it was all his fault.

Were you laying down, lulled to sleep by the songs of the seashells or alive somewhere mourning your daughter, it was all his fault. Daemon had not been aware that the price to pay for a son would be this steep. His two girls.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? They really thought women were worth less in Westeros.

The lack of Life had never been so intense. The drought had gotten worse, the crops withered, the few animals died. Desperation filled the girl. Her mother was getting old, and she was no longer able to partake in the long walks in search for a droplet of dew.

So one day, she walked to the shore and sat by, watching the waves. She breathed in, found her courage, and said: “I wish to speak to you.”

Daemon tosses and turns, fixing his pillows. The room is gloomy, no matter how many candles he has lit, and there is a strange draft that not even the brightest fire can fight.

He closes his eyes, feeling a sudden warmth behind them. If you were here, you would embrace him from behind, playfully pinning him into the bed. You would press your lips to his temple, and sing of lands long forgotten, a city underneath the sea. A city so great, the Gods had punished it by sinking it.

Your soft voice would soothe him into sleep, your arms holding him tight. Daemon can almost feel the weight of them against his waist, the warmth of your body against his. A sob gathers on his chest, but dies in his throat.

He has not cried since getting the news. Instead, he has been cursed with the easiest sleep of his life. Harrenhal is damp and gloomy, and Daemon doesn’t like at all the looks the witch gives him, but every time he closes his eyes, he is out like a light.

Your absence is not so acute, in a bed not his own. He can pretend you are home, safe. Or that you have gone out, siren that you are, for a midnight walk along the shore. In those nights, when the sea had been at its most violent, you had roused your daughter and took her to watch the sea.

“The sea gives and takes.” You had often said, standing in the docks with her, from enough distance that the harsh tides wouldn’t hurt you. “We must respect her. Remember that.”

You had taken her on other nights too. The two of you would roll around in the sand, play in the waves, until you exhausted yourself and both crawled into bed with him, hair still wet and smelling of salt.

Daemon swears he smells it — now. His daughter’s soap, and the sea, clinging to her hair and skin, her little toes cold, and pressing to his calves.

But when he opens his eyes, nothing is there. Just the lingering smell of saltwater.

These phantom touches both comfort and torture him. He can pretend both of you are there, or safe at home, but every time he opens his eyes, you are not.

Daemon dreams of the both of you every night. They are not nightmares. He is aware he is dreaming when he is in them, and getting to see your faces is bittersweet. He knows he will never see you anywhere else. The sea you had so loved has taken you, and he has nothing to mourn. Not a body, not a painting, not even your bones.

The dream is the same every night. It resembles a story you had once told him, and makes him wonder why his subconscious has chosen it, out of all the sea tales you had shared with him.

In the dream, you stand on the shore of Dragonstone. You are naked, with your hair loose over your shoulders. You hold your daughter, but she is not the age she had been when Daemon had left. Instead, she seems to be a baby again. Daemon cannot be sure because what you hold is a bundle of linens that you rock back and forth, and her face is never seen.

Your eyes are fixed on the horizon. You do not seem to notice him at first. The rocks that make up the beach dig on your bare feet, and the sea rages, hitting against your ankles with such strength you should fall over. You do not.

It makes Daemon nervous.

“What are you doing?” He always tries to convince you, not a night goes by where he doesn’t. “Come here, love. The sea is too dangerous tonight.”

There is a steel band around his chest, and it tightens when he sees you take a step further into the sea. He has this feeling something terrible is about to happen, that the next wave will hit you and drag you under, that it will drown you and his girl. That it will be the last.

But every night, you refuse to listen. You continue rocking the baby, eyes stubbornly set in the horizon. Your face gets the same pinched look it had gotten in life, when the two of you argued, and you refused to back down.

He had learnt to grovel by your side. He tries that, next.

“What are you doing? Please, love.” Daemon gets more desperate then because he tries to get closer to you and never quite manages. He had never been as fearless of the sea as you had been, and in the dream, the mere sight of the water caused him intense terror. “Please. What is it? We can talk about it, I can help. I can protect you.”

Daemon knows it is a lie. He has failed at that once, already. And you seem to know it too because it is to the promise of protection that you turn.

“I can’t.” And your voice sounds old, full of wind and salt. It shatters his soul. You are slipping through his fingers once more. The thought is unbearable. “Our daughter needs to eat.”

Your arms open, and a miracle occurs. The island, so dry and so infertile, the jagged rocks that make up the ground, the sulfuric smell, they all disappear. Suddenly, the world is brighter, there are trees and flourishing bushes, the crops are thriving. The air smells of fruit, and sun, sweet as the first days of summer.

It only serves to terrify him further.

“I’m afraid.” Daemon admits, voice pitched low. It’s not something he would ever say while awake, but he fears so much for your safety, it slips out. When it does, he finds the bravery to rush to your side. “I don’t want anything to happen to the two of you.”

“Don’t be scared, silly.” You laugh, and turn to face him. Daemon reaches forward, attempting to take the babe from you. The blanket opens in the process, but instead of a baby, a rush of seawater falls out.

When he lifts his gaze to meet yours, horrified, you disappear under his hands in the exact same manner.

And Daemon screams, but no sound comes out. Tries to hold on, but water slips through his fingers every time.

Her mother sees it all. Her girl leans in, as if to kiss her reflection, and tips over. The water swallows her whole.

She runs, then. But when she reaches the pond, her fingers only grasp water.

No one in the village believes her. They forget the girl easily, busy with their newfound prosperity. The place blooms with new life.

There has to be something in this place. Perhaps it’s the witch. Perhaps it’s the curse. Daemon had never believed in ghost stories, and he had once mocked Rhaenyra’s concerns over Harrenhal, but now he has the same doubts.

His grip on reality feels flimsy at best. He had spent an entire afternoon chasing his daughter through the halls, convinced he could hear her laughter and footsteps in the corridors.

Simon Strong had jerked him out of that one, asking him to hear the inane disputes of the rest of the Riverlands. His perplexed face at Daemon’s insistence he could hear a child running around had vexed him to no end.

Another day, Daemon had been in a meeting with the lords when he had heard you singing. It was that damn story again, about the girl, and the ponds… He had been lost into his own thoughts, and ended up insulting them because he couldn’t focus.

The witch has taken to looking at him with pity. Does she walk through dreams, too? Can she see you, haunting every body of water near?

It’s late at night, and Daemon cannot sleep. He keeps hearing footsteps, and laughter. Water runs near, an intolerable murmur. He gets up, without bothering to put on his robes, and decides to investigate.

Harrenhal’s corridors are dark and empty. His footsteps echo, explaining the noise. Someone must be walking somewhere. But the water? There is nothing beyond a leak in the roof.

Daemon has a terrible headache. The infernal noise water makes is constantly in his ears, even when he plugs them. It chases him, flowing and ebbing, but never disappears.

Perhaps some fresh air might do him good. He doesn’t dare ask Alys for any further concoction, less she is the one poisoning him. He walks to the courtyard, instead.

As he crosses the dilapidated training grounds, Daemon sees you. His heart lurches. You are as beautiful as the day he married you. You wear your Valyrian robes, and hold your daughter’s hand. She is clad in a miniature set of the same robes.

Daemon rubs his eyes. It cannot be. You are not supposed to be here. Why would you be here, dressed like that? There are runes traced in blood in your forehead, and in your lips. You are fresh out of a wedding.

A flash of jealousy makes him clench his fists. Have you betrayed him? Faked your death to marry another lover? You have come to taunt him, surely. You had survived the attack, and so had your daughter, and this was a way to punish him for leaving you unprotected.

Burning with rage, he walks after the two of you. You seem calm, talking to your daughter in a low voice, and making her giggle. The two of you walk, carefree, through the Godswood.

You look so normal. Like you always did. Solid. There is nothing in you of the vengeful sea goddess that haunts his dreams and disappears under his hands. He doesn’t dare call out either of your names, for fear of alerting you he is on your tail. Daemon wants to see the bastard that you are meeting.

He has suffered all these nights, thinking you dead, and here you are, alive! You dare flaunt yourself, after taking his daughter and causing him immense pain.

“You bitch.” Daemon mumbles under his breath. He follows you outside the castle’s walls, noticing you seem familiar with the terrain. You do not pause even once, while he has to stumble over branches and dried leaves that cover deadly holes made by horse’s hooves.

Once you reach the hill overlooking the Gods Eye, you pick up your daughter, and do not hesitate to make your way down to the lake. Daemon curses under his breath. He doesn't’t dare do the same. His footsteps are nowhere near as secure as yours are while carrying a toddler down a hill.

Instead, he hides behind some trees and watches. Will your lover meet you here?

But no man steps out of the shadows. You set your daughter down and undress her, tenderly. You fold her robes, and remove yours. Then both of you walk into the Gods Eye, until the water swallows you whole.

Daemon rushes to the shore then, nearly twisting his ankle in the process. There are no robes and no footsteps in the mud. There is only the pale moon, winking at him from the surface of the water.

The girl is now a woman. She walks out of the sea one day, carrying her daughter in her arms, and hugs her own mother tight.

“I have come to visit. I wish to meet my friends too, but she is too little to take with me. Would you mind staying with her?”

Her mother, enchanted by the return of her daughter, cannot help but agree. She imagines the afternoon, spent coddling the new granddaughter.

“You have to promise me something.” The woman begs of her. “No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you must never unwrap her.”

Daemon waits for thirteen days in Harrenhal before his nephew comes face him. He marks the passing of each day through carving a mark into the heart tree at sunset.

You loved sunsets, when alive. You loved to feel the warmth on your skin, and the light reflecting on your face. Your mood had always improved when spring began, and Daemon had fond memories of days spent rolling in the sand, kissing each other until it was difficult to tell if you were flushed because of the sun or the kisses.

Aemond shows up on the fourteen day, after a moon spent terrorizing the Riverlands. His nephew had turned into a petty King, using fire and blood against anyone who stood on his path.

How plebeian. To think he had in his grasp the last beast that had seen the conquest, and he used her to burn fields and peasants. It showed the boy was still green, drunk in his newfound power.

His behavior was unbecoming of a Targaryen Prince. He treated Vhagar as if she were a mere weapon, and not the source of their power. Dragons deserved more respect than that.

Aemond doesn’t come alone. Behind him rides Alys, the witch of Harrenhal herself. The witch’s belly is swollen with child. Daemon wonders if she is fulfilling her own prophecy. Why else the fierce woman he had met during his first stay at the castle remain by his nephew’s side?

Perhaps, she knows she has to be his so the Prince who was promised is born after the extinction of the dragons. It shall not come from his line, but maybe from the one that starts with the babe in her belly.

Daemon has come to understand that he has his own destiny to fulfill too. He was never meant to have you, he realizes. You were a daughter of the sea, made from blood and foam. Daemon, instead, had been born out of fire and blood. Water and fire never mixed, and in another lifetime, they might have never had.

He had been meant for Rhaenyra, Alys had told him once. Made of flames, to burn together. But his love for you had been so strong it had allowed to defy his fate.

Aemond circled twice around Harrenhal, and then brought Vhagar down in the outer ward. Caraxes, as if sensing his rider’s unease, hissed a few flames. Daemon patted his flank, trying to soothe him. It wasn’t time yet. It couldn’t happen here.

Alys got down from Vhagar’s back, aided by her lover. When she was safely away, Aemond turned to face him.

“Nuncle, I hear you have been seeking us.”

“Only you.” Daemon had never been seeking Alys. He liked the witch enough to spare her, despite the rotten seed that had taken residence in her womb. A bastard babe was no threat to him. “Who told you where to find me?”

“My lady,” Aemond said, proudly. “She saw you in a storm cloud, in a mountain pool at dusk, in the fire we lit to cook our suppers. She sees much and more, my Alys. You were a fool to come alone.”

The witch had probably come to see if he fulfilled his destiny. It was important to her, to keep balance between the threads of fate. Daemon doubted that Aemond knew the witch was weaving with his thread too. In bringing him here, Alys had doomed him. She knew as Daemon did that both of them would die today.

“Were I not alone, you would have not come.” If Aemond was anything, it was a Hightower rat. A coward. He would face his death scared, unlike Daemon. He had made his peace with it a long time ago. You were dead. His daughter was dead. He had no further reason to live.

“Yet you are, and here I am. You have lived too long, nuncle.” Aemond tells him. Does he see, too? This twisted mirror of himself, thirty years his younger, and yet, he knows it. Men that defy fate never live too long afterward.

“On that much we agree.” Daemon smiles, wryly. He had led a good life. Nine and forty years, and he had known it all. Even love. Especially love.

Grief never took it away. It only made the tendrils wrapped around his heart into spears, that dug in deep, and never let go.

Daemon purposefully didn’t chain himself to his saddle, so it would be easy to jump. He took the higher ground, pushing Caraxes upwards. His beloved beast. He hoped that this gave Caraxes a fighting chance.

Vhagar was much slower, due to her size. She flew wide, taking her rider over the waters of the Gods Eye.

It was a perfect summer day. The sun was setting, in the manner you had so loved in life. It tinged the water a soft gold. The usual violent currents were calm. Everything around Daemon looked warm, and inviting. The golden hour, as you called it, was upon them.

Vhagar didn’t see them, but she was rapidly approaching. Daemon ordered Caraxes to dive by Aemond’s blind side, slamming against Vhagar with such force he feared he might fall. His dragon let out a piercing shriek, and the old whore answered him with her own.

The two dragons battled against each other, throwing flames and bites. The heat was unbearable, and Daemon had to duck nearly parallel to Caraxes so he was not burnt by Vhagar’s flames.

It was as he leaned in that he saw it. The water. It showed both of the dragons grappling against each other, falling while locked on a deadly embrace. It showed the fire, and the abundant blood falling from them. But it also showed you.

You, radiant in your wedding robes, swimming lazy circles. You, with your arms extended, as if hoping to catch something. Catch him, Daemon realized.

He looked up. Alys was a small figure in the highest tower of Harrenhal. It should have been impossible to see anything from this distance, yet Daemon could swear he saw her smile.

At that moment, he understood. All of it. A circle.

Daemon jumped from his saddle.

As soon as the mother opened the wrapped bundle, a rush of seawater came out. If there was once a baby, she was now gone.

Yet, miraculously, a young woman appears from the sea, fully grown. She is naked, covered only by her hair, and of a beauty so exquisite not a single mortal would dare gaze upon her.

“Fear not, grandmother.” She says, kindly. Her hands against the woman’s cheeks feel wet. Salt from the sea, and the old woman’s tears. “I am not a child any longer, that’s all. But you will never lack for drink as long I live.”

And the young woman faces the setting sun. And slowly, she begins to dance.

Lady Shella walked the halls of Harrenhal, in silence. It had been a long time since there was anyone here she could talk to. Her husband was dead, and her daughter long married. She hardly ever visited anymore, busy with running her own household.

The servants never made for good company. They rotated far too often for her to grow attached to any of them. They always complained of footstep and laughter in the hallways, and mysterious pools of water that no one knew where they came from.

Shella knew. She wasn’t about to tell them, of course. What was the point of owning a haunted castle if you couldn’t use it to scare others?

She made her way to the highest tower in Harrenhal. Her liege lords, the Tullys, had declared for the King in the North. They were kin to him. Shella remembered little Catelyn Tully, with her copperish hair. In her youth, she had been stunning, but Shella knew she must have lost all her luster by now.

If not from having five children, from widowhood. It had sucked all the beauty from Shella, after all. She deeply missed her Walter. They hadn’t been a match of love, but of convenience. She had grown to love him regardless. Years do that, she supposed.

Shella didn’t want to lose Harrenhal. It was the last tie she had to her husband. Inside this castle, they had made their home. They had raised children. They had been deliriously happy.

But Shella had little choice. Her scouts had seen Lannister banners less than half a day away. If she didn’t surrender the castle, they would take it by force. She didn’t have enough men, or time to ask her liege for help. Resisting would only mean death.

She wanted to see it one last time, though. One last sunset. One last trip with her ghosts.

Shella made her way to the window, and waited for the sun to start lowering. As the Gods Eye turned gold, laughter began to be heard in the hallways. Rushed footsteps turning corners, little bells ringing.

“… Daemon! Don’t!” The woman laughed.

“Higher, Daddy, higher!” A girl shrieked, voice pitched high with happiness. It made Shella’s heart ache. She reminded her of her girl.

“Come on, the two of you. We are late.” The voice was deeper, more commanding. And they were. A bit late, perhaps because spring was just starting, and the days were turning longer.

Nothing could be seen, beyond slight depressions on the grass. The marks of boots running alongside bare feet.

But for a second, as the sun turned the Gods Eye an angry orange, Shella saw them. A family of three, their little girl held between the parents, jumping into the lake. All shrieking in laughter.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, his lady wife and his daughter, reunited in death like they weren’t able to be in life. Yes, Shella thought, she could not wait to see what Tywin Lannister made of these ghosts.

.

.

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A/N: Hello! If you are chilean like me (I really should shift to spanish for this, and I will) Si son chilenos como yo, la historia que usé para dividir el fic es una que reconocen. O al menos ligeramente. Es la historia de la Huenchula y el Millalobo, papás de la Pincoya, con un poco de adaptación para que sea fácil de entender y calce con lo que estaba escribiendo.

[strangled-slytherin]

In the quiet of night

Pairing: Theo Nott x Reader

Summary: After a terrifying nightmare, Theo Nott comforts the reader, offering quiet reassurance and revealing a deeper emotional bond between them.

Trigger Warnings: Nightmares, mentions of trauma and helplessness, anxiety, emotional distress.

-

Theo Nott sat quietly in the Slytherin common room, his book resting on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in what felt like an eternity. The flames in the fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but his mind wasn’t on the text before him. His thoughts were somewhere else, drifting back to you.

It wasn’t often that he let himself think too deeply about what you meant to him. It was easier to act indifferent, to play the part of the quiet, brooding Slytherin who rarely showed his cards. But you had a way of pulling at the edges of his carefully crafted facade, making it harder and harder for him to keep his distance.

The faintest of sounds broke through his thoughts—a noise that was almost too quiet to notice. His brow furrowed as he sat up, his senses suddenly on alert. He strained his ears, listening for any indication that he had imagined it, but there it was again. A low, muffled sound that sent a chill down his spine. He knew that sound. It was the sound of someone in distress.

His heart skipped a beat when he realized it was coming from your room.

Theo was on his feet before he could think twice, the book abandoned as he crossed the common room in long strides. His pulse quickened, and his mind raced with worry. Had something happened? Was someone in there with you? He knew the nightmares had been plaguing you recently, but this felt different. This felt urgent.

He reached your door and hesitated for only a second before pushing it open, not caring about the possible consequences of barging into your space unannounced. The door creaked slightly, and the dim light from the hallway spilled into the room, casting an eerie glow on the scene before him.

You were thrashing in your bed, tangled in your blankets as if you were trying to fight your way out of them. Your face was pale, your brow furrowed in distress, and a thin sheen of sweat coated your skin. You were muttering incoherently, your voice low and panicked, and Theo could see the fear etched into your features even though you were still asleep.

He had never seen you like this before. You were always so composed, so strong. To see you this vulnerable, trapped in your own mind, sent a wave of protectiveness crashing over him.

"Y/N," Theo called softly, his voice low and soothing as he approached the bed. You didn’t respond, your body still caught in the throes of whatever nightmare had its grip on you. He knelt beside the bed, hesitating for a moment, unsure of how to wake you without startling you further.

He gently placed a hand on your shoulder, giving you the lightest of shakes. "Y/N, it's alright. You're safe. Wake up."

Your eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, wild and unfocused as if you weren’t entirely sure where you were. For a moment, Theo’s heart clenched as he saw the fear still lingering in your gaze. But then your eyes met his, and the panic began to ebb, slowly giving way to recognition.

"Theo?" Your voice was small, barely a whisper, as if you were afraid speaking too loudly would break the fragile silence between you.

"I'm here," he said softly, his hand still resting on your shoulder. "You're safe now. It was just a dream."

You blinked, your breathing ragged as you tried to calm the frantic beating of your heart. The room felt suffocating, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to the edges of your mind like dark shadows that refused to be banished. You sat up slowly, running a hand through your hair, your fingers trembling slightly.

"I… I didn't mean to wake you," you murmured, your voice thick with embarrassment and exhaustion. "It was just another nightmare."

Theo frowned slightly, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside you. "You don't have to apologize for that. You didn’t wake me—well, not exactly." He studied your face, the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world was pressing down on you. "You've been having them a lot lately, haven't you?"

You nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Yeah… more than usual. I thought they’d go away, but…" You trailed off, your voice cracking slightly. "They're just getting worse."

Theo’s chest tightened at the raw vulnerability in your voice. He wasn’t used to seeing you like this—so open, so fragile. It made him want to pull you into his arms and protect you from whatever was haunting you, but he knew better than to push too hard. He had to let you come to him, had to let you decide if you wanted to share.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked after a moment, his voice soft, nonjudgmental. He wasn’t the best at comforting people, but for you, he’d try.

You shook your head at first, biting your lip as you tried to keep the tears at bay. "It's stupid," you whispered, your fingers twisting in the blankets as if grounding yourself.

"It's not stupid if it's keeping you up at night," Theo replied gently. "Whatever it is, it’s real enough to you. And I’m here to listen. No judgments, I promise."

You glanced at him, and for the first time since you woke up, you really looked at him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration or worry, and his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. He was always so guarded, so careful not to let his emotions show, but right now, there was nothing but concern written across his features.

Taking a shaky breath, you nodded, feeling a lump form in your throat. "It’s just… ever since that incident last year, I’ve been having these dreams. Nightmares, really. They start off fine, but then… something happens, and I’m back in that place. Back in that moment." Your voice wavered, and you paused, trying to collect yourself.

Theo didn’t rush you, didn’t press for details. He simply waited, his hand still resting on your arm, his presence grounding you as you found the strength to continue.

"I keep reliving it," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper now. "The fear, the helplessness… it feels so real. And no matter how hard I try to wake up, I can’t. I’m trapped in it, over and over again."

Theo’s jaw tightened, a flash of anger sparking in his eyes—not at you, but at the idea of you suffering like this. He hadn’t known how bad it had been for you, how deeply the events of the past year had affected you. You’d always been so good at hiding your pain, at pretending like everything was fine. But now, seeing you like this, he realized just how much you’d been carrying on your own.

"You don’t have to go through this alone, you know," he said quietly. "You’ve been carrying this weight for too long."

You sniffled, wiping at your eyes. "I didn’t want to burden anyone with it. Especially not you.

Theo let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Burden? Y/N, you’re not a burden. I care about you. More than you realize."

Your eyes widened slightly at his words, your heart skipping a beat. Theo wasn’t the type to openly express his feelings, but in this moment, there was no denying the sincerity in his voice.

"I care about you too," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

For a long moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between you. Finally, Theo shifted, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"From now on," he said softly, "if you wake up like this, you come find me. Or I’ll find you. But you’re not going through this alone anymore, alright?"

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Alright."

And in that quiet moment, with Theo sitting beside you, the darkness that had once seemed so suffocating didn’t feel quite as overwhelming anymore.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Monster x Reader [Werewolf]

In Romanian mythology, Pricolici is an evil spirit believed to be born after the death of wicked humans, able to transform into certain animals such as ferocious dogs and wolves. The etymology is unknown, although it's suspected to be of Dacian origin, thus going as far back in time as the 1st century BC. An ancient creature has set its predatory eyes on you.

Winner of the Folklore Monster Poll celebrating Romanian history!

TW: obsessive behavior, violence, death

[Horror Masterlist] [More Headcanons]

He can tell it's a dream. Nonetheless, it always feels unbearably real. He can smell the incense, hear the hurried trample of feet underneath him. He wants to open his mouth and demand they stop. No words ever come out, the throat is dry and flattened by heavy despair. It's a dream, after all. The priests march on, and the spears are lifted. For a moment, he's blinded by their powerful, sharp glisten. As he gazes at the sacred circle, it occurs to him just how uncomfortable the shackles are. He becomes somewhat distracted by this irritating friction, so much he doesn't register the instructions given by the mysterious men. 

Centuries later, he would stumble upon an old history book by Herodotus that detailed his misfortune:

"The Getae are the bravest of the Thracians and the most just. They believe they are immortal, forever living, in the following sense: they think they do not die and that the one who dies joins Zalmoxis, a divine being. Every four years, they send a messenger to Zalmoxis, who is chosen by chance. They ask him to tell Zalmoxis what they want on that occasion. The mission is performed in the following way: men standing there for that purpose hold three spears; other people take the one who is sent to Zalmoxis by his hands and feet and fling him in the air on the spears. If he dies pierced, they think that the divinity is going to help them; if he does not die, it is he who is accused and they declare that he is a bad person. And, after he has been charged, they send another one. The messenger is told the requests while he is still alive."

The foreign hands tighten around his limbs and he takes a deep breath in, ready for the plunge. Truth be told, he's not too anxious. The first time was terrifying, but one becomes accustomed to death if it repeats itself, night after night as the years pass and millennia settle over it, like a thick blanket of ash and bone and dust. He doesn't remember the pain anymore, only the bitterness. The wrath. He had no business playing God's messenger. He hadn't wished to be choking on his own blood, rippling violently at the corners of his mouth as his eyes dart over the excited masses. There are claps and cheers, and hope, and peace. Just not for him. 

No matter, if they long so dearly after eternity, he'll become their very proof. A tangible undead, a creature of eternity. Let them gaze at their ardent desire as it claws their bowels out for the birds to feed on. Let them sing praise before their God as their soft throats detangle under his fangs. Before he knows it, the corpses lay mangled at his feet and he notices his horrid reflection swaying in the puddles of fresh blood. 

He has become a beast. 

And just like that, the nightmare ends. It always ends here. He pats the sweat off his forehead with the monotonous vigor of habit. It's already noon and the narrow street flocks with curious tourists and natives on their stroll. Every now and then he will venture into the city, just to get a glimpse of the world. He twists the knob and opens a window, enjoying the breeze that cools his skin. His tired eyes wander around with no purpose. 

That's when he sees you. Your wide, carefree smile as you converse with your friend. You're drawing circles along the edge of your coffee cup, propped over the table, entranced by your discussion. Your gentle laugh rings unexpectedly loud against his ears. He finds himself frozen in place, unable to contract a single muscle. 

"Oh, this trail is supposed to have some really nice sights." Your friend is shuffling through unfolded maps, spread out onto the small café table. "We should leave pretty early though, otherwise it'll get dark before the return."

You groan at the idea. Your friend responds with a chuckle. 

"Remember, our tour guide joked about werewolves roaming the outskirts. Do you want to be eaten?" She inquires with a cheeky grin. 

"You know I have a thing for monsters." You answer with a wink. 

The jokes carry on until the bill arrives, and you eventually stand up and merrily make your way down the street. For a brief moment you feel a cold shiver running down your spine, so you peek back inquisitively. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Ah. By the time his focus returns, the sun is setting, reflecting its crimson rays over the old cobblestone. You've been gone for a while, so he must've been staring into the nothingness for good hours. He clears his throat, mildly embarrassed by his absent-mindedness. He isn't hungry, so he has trouble explaining his sudden captivation with a random human.

Even more bizarre is the consequence of the accidental encounter. The following nights are devoid of the usual torment. Has he ever had a peaceful slumber before? He can't recall. And yet here he is, vacantly eyeing the ceiling without the labored breath or cold shivers, faintly reminiscing about your amused expression. He frowns slightly at the realization that his recollection seems to contain less details compared to yesterday. Your face is smudged by the intense light of the noon, titled at an angle that allows no shadows to discern the features. What will he do when it's entirely gone? A faceless memory, anchored in the depths of his heart as a reminder of what could've been. Is there some universal law that dictates only misery remains unforgotten, or is he just exceptionally unlucky? Infuriating. 

The overwhelming sensation creeps upon him again. A primordial vengefulness that hasn't yet released him from its cold, bony fingers. For once, can't he be granted fairness? His jaw clenches and he marches out of the room. 

Tonight shall be a feast.

The lights are still on in the little tavern inn, and through the small windows he can make out the lively movement of the people inside. He glances at the waning moon one final time. The world may change, and the years may pass, but one thing has never left him throughout the centuries. Always bearing the same pallid, melancholic countenance, his taciturn companion rises, indifferent to the Universe. 

His back arches outwards, the bones tear and twist, the joints dislocate and the skin is giving way to coarse, thick fur. His eyes now carry an amber glow as they rest on the modest building. Without further hesitation, he pounces on the door and it folds like cardboard under his inhuman strength. The room goes quiet and all heads turn to him. He recognizes that look. A fleeting second of fear and curiosity, before true panic settles in. But they rarely have the time to scream. Just as the vocal chords contract and vibrate, their chests are trashed and limbs are tattered. Splattered visceral remains and blood coat the ground under his feral attack.

You squeeze your eyes closed and force your hands over your mouth to ensure your stillness to the massacre. You were just returning from the bathroom when you heard the wails and the wet sounds of mutilated flesh. You'd ducked behind the wall and hid under an end table. What the hell is that creature? You initially thought a wild wolf had somehow made its way into the tavern, but no animal can be this large. There is a backdoor, but on the other side of this hall. You'd have to sprint across the archway that leads into the main room. Then again, if it's this busy ripping the others apart...

No need to ponder your options much. Silence falls behind you, which means the creature must have finished its horrid sport early. His snout picks up a particular scent and he tenses up, expectantly. Could it be? 

The wooden parquet tiles creak under the weight of foreign footsteps; a human approaching you. You look up from under the table. Has someone dealt with the beast? Although you immediately regret revealing yourself. You freeze in your spot, hands propped on the ground, like prey awaiting execution. 

The man is unnaturally tall, having to crouch under the ceiling, with wild black hair and rough features. His chiseled face is painted red, and his clothing is torn apart and soaked in blood. His large hands end in sharp claws, and amid his ruffled locks you can distinguish animal ears. 

There you are.

Well, quite the irony to meet you here of all times and places. From this distance, you look even prettier. He bends over slightly to examine the details that have faded since the first encounter. A surreal experience, really. Seeing you kneel right in front of him and not as a figment of his imagination. He extends his fingers over your face and presses his nails in, leaving a vague trail of swollen, red skin. What a frail being you are.

"Your friend is alive, by the way." His deep, dissonant voice pierces the silence.

"O-oh." You gasp. You were so anxious you barely understood the meaning of his words.

"You may check on her if you so desire, however..." 

He considers it. Normally, even after allowing his anger to seep into cadavers and ruins, all he's left with is disgust and emptiness. Yet your presence seems to fill him with unfamiliar comfort. If one is drowning, is it truly selfish to hold onto the first thing that keeps them afloat? The only people who'd condemn such beggar are the ones that have never been underwater. They don't know what it's like to have your lungs tighten and collapse under the heavy pressure, waving your arms towards a surface that's never reached. 

"...You'll be coming with me afterwards."

You can only stare.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you." He attempts to simulate a smile. "I suppose I'm not too convincing like this", he jokes as he gestures towards his body, "But you have my word I'll never harm you."

"Why, though?" You manage to stutter, frowning in confusion. 

He's taken aback by your inquiry. Perhaps his statement is indeed more threatening than anything else. On the other hand, he hasn't conversed with humans in...longer than he can remember. What might pose as convincing in this case? Drawing out a rose and confessing his undying love among the bodies he murdered feels rather ridiculous. Suddenly, a passage he's once read comes to mind. At the time, it depressed him greatly. Now it feels like the only fitting reasoning.

"Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds… true love?"

"Isn't that from Stoker's Dracula? How is it-" 

You pause and search his eyes. Golden trenches of loneliness and gloom. Your heart is heavy and your mouth curls into a grimace the longer you stare into these pools swirling with agony. 

"I understand." Is all you can mutter as you stand up. 

Have you had a choice to begin with? Not even the frothing waves of a storming ocean can come between a dying man and his only raft. 

[peachesofteal]

18+ mdni / dark and twisty, whump

It’s snowing.

You don’t even have to move your head to see in order to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds and feels during a snowfall that blankets everything, houses, trees, mountains, your mind.

You love it. Always have. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It was what drove you to move out here in the first place. Chasing the snow. The feeling of a quiet forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white. The smell of the air the morning before a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the darkness when everything is dampened down by the weight of a million, billion unique, crystallized webs.

Except this snow feels different. It doesn't feel like a velvety white, soft dream world, but a nightmare... one filled with pain, anxiety. Why are you here? What's happened?

And why do you hurt so fucking bad?

"You're awake." A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn't as lighting sharp pain shoots through your upper arm all the way to your neck, and you cry out. "Easy." It's the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He's sitting in a chair that cannot possibly be comfortable, watching you.

"Where... am I?" You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to choke back the burn of bile that's racing up your throat.

"Are you going to be sick?" He reaches, stroking a finger down your face. You hold your tongue, unsure, and he must not like it, because he sighs, and then frowns at you. "Tell me."

"No, I don't-" You can't even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving, and he's springing to action shifting you amidst unbearable pain, turning you on your side to where a clean bucket sits, right beneath your bed.

"It's alright, that's it." A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears leaking from your eyes.

"Nnnrgh-"

"I know, I know. Poor thing." He coos, and it sounds so... endearing, so sweet yet... frightening, like the poison of a predator, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

"H-hurts." You cry as he rolls you back into your original position. "It hurts."

"I know it does, sweet girl. We're going to fix it." He dabs a cloth on your face, across your forehead and then down to clean your mouth up, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, concern rife in his features.

"Poor baby. Were ye sick?" You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, encouraging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you've had a few sips with a gentle 'not too much'.

"Who are you?" You smack your lips. The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it's well water, maybe?

"I'm Johnny." He's setting up something, beside you. You can see him organizing something, but can't quite make them out due to your lack of mobility. "An' this is Simon. Or Si. But ye probably won't be callin' him that quite yet." Johnny and Simon. Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can't you remember?

"What happened?" You try again, gritting your teeth against the pain.

"Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about this yesterday? Ye slid off the road, ended up in a thick of trees. Ye're lucky the one didnae impale ye." Impale?

"And you found me?" You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

"Aye, we did. Pulled ye free, brought ye home." Home?

"We couldn't leave you to die, and the storm is pretty bad. Pass is closed." Simon offers as an explanation, and you close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed.

"Thank... thank you." Johnny hums, and then to your complete shock, leans forward, brushing his lips against yours as you blink furiously.

"Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we wouldnae." What?

"Do what?" The broad one, Simon, casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He's got a piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them. Do what?

"Bite down on this, precious." Simon instructs, placing it against your bottom lip, to which you jerk away in protest with a whimper.

"Do what?" You try again.

"We need to set your humerus, and clavicle." Set your humerus? And your-

Oh. Oh no.

"N-no. No, you ca-can't." You stutter, but Johnny gives you a sad look, shifting on the bed to place a hand on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm against your good shoulder, the one that doesn't hurt. His hand is warm, so warm against you, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong... intimate. "Please, don't. Please, please-"

"It's alright." He shushes you, and the pressure against your body increases as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather into your mouth, bracing a hand above your elbow, and below your shoulder on the side that hurts. You gasp for air, fear shaking your body, and Johnny coos at you, telling you you'll be alright, that you're with them now and they'll take care of you, that it will only hurt for a little. "Ye'll probably pass out, bonnie. We'll get the second one done while ye're down, and I already gave ye something for the pain." He assures, like it's supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon's grip.

This can't be happening. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There's a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating agony that's delivered to your arm like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it's way out of your throat. You think you're crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, everything all at once. It hurts. It hurts so bad, it hurts-

"We're sorry, we're sorry." Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your mind starting to sever itself from your body, floating away as you slip inside a dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to unconscious as they both stare down at you, sickeningly sweet concern layered overtop the faces of a bear and a wolf, predators licking their maws in preparation, waiting to devour their prey.

[luvrxbunny]

lazy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader 

Prompt: Wet Dreams

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, handjob (lmk if I forgot anything)

WC: 1.1k

A/N: its called lazy cus i was literally so lazy when writing this- not proofread and probably incoherent 

You wake up to a low groaning, almost zombie-like sound, slowly growing in volume. Your eyes open to the dark room and you realize it must be Bucky making these sounds… but why? Steve had mentioned nightmares, maybe this was one? But Bucky insisted that he doesn’t have them anymore. You slowly force your muscles to wake and flip yourself over, facing him. You’re met with the sight of Bucky lying on his stomach, his head turned toward you, his brows furrowed and his face scrunched up in what you’d assume was discomfort if his hips weren’t grinding into the mattress. 

The sheet has slid down his body, laying right below his ass and giving you a perfect view of how his hips move ad he fucks his cock into the bed. It knocks the air out of your lungs and causes butterflies to erupt in your stomach along with a drop of guilt. 

You’re the first person he’s been with since he got out of cryo. You’re the first person to get him to open back up, to unlock all the emotions he decided to hide away, and turn him back into Bucky. You’re honored for the opportunity and eternally glad and grateful that you were actually able to make a difference in him, that he fell in love with you. Unfortunately, there was one area you couldn’t help him with. Sex. 

You’re a virgin. 

As much as you love Bucky, you’re just not ready to lose your virginity yet. You want him to have it and you want him… You’re just nervous for the actual act, you need some more time, and Bucky, the gentleman that he is, never pressured you to rush or anything. But apparently, that means he’s also omitting facts from you. Facts like these. 

You can hear how slick he is inside his boxers, a subtle squelch coming from inside them, letting you know how badly he’s needed this. Sam told you about the soldier’s heightened libido due to the serum but Bucky had never said anything about it to you so you assumed that Sam was just kidding around, just trying to embarrass Bucky. Apparently, he was telling the truth. 

You don’t know what to do. Waking him up might be embarrassing for him but you feel wrong just sitting here and watching him. You won’t be able to fall back asleep but you can’t just lay here and listen to him groan out for you. You place a hand on his shoulder, and rock him gently until his face twitches and his eyes begin to flutter open. 

His brain doesn’t wake up immediately. His eyes open and land on you but his hips don’t stop moving. His eyebrows pull in and he moans your name right into your face, and his hips are still moving. You can’t help but smile fondly at him, oddly complimented by his apparent need, but your smile seems to be what wakes him up. His eyes widen and his hips freeze, he seems to analyze you, trying to figure out if he’s still dreaming and his eyes widen further once he realizes he’s awake. “Fuck. I’m- I’m so sorry.”

You giggle and move closer to him. Your hand begins to leave his shoulder, trail down his arm, squeezing his bicep for a moment before continuing down and resting over where his shirt has lifted to reveal some skin on his hip. You trace gentle shapes on his skin and pretend you don’t notice when he shudders and goosebumps rise. “I can help you, Jamie.” 

His eyelids flutter at your soft movements. You test your luck, letting your fingers tease over the band of his underwear. His hips tilt up, forcing your hand over his bulge and giving you a soft moan at the feeling. His hands come up to pull your head closer to his as he starts nodding at you. You smile and kiss him while he whimpers at the feeling of you pulling his sensitive cock out of his pants. “Are- Oh, baby. Are you sure? I- sweet- baby.” His eyes roll back and his entire body goes lax— aside from his hips that are thrusting up into your unmoving hand.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” You ask and move your hand with his hips, moving it up when he thrusts up so he gets no friction. He lets out a frustrated whine. “I’m- I didn’t wanna pressure you, sweetheart. But- mm— please. I need you.” You give a pleased hum at his words and start moving your hand. His reaction is instant. His head falls back in a moan, exposing his adam’s apple to you which you immediately dive for, biting gently and sucking marks into his skin as he thrusts into your hand, taking the pleasure he needs. His cock is slick with all the precum he was spilling for you, how badly he’s been needing this. 

His hand comes to cradle your head, a bit more roughly than he meant but you feel so good on him. Your warm, wet, soft lips sucking into his hot skin, it’s making his head spin. A few seconds ago he was dreaming about you fucking him, on top, riding him like your life depends on it, like getting cum to burst from his tip was your only objective. He woke up mortified as to how you would react but this was the best outcome he could’ve asked for. His head doesn’t have any thought that doesn’t involve you. He can feel the pressure building in his gut, embarrassingly close already. 

It’s always like this when you’re the focus of his arousal, something about you seems to take away his ability to last more than a few minutes. He’s trying as hard as he can, trying to get something else in his head aside from the erotic flashes of everything he wants to do to you, everything he wants you to do to him. “Gonna cum.” The words shoot out of his mouth as a desperate whine and his cock is spurting out the moment he finishes speaking. 

He’s pumping rope after rope after rope of cum into your fist and moaning in a way you never could’ve imagined coming from him. His hips stutter into your palm and his body folds in, trembling as he tries to get closer to you. He’s whimpering your name into your ear on repeat and you shudder at the feeling the breath from his moans on your ear. His moans get high and whiny with embarrassment and overstimulation as you continue to pump his soaked cock. 

He has to shove his hands under the covers and stop you himself because it began to border on painful. He’s panting as he comes down, he can’t process a lot of things right now but he plans to thank you extensively once he can speak again. Maybe return the favor. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, here's the rest of my Kinktober Works, and be sure to check out my Main Masterlist!!

[tetsuskei]

dew mornings and the bond of eternity – tartaglia [nsfw]

synopsis: your angel of a boyfriend makes sure that you know just how well loved you are

notes: for my favorite harbinger, idk what this is but breaking my fic virginity for him with this :]

warnings: fem!reader, reader is insecure, russian pet names, mating press, childe has a foul mouth, biting and marking, slight possession, praise, childe is called by his real name, slight oral fixation, implied oral (female receiving), he is extremely lovesick

you never learned to what extent someone could go when being attentive and observant until you met your boyfriend.

you hate how ajax is able to notice the slightest changes in your mood. you would say he knows you like the back of his hand, but it’s something more than that. almost like the two of you are fused at the souls. bonded for eternity.

so in the dew morning hours when you’re just a little bit quieter, a little more somber as he makes you both breakfast on one of his rare days off, he’s able to notice right away.

he notices your eyes don’t quite catch his own as he jokes about some silly thing one of his siblings did weeks ago, how your smile falters instead of shining bright the way that he loves to see, how you pick at your fingers and gnaw on your lip in thought.

“ptichka?” he hovers over you, taking your face in his hands and pulling you from your thoughts. his cerulean eyes scan you thoroughly. “did you not sleep well?”

“it’s nothing, it was just a silly little dream.” you wave off, smiling weakly. not a lie, technically.

ajax clicks his tongue. stubbornly, he leans into you, the smell of pine and mint following him. “it can’t be silly if it has you upset like this and you’re losing sleep.”

there is no way of lying to ajax. you know this well. he’s a big brother to three siblings, and he’s too good of a detective to be deceived. but that’s to be expected of a harbinger.

after a long, apprehensive pause, you sigh.

“…i had a dream that you cheated on me.” you confess, lowering your gaze to the floor. “and that you left me for someone better.”

it’s stupid. absolutely and utterly ridiculous. ajax has shown you enough love to spill over into your next life. and the next one after that. you could die and come back a thousand times, and there’d still be traces of him left on you. so to tell him this brings you great shame.

the question is, what caused the dream? guilt? shame? maybe you feel he does so much for you, that you’re lacking as a partner. that you could do better.

you wait silently for him to yell, for some sort of outburst to come. but you’re only met with surprise when you feel his hand on your chin.

“can you please look at me?” his voice is soft, and eyes softer as he finally is able to make eye contact with you. he’s so gentle. warm. he only looks at you with love and patience. “thank you, lisichka.”

“i may not have done anything wrong, and i would never cheat—“ he continues with a stern expression, “but i still need you to understand where my feelings lie with you.”

you start to shake your head, “i already know, ‘jax, you have never made me feel like i need to doubt you. i know how much you love me. i promise. i have no idea why i had the dream…but it just made me sad when i woke up.”

you don’t mean to lie about your hidden insecurities, but it’s not a conversation you want to have at the moment. you’d rather just enjoy the time you have currently with your boyfriend peacefully.

luckily, ajax overlooks your fib. he hums, kissing your temple, “how about after we eat, i run us a bath? and we do one of those face masks that you like? something to decompress.”

and for the first time today you smile and agree.

unfortunately it appears ajax is taking your earlier sentiments much more seriously than you thought.

as all dreams and nightmares are short term memory, you long forgot about what it was that made you upset, back to your usual self after the bath.

ajax swaddled you up in a clean towel, and just like he said, did face masks with you. it always makes you giggle seeing your boyfriend using one of your spa headbands to push his hair back. soon both your faces were shiny and clean. refreshed and replenished, you felt brand new.

but little did you know you were now in the jaws of a shark.

you didn’t make it to the bedroom. well, you did, but you didn’t pick up on the ginger’s ulterior motive the minute he kissed your cheek as you sat on the bathroom counter. he carried you to the bedroom, and that’s where it all fell apart.

“‘j-jax—“ you hiccup, gripping tightly onto his bicep. your figure is trembling against his, skin damp with sweat and glued impossibly closer to his.

so much for the bath.

“s-slow down…”

your boyfriend has been at it for awhile now, pummeling your poor insides with his fat cock over and over. the room reeks with the smell of sex, wet sounds imprinted into your mind. you can never forget just how great he makes you feel.

“no,” he huffs, fingers digging into your hips, “you’re not leaving this bed until i’m sure of it.”

confusion resides in you. what exactly is ‘it’?

he’s already worshipped you plenty with just his fingers and tongue. but you don’t dare challenge the primal look in his eyes. he’s absolutely greedy, not even letting you move to take care of him in return in anyway.

you yelp once feeling your lover’s teeth nip into your skin. his tongue laves over the offended area before he kisses the skin.

“how could i find someone better, when there’s not a single person more beautiful or amazing than you?” he pants, pulling away to look at you. his thumb traces your cheek tenderly and his cobalt eyes are trained on your fucked out expression.

“especially when your pussy feels this good? that’s just a bonus.” he rambles, groaning. his hips knock into yours more harshly and you wail.

“you’d have to kill me to separate us.” he admits darkly, but something tells you that even death wouldn’t stop him.

“‘dun want that, want you forever.” you say, clinging impossibly tighter to him.

ajax coos, kissing your nose, “and you have me. because you’re enough. you always will be. you’re perfect.”

his answer satisfies you and you’re kissing him again, nearly having tears permeate at the ducts of your eyes.

he laughs, grinning against you mouth, “milaya, you’re about to cum, aren’t you?”

“i-i” your words still fail to completely return to you but you nod rapidly.

understanding, he taps your bottom lip.

“open,” he commands.

falling in line, ajax pushes his fingers in your mouth. you feel your face heat up from how you taste yourself on him.

“good girl,” he praises, “always so sweet for me, hmm?”

you’re drooling on him, nodding and humming around his fingers with a hazy look in your eyes.

there’s a certain light in his own eyes that only appears when he’s with you, and with the way he is looking at you with complete adoration, you feel absolutely special.

“oh, look how much you’re quivering, you’re almost there. come on.” your boyfriend studies your movements, fucking you with slower, deeper thrusts.

the breath from your lungs nearly escapes you, and you feel a burning feeling in your chest. you’re creaming so much on him that it’s impossible not to hear the lewd noises coming from between your legs.

every sound seems to drive the ginger crazier. “one more, just one more for me, angel and i’ll let you be.” he coaxes, fingers moving again.

“i’m…i’m tired.” you sniff.

“i know, but you look so pretty when you cum. just one more? pretty please? can’t get over how you look. so beautiful…”

his constant praise is enough to make you cum once more, so hard that it blinds you. your mouth falls open in silent awe.

ajax groans, watching you come undone and hissing at the way you’re clamping up on his cock. it should be a crime how good you feel, because he could ever get enough of it.

there’s only a moment before he remembers he still needs to cum, and then he’s pawing and begging.

“fuck, let me cum in you…please…” his face is buried in your neck and a small whimper escapes him once he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together.

he’s shivering and hot, and his cock is extremely sensitive. every drag of himself against your walls drives him insane. he’s dizzy, nearly delirious with how much he’s holding back.

“wanna fill you up so badly, please lisichka.” he continues, pressing searing kisses to your shoulder. “want you leaking with all of my cum…want all of it in you.”

you don’t think he’s looking at you while he babbles and pleads to breed you, and you shiver at how predatory he looks at your lower abdomen. you lock your legs tighter around him, ignoring the overstimulation creeping up in you.

“yes, ajax. please. w-want all your cum. want you to fill me up!” you whine, a sound that makes his heart and cock swell all at the same time.

your next words startle him even further.

“i love you.”

and he snaps.

“hah—ah, fuck!” ajax curses, hips stuttering in their pace. he groans loudly, feeling himself spill into you. there’s spots in his vision from how hard he’s cumming and he wonders if this is what celestia is.

you gasp, jerking when warmth spreads throughout all of you. you can feel the throbbing of your boyfriends cock and his heavy load.

coming down from both of your highs, the two of you laugh.

“you surprise me every time.” you tease quietly, eyeing a bite mark on your thigh.

the ginger looks bashful, hiding his face in your shoulder. “sorry…didn’t mean to be so rough…”

“if i wanted you to stop at anytime, i would’ve told you.” you reassure, petting his head.

he plants a kiss on your skin. “good. and for the record, i love you too.” he murmurs. “feel better?”

“i felt better after the delicious breakfast you made, but you took it a couple of steps further like you always do.” you giggle, leaning into his chest.

ajax grins, kissing the crown of your head, “well, i could tell something else was on your mind, but you weren’t telling me.”

“you know me way too well. it’s terrifying.”

he puffs his chest out, “what can i say? i can and will only provide the absolute best for you.”

“i don’t like leaving you alone for as long as i do…i will try to get them to let me take work closer to home.” he adds, playing with your fingers.

and the beam on your face is all worth it. “really?”

“really. i’m not around a lot for you to do things for me, and i get why you may feel that you need to be better. but i adore you just how you are. i’m sorry for not being more present.”

“it’s okay, i understand.” you hum, kissing his chin.

ajax hums with appreciation before leaning down and chasing your lips, hungrily wanting to taste you all over again.

his demanding presence has you melting into him as you mesh together, tongues locking to consume the taste of yourselves.

suddenly he’s dragging you by the hips to the edge of the bed.

“w-what are you—“

“m’not done with you. far from it.” you barely can form another question before ajax is sliding back into you. a crude squelch follows.

the harbinger kisses your bare ring finger. “say, i think we should elope. what do you think about starting a family?”

key: ptichka = ‘little bird’, lisichka = ‘little fox’, milaya = ‘my dear’

[milkbobatyun]

a ghost of his past

pairing: dan heng x reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: even in his dreams, his past haunts him.

word count: 630

a/n: which clown pulled for dan heng IL just because his design was really pretty? totally not me !! n e ways take this attempt at a dan heng fic.

the gentle, quiet melody of the CD was seeping into the sleeping quarters of the astral express. its inhabitants were deep in sleep. suddenly, with a horrid screech, it halts. an unnerving silence settled over the sleeping quarters. when the disk starts revolving again, a haunting xiaozhou melody sings from the player.

dan heng lies asleep in his bed, where he finds himself in his own dreamscape. a ghost of a figure haunts his, no, dan feng’s dreams.

they stare into his soul with lifeless eyes, silent in their approach.

even without the memories of his past lives, he knew who you were. his lover. or rather, dan feng’s. his gentle, beautiful lover, who offered him unconditional affection, who was always so understanding of him.

you, whose soft hands brushed at his tears when they fell, massaged away the headaches that accompanied the arduous role of being a high elder. 

your love story was spread far and wide in the xianzhou. many children and young couples aspired to have such a fantastical and romantic love. the two of you were the envies of all lovers. the citizens watched as their high elder, always so cold and judicial in his mannerisms, would soften and gaze at you with the warmest look in his eyes, how the fearsome dragon elder became but a mere puppy in your presence.

in danheng’s fragmented dreams, short films of your love played before him, reminding him of every tender moment. times where you were his sole supporter and believer. the seconds of eternity where you would sneak into his office, a boxed lunch, fresh from the stove, cradled in your hands.

the dreams were bright and warm, like the soft touch of spring, flowers booming in his chest.

the fragile flowers, their buds just beginning to bloom, are swallowed by the cold touch of frost, the lively blooms blackening and withering.

in danheng’s fragmented nightmares, he caught glimpses of your demise. your warped screams echo in his mind, bloody hands clawing at the hem of his coat. he hears your voice, begging for mercy.

the nightmares were cold and lonely, like ice seeping into his veins, cutting into his soul and heart.

as he dreams, blade’s voice echoes in his mind.

“you always knew the price better than any of us.” he hissed, his voice a serpent’s hiss, slithering in his thoughts. “that’s why you sacrificed her.”

“you killed her, for the sake of your planet.” blade taunted, his laugh grating in danheng’s ear. “YOU KILLED HER, WITH YOUR OWN TWO HANDS.”

dan heng squeezed his eyes shut, the blackness of his dreamscape pressing in on him, suffocating him. he covered his ears with his hands, tugging and clawing at his hair, to get your echoing screams out of his mind.

he felt a warm liquid running between his fingers. dan heng held his trembling hands in front of him, watching as blood stained his hands, the bloody spear gripped with shaking fingers.

kneeling by his feet was your lifeless body, a bloody hole where your heart should be.  your eyes are fixed ahead, mouth contorting into words that cut his heart deeper than any sword.

“dan feng. how could you.” you breathed, eyes swimming with hurt. “i thought you loved me.”

with a start, dan heng woke from his dreams. the xianzhou lullaby ceases.

drawing his knees up to his chest, dan heng presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“spare me, please,” dan heng pleads to the empty room. “let me forget my past.”

no one responds, but in the depths of his mind, he seems to hear a soft whisper.

“i’m sorry…please don’t forget me.”

the room was silent, but the weight of his past lay burdened on dan heng’s mind.

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡

[pietrobarnes]

It’s Okay Buck, I’m Okay

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort (slight fluff at the end)

The room was dark, the moon casting a silver glow through the curtains. I lay beside Bucky, listening to his steady breathing. These moments of peace were precious, as his nights were often plagued with nightmares. I watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, feeling grateful for every second of tranquility he could get.

Suddenly, his breathing quickened, and he started to thrash. I knew the signs all too well. Another nightmare. My heart ached seeing him like this, trapped in the horrors of his past. Carefully, I placed my hand on his shoulder, hoping to soothe him awake without making things worse.

"Bucky, it's just a dream," I whispered softly, my voice trembling with concern. "It's me, Y/N."

But in his dream, Bucky was being attacked. His eyes flew open, filled with a wild panic I hadn't seen before. Before I could react, his metal arm shot up and wrapped around my throat, squeezing tightly. I gasped, my hands instinctively trying to pry his off, but his grip was like iron.

"Bucky, wake up!" I managed to choke out, my voice barely a whisper.

His eyes were wide and unseeing, filled with terror and rage. His metal hand tightened around my neck, cutting off my air supply. I could feel the cold metal digging into my skin, the pressure building as I struggled to breathe. My vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness washed over me.

"Bucky, it's me," I rasped, my voice barely audible. "Please, wake up.

He was still lost in his nightmare, his face contorted with fear and fury. The pressure on my throat increased, and I felt my strength ebbing away. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a desperate plea for air. I could feel the life slipping from me, my body growing weaker with each passing second.

"Bucky, please," I whispered, my voice hoarse and fading. "It's okay, Buck. I'm here. I love you."

My words were barely audible, and I wasn't sure if he could hear me. My vision darkened, and I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness. Summoning all my remaining energy, I let out a muffled scream, hoping against hope that someone would hear.

As if in response, the door creaked open. I saw a flash of Steve's silhouette in the doorway. His eyes widened in horror as he took in the scene.

"Bucky, wake up! That's Y/N!" Steve's voice boomed, filled with urgency.

Bucky's eyes flickered, confusion washing over his face as he slowly came to. When he realized what he was doing, his hand immediately released my throat. I collapsed onto the bed, gasping for breath, my vision blurred with tears.

"Oh God, Y/N," Bucky's voice broke, filled with anguish. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know—"

Steve was already calling for Dr. Banner, and within moments, the room was filled with concerned faces. Thor gently lifted me, carrying me to the small medical room in the Avengers Tower.

As Dr. Banner and the others tended to me, Bucky stood by the door, his face etched with guilt and despair. I wanted to reach out to him, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but I was too weak to speak.

After what felt like an eternity, I began to regain consciousness. Steve was by my side, his expression softening as he saw my eyes flutter open.

"Hey," he said gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," I croaked, managing a weak smile.

"Do you want to see Bucky?" Steve asked, his voice cautious. "He's been beating himself up about what happened."

I nodded slowly. "Yes, I need to see him."

Steve motioned for Bucky to come in. As soon as he stepped into the room, he burst into tears, rushing to my side and dropping to his knees.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry," he sobbed, his voice raw with emotion. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave me after this. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if you did, but I would understand."

I reached out, gently cupping his face in my hands. "Bucky, I knew what I was getting myself into when I fell in love with you. I'm not going anywhere."

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and disbelief. "You mean it? You're not leaving?"

"I mean it," I said firmly. "We'll get through this together. You're not alone."

Bucky's tears flowed freely as he leaned into my touch, his body shaking with emotion. "I don't deserve you, Y/N."

I smiled softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. "We're in this together, Bucky. Always."

In that moment, surrounded by the comforting presence of our friends and the love we shared, I knew we would find a way to overcome any nightmare. Together, we were stronger than the darkness that haunted him.

—————

Should I make a taglist?

[sinsirellaxx]

Please can you write more about Tom making Reader do an unbreakable vow like you mentioned in the Slytherin boys when they actually fall for you headcanons? I really like how you write him, you don’t hide away from the fact that he’s always gonna be some degree of toxic even if he’s head over heels for you and I find it so interesting! Xx

Tom Riddle – The Unbreakable Vow

Warning: Tom Riddle being the deepest shade of red. Not proofread.

A/N: Thank you so much! I'm glad you like my interpretation of Tom! I simply cannot see him as anything but toxic. 🙈

Hope you like it!

The first time he thinks of the Unbreakable Vow is when he sees you talking to another male student, followed by an unnerving dream about you leaving him for another in the following night.

Tom knows he has to be smart about it. He can’t show his true colors if he doesn’t want to scare you away. Nor does he want to appear weak in front of you.

After that nightmare he is obsessed with the idea of binding you to him for eternity – there would be no way out for you. No escape. And that thought pleased him greatly.

He would either coax you into it:

“Do you trust me.” Tom one day asked you while you were cuddled up in his bed with your head on his chest. His hand was absentmindedly combing through your hair, something you had confessed to loving early on in your relationship. The thought that he had never once skipped playing with your hair, whenever given the chance warmed your heart. The ever so cold and unreachable Tom Riddle, wrapped around your finger. With a shy smile you pressed your face further into his chest, drawing in a deep breath you simply answered with a short yes, drunk on his smell.

Your state of relaxation would surely work for his favor, so his free hand moved to your bare arm, drawing circles on your skin, and leaving goosebumps in his touch’s wake. The Riddle could practically feel you melt into his chest.

“There is something that I want to ask of you.” He continued quietly, carefully thinking about his choice of words. He knew you wanted to please him, no matter what, so, a simple request would surely not ring any alarm bells. He couldn’t b too aggressive about it.

You hummed softly, your eyes closed in bliss, urging him to continue.

“You are the one I want to spend my life with, but we are still too young for marriage. Which is why I want to prove my love to you in another way.”

He clenched his jaw when you lifted your head from his chest to look into his eyes – his tense muscles immediately relaxing when he noticed the blush on your face and your wide eyes. “I want to swear my love to you and make the Unbreakable Vow.”

Or he would force you to make the Vow – either with the help of the Imperius Curse or he’ll threaten/blackmail you into cooperating.

You frowned when you finally entered the Chamber of Secrets – the place your boyfriend had been disappearing to all the time. He had never wanted to show you – up until now. The place was huge and intimidating and the air was stuffy and almost suffocating. The abject vastness of the chamber was overwhelming, and you felt the desperate urge to flee. He softly pushed you further to the center of the room, the hand on your back eerily cold as you let yourself be guided to the room. A weird feeling settled in the pit of your stomach, the feeling of fear slowly spreading through your chest.

“S-So, what did you want to show me?” You asked breathlessly, desperate to break the silence. The absence of an answer sent a pang of nausea to your stomach, flinching when he turned you to face him, both his hands gripping your shoulders firmly. From the corner of your eye you could see movement, whipping your head around to see a masked person walking closer to you, with his wand in hand. Your whole body tensed as you tried to break away from Tom’s grip.

“T-Tom, what is the meaning of this?” You turned to glare at him, your voice painfully shrill with nerves.

Again, he didn’t answer. His grip on your shoulders tightened, his hands moving to grasp your smaller ones tightly instead. The stranger moved closer, placing the tip of his wand onto your linked hands.

Without another word you tried ripping your hands free, twisting and turning but his grip only tightened around your wrists – sure to leave bruises on your skin.

“Let go, Tom. This isn’t funny.”

“It isn’t supposed to be, love. Now stand still.” He growled, roughly pulling you closer to him again.

“Now, be a good girl.”

[adelheidvonschicksal]

I know you’ve already kinda written smt similar, but maybe how LnD ML would cuddle?

Xavier can fall asleep in any position, loves almost any position as long as it doesn’t leave him with weird aches in the morning. However, he likes it when he can feel you the best, where your body can lay against his and when he wakes up, you’ll be there.

He’ll fall asleep with his head on your lap if you let him. He falls asleep in such unconventional places, but you make the perfect spot to catch up with a quick power nap. If you get visibly surprised and a little shy when he does so it’s a cute bonus, along with your fingers in his hair. If not, your shoulder makes a good replacement, especially on long station rides back home.

In bed, he likes to lay on top of you, letting him feel you completely, letting him smell the soft scent of your hair, letting him feel you breathing gently against his neck. It helps cut down on your little movements that wake him up (and it’s so easy to plea with you for a few minutes when you’re like this); and when you do get up, he can feel it and wake up with you when needed.

Zayne wants to protect you and make you feel loved. It’s difficult for him to say but his actions always prove it. So, he doesn’t mind giving you the more comfortable spot in any position. But you like to cuddle into him fully, pressed against his chest with his arms around you, not only because you love him but because the coolness from his evol helps you sleep comfortably through the night.

He’s worried about giving you too much. Sometimes, he doesn’t like to cuddle, preferring to make the smallest distance after you fall asleep; all so he can make sure your dreams are peaceful and to cup your cheek in his hand when you tense from a nightmare. It’s hard to shake off this need to keep watch over you, no matter the hour.

Even more-so, Zayne’s greatest desire is to be protected by you. His nightmares are much more frequent than yours. He likes waking up to you, squeezing onto his hand or spooning his back, your arms around him and drawn into his chest like a hug.

Zayne’s favorite position is holding you face-to-face, with his head pressed into your chest, your hand at the back of his nape, and your knees bent towards each other so your legs can meet and cross. There’s something safe and warm about being in your arms, like an eternal home. It chases away nightmares, but he isn’t ready to tell you how much he not only loves but needs it just yet.

…You know anyway.

Cuddling makes Rafayel shy when your relationship finally reaches that level. He’s happy you want to with him. Who could blame you, right?

He didn’t think the memories of doing so with you in a past life would affect him so heavily. The newness and familiarity of such a thing makes his ears red when it’s brought up. Still, why wouldn’t he indulge you?

It’s easy for him to be the big spoon, holding onto you tightly. It reminds him of cold nights in the desert from your travels long ago. It’s nostalgic, even the way his heart skips when you want to make him the little spoon.

His favorite position is when your head lays against his chest and your leg slides over his own. It’s where he can fasten an arm around your waist. It's where he can grasp onto the wrist of your playfully wandering hand and let your knuckles fall against his lips as if to read in braille the sweet words he whispers. And when he looks down, he can see you’re there; after so many centuries, you’re finally there again.

This time when you comment again on how fast his heart is beating and how cute you think it is, he doesn’t blush. It’s fine as long as listening to it helps you sleep better; he doesn’t mind the teasing this time. Rafayel will hold you tighter, as if he could pull you into that beating heart.

[stormhearty]

Pairings: Former Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Triggers: nightmares, mentions of blood, death, depression

Summary: It has been several years since your death and your tenth death anniversary is coming up once more. It had, and always will be, a difficult time for the Inner Circle — the regret and remorse evident in the River House. Even though it had been a decade, the evidence of the loss of your light still echoed heavily throughout Pyrthian. Here are how the Inner Circle copes and mourns during the death anniversary.

Note: From this request! Thank you for sending this request and for loving Pushed to the Edge! I do hope this is a bit of extra angst for the ending. It's mostly in Azriel and a bit of Rhysand's POV. We all know that Feyre mourns often the reader's death (since she goes to Day Court during the burial), so I thought it would be good just to mostly focus on Azriel's and a bit of Rhysand's. Also, the meanings of the flowers I placed in the description for Helion’s ceremony for the reader’s death:

Calla - beauty Cattail - peace White Heather - protection Purple Hyacinths - sorrow Ivy - affection White Poppies - Consolation, eternal sleep Tea and dark crimson roses - Mourning and I’ll always remember Sweetpea & Cyclamen - Goodbye, departure Amaryllis - Pride Pink Carnations - I’ll never forget you Iris - Your friendship means so much to me

I hope you all enjoy!

<Pushed to the Edge> Masterlist

His hands shook as they dripped in blood, warm and sticky. Hazel hues followed the trail of blood to a familiar body.

A cry of grief escaped his lips as he crawled over to your body, Truth-Teller piercing through your chest. Your body was unmoving from its prone position. Azriel gently cradled your body in his arms, tears blurring his vision as he looked at your features — one that was etched with so much pain that his heart ached at the sight of it.

“I’m so sorry, my love… I… I’m sorry that I abandoned you, I’m sorry for my infidelity towards you… I’m sorry that I killed you. I’m just… so sorry…” He was sorry for many things. There were too many things he could apologize for but none of them he could whisper to you to bring you back to him. He would have to pay for his transgressions for the rest of his immortal life — the Gods would never give him another chance with her; the Gods would never gift him with another mate as amazing as her.

He was about to press another kiss against your forehead only to watch shadows, his shadows, rise from the ground and slowly start to wrap around your body.

Azriel growled at them, “Leave us alone, leave her with me.. that's all I ask. Don't you fucking dare take her…!”

They didn't listen to him as tendrils of darkness fully wrapped your body before taking your body in whips of shadow. He tried to grab your body before it disappeared but failed.

“No…!!!”

Azriel woke up with a start, chest heaving as he painted, his hand stretched out as if to grab something — your body — from the shadows. His body wracked with a strong shiver, before he slumped against the headboard, a groan escaping his chest as he ran his hand over his face.

Another nightmare.

Every night, for the last decade, he would dream of you — in all different scenarios — ones he would have you in his arms, in bed, sweet and gentle moments; others ( and most of the time ) it was your death, feeling the echo of the mating bond resonate in his chest, watching your body die in his arms, or even watching himself stab you through your heart.

Ever since that fateful day, he has not gotten a decent night’s sleep. Dark circles stained underneath his hazel eyes and those hazel eyes, that used to shine for you, have dullened. Very little things had made him brighten up nowadays — probably the only thing was the birth of his nephew, Nyx. And Nyx has been the only thing that has kept him surviving all these years — along with living with the guilt and pain of your death.

Azriel let out a muffled sob, pressing a hand against his lips as he allowed the nightmare to pass wracks of shivers through his body. Hazel hues shifting from his sweat-stained bed to the large floor-to-ceiling windows, the glow of the full moon beaming down into his room.

He knew he wasn't going to get another wink of sleep tonight. Slipping out of bed, bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floors, he slipped on a simple black tee and sweatpants before stepping out of his room, and down the spiral staircase to the massive garden of the River House.

Azriel usually avoided the gardens, knowing that Elain would be there tending to them.

Their relationship was non-existent at this point. After your death, he cut off all contact and interactions with her, feeling disgusted with himself with even just the sight of her.

For the first couple of months, Elain tried to rebuild her relationship with the Inner Circle; however, after her lies were exposed, it had been a tough road. Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel had ignored her, to the point that Rhysand had ordered Elain to live in the old Townhouse to give comfort to the rest of the family. She would only come to the River House when Feyre would ask her to help tend the gardens. Otherwise, even the Archeron sisters had little contact with the middle sister.

Azriel’s feet led him to a familiar part of the gardens, the only place he would go to that would calm the echo of the empty mating bond in his chest.

After your burial, Feyre sent the image of the statue that Helion had created in your making to the Inner Circle. And in honor of you, Rhysand made one as well — a statue of you, but in Night Court fashion — the opposite of your image in Day Court. Wearing a dark blue dress, one covered with stars, with a moon circlet on your head.

Azriel basked in the statue’s liking to you, seeing the moon’s light radiate behind the statue like a halo made him smile — just a tiny bit. He shifted, sitting down on the bench that was in front of the statue. He leaned forward, pressing his elbows onto his thighs.

“…Hi my love…” he whispered as he looked up at the statue, “Another nightmare… brings me to you.”

A sigh escaped his lips as he felt tears prick the edge of his eyes, and he blinked to fight them away. He has fought so many tears every night, that Azriel felt like his whole body had dried up with how many tears he had shed since your death. He knows he shouldn’t complain, that his grief was evidence that he deserved all the things he had done to you. We all will continue to live with our betrayal. Live and regret, as Rhysand and Cassian told him that day.

Staring back up at the statue, his eyes glanced up at the twinkling stars above Valeris and muttered the singular wish, a wish he had wished for every year, “I hope that at Starfall I will see your light twinkling in the skies above, where you will streak across that beautiful night sky, finding your peace…”

After sitting in front of that statue for several hours, he decided to fly up to the House of Wind to the training balcony and train there. He forgone his black shirt and focused on his training, using every ounce of pain and grieving to train. He stayed up there, time passing quickly until he felt the claws of his brother scrape down his mental shields. Azriel sighed and looked up at the bright blue sky, not even noticing how the day had become midday, the hot sun beating down against his sweaty skin.

“…Azriel…” a light, airy voice called his name.

He let out an animalistic growl before he grabbed his shirt from the chair he had flung it onto, slipping it on his form before spreading his wings to fly. He heard the quickened steps, seeing Elain in his peripherals, the middle Archeron’s sister’s eyes begging at him to look at her.

“…Stay away from me, Elain… I swear to the Gods, if you try to look for me again, I’ll have my High Lord and High Lady dump you on the borders of the human realm to leave you to their discretion…”

Elain frowned at him, stepping into his view, “You cannot put all the blame on me. I have tried to win you and my family’s graces back… I don’t know what I can do to get on your good graces again…”

Azriel glared at the Made-Fae, “… No, I cannot put all the blame on you, I blame mostly myself on falling for you. I never realized why I had after being mated to (Y/N) for nearly fifty years… I could have had my forever with her… And yet, my blind infatuation with you cost us that. I don’t want to do anything with you, as my way to repent… my way to live and regret for the rest of my immortal life without her…”

With one last glare, and without letting the Made-Fae say anything else, Azriel shot off into the mid-day sky, waving through the cool air of Valeris and back to the River House. He landed on the balcony and entered, walking into the large dining room where his family was situated. He noticed the solemn air that coated the room as he sat down in his usual spot, next to Mor and across from Cassian. Hazel eyes wandered the table and noticed the absence of his High Lady.

Rhysand noticed the look from his Spymaster and answered the unasked question, “Feyre went to Day Court this morning…”

That was all it took for realization to hit Azriel — it was your tenth death anniversary this week. A shaky sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back against his chair — ten years without your light. No wonder he felt horrible that day, no wonder why his nightmares seemed to be worse than ever before.

It was as if his subconscious knew.

Azriel knew that after this breakfast, he would be able to crawl back into bed and cry there — he didn’t have to do anything for the rest of that week. He would be able to wallow in his depression in the comfort of his room.

Rhysand, after the first year of your death, had declared that week a period of silence — a mourning period that allowed Valeris and most of Night Court to grieve over your death. To repent and live. It was a week where he didn’t send anyone on missions, and stores throughout Valeris were closed over the week.

The Inner Circle ate in silence, the clattering of silverware was the only thing that echoed in the grand space. No one said a word, though Azriel could feel the shifting gazes towards his way. His fingers gripped the silverware in his hands, feeling the metal bend in his strength. A frown tugged on his features, suddenly losing his appetite. He placed the utensils down, the evidence of his slight anger on the bent pieces of metal, before standing up.

He could see Mor, in his peripheral shift slightly. Azriel huffed slightly, unaware of the looming energy he was radiating until he felt a tap against his mental shields. Hazel eyes looked over to his High Lord who had given him a raised brow.

“Reign in your anger, brother… We are just worried, as usual,” Rhysand had whispered into his head.

They know how hard it has been for him over the past decade. The Inner Circle had been present through every nightmare, every depressive episode, every self-loathing that Azriel had gone through — and is still going through to this day. All of them had tried to help him lessen the burden of regret; however, they knew that the Spymaster would never let anyone shoulder his pain — not when he was the cause of it.

Azriel felt his tears line his reddened eyes, “…I know, and I thank you for that, brother… May I just grieve on my own… May I be excused?”

Hazel and violet eyes stared at each other for a moment before Rhysand nodded his head, “I will tap on your shields again when Feyre is at the ceremony…”

His head nodded before the Spymaster stalked out of the dining room, feeling all eyes on him. He climbed up those spiral staircases again before entering his bedroom with a slam of his door. A shiver wracked through his body, eyes shutting close as he tried to prevent another breakdown. He shuffled his feet, towards the bed and lay there.

He will never be okay — no matter how many decades, how many centuries have passed, he will always feel that emptiness of the bond in his chest. He would never feel you tug on that golden string that connected the two of you, nor he won’t hear your laugh whenever Cassian or Mor would tell you a joke. He won’t feel your fingers trace along his scars or place ointment on his hands whenever they were cramped and strained after a mission.

There were days — which were the worse of them — when he would hallucinate you were still alive. In that very bedroom, he would feel, smell, and see your very figure walking through that room. He could see your light, he could hear your voice… but whenever he would reach out to try to hold you, touch you, you would be gone in a whisp of light.

Azriel hated those days. He would find himself in a heap on the ground, crying. His brothers or even Mor would find him in that state at the end of the day and would plead for him to go to bed and rest. And with their help, he would lay in that large bed, bigger than his wings would span out to, to just stare at the expanses of that ceiling. Rest would never come to him easily anymore, not without a tonic from Madja or if Rhysand would slip into his mind and coax him to sleep.

He would continue to live on as an empty shell — one that would continue life without feeling your light.

Rhysand let out a shaky breath after Azriel had left the dining room, a hand running through his dark locks as he slumped against his chair.

It had been difficult, the last decade was like walking on broken glass around Azriel. The High Lord knew that his brother was suffering, but Rhysand also knew it was the consequences of his actions — of all of their actions against (Y/N). All of them, especially himself and Azriel, would continue to suffer for it.

Rhysand was thankful to the Mother that Feyre had been there throughout the past decade to help shoulder the pain, to shoulder the regret. And he had tried to do the same with Azriel; however, the former Shadowsinger wouldn’t let anyone touch him, wouldn’t let anyone help him through his emotions. And he watched as Azriel broke himself apart because of his pain. The High Lord watched every single day, every year, for the past decade, his brother becoming a shell. Even when he had sent Azriel on missions, the Fae would come back, finishing his assignment quickly and swiftly, though Rhysand could see blood and bruises that contrasted against leather.

Every time, every single time, Azriel had returned from those missions, Rhysand had seen the increased amount of wounds against immortal skin. And when confronted, Azriel had whispered in truth, “It’s the only time I feel pain… To feel the echo of the pain against my skin… Any other time, I can’t feel anything…”

That had broken the High Lord.

He had banned, much to his dismay and Azriel’s anger, the former Spymaster to go on said missions. He had changed Azriel’s title, and became an emissary, along with Mor to the Continent. Azriel hated him — and probably still hated him to this day. But it was the only way to keep his brother from hurting himself, from being hurt, and to keep his family together — as much as possible.

The High Lord stood up from his chair, giving a small smile to his family as he left the dining room and walked his way to his office, allowing the silence to seep into his body. Rhysand busied himself with work, the only thing that would occupy his time and mind during the week of mourning. If he didn’t, he would, like his brother, be stuck in his mind — in his nightmares — of failing you as your High Lord.

He felt a tap of his mental shields, his mate scraping and sending down a wave of love towards his end.

"Are you okay?” Feyre asked him and Rhysand leaned against his chair and allowed his mate to send visions of her time at Day Court.

“I think so… Just, trying to keep myself occupied you know. How is it at Day? How is Helion?”

“He’s probably the same as you and Azriel.. all of us, mourning. But he’s keeping up appearances, he is ensuring this year’s ceremony will be grand. It is her tenth year being gone from this world…”

Rhysand wouldn’t hold it against Helion if this ceremony would be a grand, beautiful one to celebrate your life… to mourn for your death. You had, after all, deserved it. You had risked your life, your light, to protect all of Prythian… you had to be celebrated one way or another.

He watched the vision of the grand Day Court halls, lined with Calla, Cattail, White Heather, Purple Hyacinths, Ivy, White Poppies, and Tea and dark crimson roses — all flowers that echoed the sentiments of all of Prythian. It was a gorgeous sight, one that Rhysand wished to see in person. Tears pricked his eyes as he wiped them away with a finger, as he felt another wave of support from his mate.

"Be safe, darling Feyre… If you need me to take Nyx, do just call me… I can take him from your hands…"

A small laugh echoed, and in his head he could see the image of Nyx standing next to his mother, looking up at the golden statue of you.

"I think he deserves to know who she is, Rhys… He will be fine…"

With one last tug on that bond, Rhysand closed the connection between the two of them.

A book, he had thought, a book would be good to immortalize your story. With ink and paper, he started to write… determined to ensure your story would be known for centuries to come.

A tap against his shields started Azriel from his stupor. He straightened in the armchair he had occupied in his bedroom, eyes darting to the window to see what time of day it was. He hadn’t slept for the past few days, his nightmares plaguing him even while awake. He would mindlessly walk around that room, keeping himself occupied to keep the nightmares at bay. He didn’t sleep, he hadn’t showered — he wallowed in his sadness.

And so when that scrape of darkness against his mind startled him out of his sadness, he lowered it slightly to allow his High Lord to send him the vision that his High Lady was sending him.

Tears pricked at the edge of his eyes as he saw that magnificent statue of you at your grave.

Oh, how he wished and begged for the Mother to allow him, even for a brief moment, to bask in that golden statue — to feel Day Court’s sun mimic the warmth that you had always radiated.

He watched from that armchair the ceremony, hearing Helion speak so fondly of you. Azriel could hear the High Lord’s voice crack and break at every mention of your name. He could see the pain in his features as he talked about how it had been ten years since your death. He watched as Helion looked at that statue with so much fondness — a father, mourning the loss of his child.

The ceremony lasted a couple of hours, allowing people to walk up to the statue to place all types of flowers on top of that gravesite. He watched as the familiar hands of his High lady held up a bouquet — a mixture of Sweetpea, Amaryllis, Pink Carnations, Cyclamen, and Iris — to the statue before placing it down on the grave as well.

He heard her whisper words of fondness, love, and regret before stepping away and back to her spot in the crowd.

The last thing he heard, was from his nephew, who whispered to his mother, “I wish to have known her… She is well loved, even after she has died…”

That had choked not only Azriel up, but he could feel the pain in Feyre’s voice as she looked down at the boy who was merely ten years into his immortal life.

“…I wish you could have known her as well, Nyx… She was a light in everyone’s life. She had made your uncle’s life the best it had been when she was still with us. We wish we could have done so much better to her…”

Azriel watched as Feyre caressed the black locks of his nephew before the vision passed. And all Azriel could do was cry — cry his love, his sorrow, his regret.