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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, abduction, violence, intense gore, death, swords & firearms, angst, hurt/comfort, nakedness, etc.

A/N: Guys, whatever you do, don't imagine Price in a white tunic holding Mermaid you in one arm and weilding a sword in the other. I'm frothing at the mouth.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You sit on your black rocks once more, the darkening sky warning of an oncoming storm that you can feel seeping into your bones. In your loose grip, you fiddle with John’s necklace.

He’d given it to you only recently as a gift, seeing as you enjoyed the shininess of it so much, and you’d taken great pleasure in keeping it around your neck. Out of all of your treasures and trinkets, somehow these measly metal discs had become your favorite. The necklace is smooth under your caress, and you look down at it adoringly, eyes soft and lips curved with delicate affection.

The cove, as always, was quiet above the call of seagulls and the lapping of waves; the whispering ripples from your tail as it sways under the water. You had gotten content with this—the silence. Because you knew it would be filled by the low gravel of an accented voice soon enough; would be swept away by the chuckles you could wring from beard-hidden lips.

John was something to look forward to, and you loved the way he looked at you.

Water hits the top of your head.

Blinking out of your honeyed thoughts you look up to the crying sky as small slaps of droplets slide across your cheeks. Lashes flinch at every motion, and you glance back to the empty cove before lowering the necklace to your scaled lap.

Confusion slithers in like an eel to your heart as your eyes slide over the growing waves. The yawning mouth of the entrance sits abandoned of any small fishing ship.

For three, beautiful, sand-covered, months, John had never missed a day to come and see you. Rain or Sun.

A prick of a sharp fish's spine enters your brain. The rain comes down now in sheets. Lightning and thunder fight, and if you look close enough, the remnants of ancient lightning birds battle overhead with a flurry of black wings and their insatiable need for blood. Yet, still, your eyes stay frozen on the cove entrance as the water rises and rises.

With a thinning of your lips and the violent pushing from the torrent as it swallows your rocks, you clench your hands over John’s necklace and push off your perch with a shove of your palms.

Water encompasses you, scales dull, and fins limp as the general calmness from the encompassing water holds you in a constant sway. Your brows furrow.

Why wasn’t he here? You ask yourself, sinking among the seaweed and the schools of quick fish. Concern mingles with hurt. Do…do you think he’s alright?

Human ways were still confusing to you, even if John had been helping you understand them and giving little clam-shells of information. But they seemed…like violent folk. Angry and selfish, from what John had said about their wars and squabbles. The thought of your fisherman potentially being in danger on land was terrifying to you.

There wouldn’t be anything you could do if that happened.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of his necklace as you stare at the surface, back lightly hitting the bottom of the cove with a puff of sand. Crabs scatter as your tail twitches, your lungs sighing in their own special way.

John can take care of himself, you reason. He’s just a little late is all.

John’s never late. Your face creases, but you stuff the thought down, twisting on your side and bridging the piece of jewelry to your lip—kissing it once as sand digs into your skin. Holding the fisherman's property to your pounding heart, you close your eyes and wait as any lonely and loyal Merwoman would; tail held in close and the reverberations of a rabid downpour above you.

—

You wake up to the darkness of night. Blinking, you sigh to yourself and move a slow hand to rub at your eyes. After a moment of fatigued confusion as to why you weren’t in your cave, you realized why you had been out here in the first place.

John.

Arms pushing you up, your mind fights to wake itself, laced with algae and fatigue. How long have you been asleep? Has the storm stopped? Surely you hadn’t slept the entire day away. You pull the fisherman's necklace over your head as you stare at the sand below you. No fish were slipping past besides one that brushes your tail, which you found odd, but didn’t think much of it.

Shaking your head, you feel sluggish and put the necklace back on with a huff. You worry what John will think of you perhaps missing his late visit and smile slightly in humor.

The fish brushes your tail again.

Scales shimmering, you turn with an annoyed pull to your lips, fins scraping something hard and rough even as it’s saturated by the water of your cove. When you spot it, not only the rope but the shadow of the large hunting ship above you, your body drains of any life that had once lived in your lungs. It wasn’t nighttime.

Eyes widening at the loop that was parading around your tail, you don’t have time to move before it tightens with a force that leaves your mouth opening in a bubbled scream; ruthlessly jerking your body along the seafloor.

Desperately, your hands rip along the rocks and weeds of the bottom of the cove, getting torn and shredded in their soft nature as easily as paper. Your body smacks into every little object with a rattling to your bones that makes you sob. Red saturates the water as you’re manhandled in long and steady intervals back and up.

No amount of rampaging your tail does can break the rope, and with a last-ditch effort as the sandy floor gets farther and farther away, you twist around and tear at the woven cord with sharp nails. Adrenaline pumps, pupils tiny and panicked.

No! No, not like this! You can imagine the pain of it now—the hooks and the ripping of scales from your supple flesh. Even now the tiny ones under the dig of the vice are peeling away in long strings of red to disappear behind you as you’re thrust upward. They’re delicate, don’t these monsters understand? They’re beautiful and treasured and they’re destroying them!

You scream in pain at the pulling of your spine; a large creaking in your muscles.

But as you gain a small sense of feral hope when the rope begins to fray from your grip, the iron net squashes any belief of surviving.

It slams into you as John would cast his own for his prey—but this one is larger and full of cruel, curved, spikes. Is this what your parents endured? What the harpies had meant? The iron sinks far quicker than rope, and it traps you in a dome of hell before you can mutilate yourself out of the maw.

Oh, Gods, it was going to peel your skin away.

True fear pounded in your breast, and with a cry of John’s name from under the water, you watched with horror as the net descended onto you and your bloody wounds.

They drag you above waves and the first thing you do is thrash and wail so loud the seagulls shriek in surprise. There’s crimson staining the waters sloshing at you with combative ease, the violent storm from before now a light slapping at add to your fear. In the wake of open air, the curved spikes dig into your flesh as easily as a unicorn’s horn can penetrate a wyvern’s armor. Skin everywhere is assaulted and peeled to a tautness of bodily torture.

Oh, and your precious tail.

It hurt so badly, like nothing you had ever experienced before.

“John!” You scream as your body strikes the side of the large ship, voice cutting out and leaving a bawling yell behind. Your form was being pulled by steady hoists and barked orders.

All around you can hear laughing—joking. Loud exclamations of approval.

You’re sure they’ve dislocated your tail right at the joint, how could they not have? The ream of their strong arms and ruthless greed. Oh, your tail, your precious, beautiful tail.

Long streams of salty tears fly down your dripping face; arms pushing the spikes away from your neck and face with futile action. The net and rope were your earthly graves.

They slam you to the deck like a fish.

Jerking and slapping around, your arms hit the wood with a bird-paced heart. The iron rattles and keeps you down like a weight.

Brokenly gasping through loud cries, the sudden jeering faces from all around leave your fear all-consuming.

They were ugly—broken teeth and sun-destroyed skin. Eyes that bugged and scars that could be from either a sword or a Strix’s claws. More than likely it was from meager squabbles with crewmates. But you balk back nonetheless, terrified and bleeding profusely.

They were going to rip you to pieces.

Inside your chest, your lungs are rising and falling quickly, and the hands that glide along your form make you want to burn your skin off. They grip at you, yanking you around as your hair gets caught in the gaps between the iron. With nail and tooth your bite and claw, but how many were there? Ten? Twenty?

There’s uproar and more jokes as you fight back; body lifted and spikes torn out of skin as you arch your back and howl in agony. Their hands are not John’s. They don’t caress your smooth skin with reverence or holiness—this is cruelty. This is a sadistic pleasure.

“Isn’t it our lucky day, Lads?!” A high and grating voice bellows out, and finally free of the net, all you can do is cry and flip your tail uselessly along the polished wood as they throw you down. Your vision blacks and slowly comes back—hair matted and skin slick with more than water.

It hurts to breathe too much. Whimpering, your cheek presses itself into the deck as footsteps take someone closer.

“Holy God, would ya look at that down there, eh? A true maiden of the sea,” A thunderous belt of achievement from everyone leaves you flinching, eyes tight shut to try and focus on anything but the excruciating way your skin throbs and gushes blood. “Though we’d have gotten all of them by now!”

Haggard laughs and rotted smiles.

A hand snaps to wrench your face upward, and you yowl and grasp at your head as your delicate strands go tight.

“Now who’s the little beauty we have here?” Whoever this man was, he had no standing on John. On your Fisherman.

Loose skin and an age-rotted tunic, a belt at his waist holding a scabbard with a gold sword and twin pistols. He had only one eye—brown as a pile of mud—with a black eyepatch over the other.

Your fluttering lashes took in a cracked-lipped grin of approval; whether at your battered appearance or the nature of your species, you knew not. But you didn’t like the way he was glancing at your tail as if it was made of gold one bit.

“Lords above, did ya have to be so brash, Lads?” Spittle slaps your face and you fight again with the hands in your locks to get away. The man’s hold jerks your face back and forth until you stop with bile building in your throat. “Wrecked her silky skin, you did!”

Being thrown back, your skull slams the deck before you hurl your guts in a sputtering of air and crimson. Many laugh and kick at your already broken scales. You grit your teeth and refuse to cry out.

“Get ‘er tied up and in the Hold for storage. If the scales are good enough, we’ll peel ‘em tomorrow.”

“Peel?!” Your face whips into a twisted glare, and pain leads to fast anger; wrath, even. The men grow gradually silent at your outburst and the leader comes to a slow stop—his back to you. “How dare you?” You gasp out, hands pushing your body slightly backward until the agony makes you stop with a lip-bitten whine. “How dare you do this to me? What have I done to you and your men? You’re nothing but senseless cowards who shy at something that lives its life differently! Am I only a pile of coin for you?!”

Your blood runs over the deck and seeps into the grain. Staining it with your memory and presence like a ghost that’s not yet dead. Loose scales shimmer and drip red. They were damaged and dull—your flesh was mangled.

The leader turns back and smirks with blackened teeth. “More than a pile, Little Dearie. Far more. And if those hooks had been kinder, the King would have loved a beauty like you in his collection.” A look is slid down your body with a knowing chuckle.

He stalks off and you peel back your lips to say more, but a stained rag is shoved into your mouth instead, shutting up your rageful screeches and any hope of a peep of potent song despite not knowing these devils’ names.

By the time they chuck you in the Hold, body bouncing along the wood, and shut the hatch with a reverberation of wood, you had managed to rip someone’s ear clean off and break another’s arm; but there was only so much you could do. They had bound your hands behind you with a blow to your spine.

Curled up and longing for the sea, for John, you hold the only thing you have left.

Silver discs on a chain, the metal smooth and the only thing now shining. You feel it hit your breastbone and sob as the headache of blood loss begins to set in. Laughter echoes from above your dark prison.

—

John saw the blood in the water before he saw the scales being pushed back and forth on the beach. Caught in that gentle push and pull now that the storm had ceased beyond a light drizzle—bright and reflecting the misty sun; far more vibrant than a fish or a sea serpent. But the blood.

Christ, there was blood in the water.

Blue eyes stare blankly at the sea-foam at the shoreline, red and bubbling, John’s pupils small and the lashes held back even as a salty breeze hits them with a burn. At his sides, his hands slowly close into fists.

Jumping off the side of his ship, the man lands in thigh-deep water, gritting his teeth before he shoves his way to the sand and black rocks of land. He doesn’t know what drives his actions, or why he’s doing this, but with quick hands, he snatches up what scales he can find and keeps them in his palm; mind on fire.

Anyone could see the fury in John’s gaze—a growing hatred for what was just beyond sight. When he has all he’s able to carry, he wades back through the water and gets himself back atop his boat easily with one hand.

Walking quickly and soaked, he pushes aside a small cloth atop a barrel; seeing a gold box hidden under it. He opens it deftly, and while he puts the damaged and torn scales inside, John glances at the expensive and elegant twin cuff bracelets that sit in blue velvet.

When he had been away buying them for you, he should have already been here. Wasted time.

I left her here alone. Knowing what could happen if I did. A growl bounces under his beard, face going red with anger. The two of you had quickly become enraptured with each other—drunk off flesh and touch like non-sentient animals.

And something had taken place while he was away. You were gone, the fisherman knew. The water wasn’t as clear, the fish were terrified, and the blood alone proved this—the scales. This wasn’t an accident.

And it had something to do with that ship he’d seen on the horizon with his narrowed eyes not minutes prior. The Captain was slowly re-taking over the man.

“Fuck!” John curses, teeth bared as he spins and readies his sails. With violent pulls at the ropes, letting the mainsail shift down in a flurry of white sheets, he turns the vessel around in no time at all. It was as if Poseidon himself was pushing the ship forward to that small dot on the ocean line, far, far away.

Deadly purpose bled into his heart, and the early afternoon sun forced him onward with hellfire following at his heels. He re-wraps his gift in the meantime, only taking a single scale from inside and putting it in a small pouch on his belt before walking to another barrel and pausing. This one was older, more sun-bleached.

John deserted the service years ago, but not long enough to forget how the world of men can be. With a grunt on his thinned lips, the brunette rips the top off and grasps inside.

With an experienced hand out came a sheathed Cutlass, the leather of the handle worn and indented to his very grip. It found a place on his belt, and John wasted no time in making the Flintlock pistol follow.

A fisherman he may be, but in his blood John would always be a killer. He knew how to fight dirty and fight well—carve skin and not flinch at the sparks of gunpowder. There was no hesitation as to what he would do to get you back.

In his chest, there was a weight of rage and concern as he glared at the far-off Hunter’s ship.

“What the hell have you done to her?” He growls, beard back and eyes narrowed. His hands clenched and unclenched with loathing.

John’s thoughts go to the horror stories he’d heard about Merfolk and them getting caught in the open ocean, when he’d found you he had been surprised. He felt his heart beat faster when you were around, his blood would spike with love and affection.

It was strange, unheard of, but he can’t stop it now that it’s happened.

No one touched you with their cruel hands and lived.

John didn’t like it, but he hung far enough away from the Hunter’s ship so that the cover of night hid him. Dark stars hung at his head, tunic blowing in the chilled breeze when the waves took him close enough—all was silent. Asleep.

Lantern light slid along the waves, and with deft fingers, John anchored his ship with measured efficiency a small distance away. Looking over the side, the fisherman grunts under his breath and sets his shoulders. Without a single glance in hesitation, he slips silently off the deck into the water.

Immediately, John kicks his legs and resurfaces with a puff from his nostrils, whipping his head to the side to dispel water. Making no sound, the man swims the distance between vessels, hearing the creak of the still and bulky form of the Hunter’s ship ten times his own sitting above him.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” he grumbles to himself and thinks of your condition intensely. His heart hammers even in the clutches of the frigid waters. But beyond the insult, no other words needed to be spoken—the prior Captain was a man of action.

Violent Action.

John wades to the side of the wooden structure, the waves threatening to smash him tight into the hull and skin him against the barnacles, but he braces himself and grabs ahold of the knife at his belt, next to his cutlass. In his stupor to get to you quickly, he’d forgotten that his Flintlock would be completely useless now that it had been submerged in water.

Grunting and trying to remain as quiet as possible, the man sets his blade into the side of the ship into the thin slits available. In his free hand, he takes up his cutlass and does the same. In a feat of impressive upper-body strength that leaves his muscles bunching and tensing—veins visible from the side of his neck—John huffs breaths as he climbs the ship one panel at a time.

He groans and sends the blades back in at opposite intervals, the firm thunk-plunk, thunk-plunk, bouncing off the dark air as the moon shines bright. But no one awakens.

The Fisherman pulls himself up the side of the ship and swiftly ducts behind a pile of large crates on deck to gather himself, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” he mutters, “hold on just a little longer.” Duel wielding both weapons, narrowed eyes look across the open area—the stain of blood all along the wood. Glimmering in the low light catches John’s fiery gaze.

Scales. Your scales. Littering the deck and scattered all over.

If possible, the man becomes even more enraged, knuckles going white over his blades. The man stationed on deck was asleep across the way; leaning back and snoring. John locks eyes on him and hides back a vicious smirk. Quickly sneaking over and staying near the edge of the lantern’s lights, the ragged-looking man awakens to a blade at the base of his throat and a voice in his ear.

“The woman,” John speaks slowly and deeply, accent rolling out. The watchman tenses in his grip, but John grits his teeth and grits out, “Where the fuck is she?”

“W-woman?” Usually, the brunette could paint himself a patient man, like a flag fluttering in a breeze waiting for the next bout of heavy winds without care or concern. But this was different.

By God, if these pathetic fortune-seekers had hurt you even in the slightest bit…

John presses the blade harder to the man’s throat, thighs shifting in agitation, glaring at the far-off water beyond this stranger’s shoulder.

“The woman.” Blood falls down the blade edge, crimson. A tiny whimper. “The one that you stole away like an fucking animal.”

“The fish?” The tone was incredulous but with a snarl the voice continues, whispering pitifully out in fear over the night’s silence. “She’s in the Hold! I swear it, Sir, on God’s green earth I do—”

John slits the man’s throat and takes his leave before the body drops, blood spraying into the air with a garbled cry.

—

You don’t sleep so much as you fall unconscious from the lack of blood. Inside your head, your brain is fuzzy and light—everything swirling like a jewel’s many faces reflected onto a wall. The rocking of the Hunter’s ship, while something you should be used and accustomed to, made you sick at times until only the watery bile that fell from your lips hit the wood.

At some point, you’d given into the call of nothingness at the lack of seawater and the violent shivering of your shoulders. Your tail had gone completely numb.

Everyone knew that Merfolk needed the sea to survive—you couldn’t live without feeling its loose arms around you for long periods, pulling you in and filling your airways.

This was torture.

But whoever was ripping up cloth at your limp side was muttering you back into the darkness of the Hold.

“I’m right ‘ere, c’mon, Love. Open your bloody eyes.” Hands pressed to your face, tilting it and hissing before a thumb slid along the swollen skin of a cut. “I’ll rip them to pieces…mark my word. They’ll not live through this.”

It sounded like…

Gripping at your binds and gag, both items slipped away right before the larger cuts on your body were suddenly packed with strips of rough material. Occasional whispers of words and curses wafted out.

“...J-John?” Your voice is rough, shattered, but at the same time you manage to force open an eye.

Tight blue eyes meet yours immediately, and his voice softens to a painful degree as he addresses you. “That’s it, atta girl. Just keep focusing on my voice, then, yeah? Come back to me, Sweetheart.”

Tears well your ducts, lips quivering.

John was curled over you and had ripped up the bottom of his tunic to make strips of bandages to try and stop the bleeding. He came for you, gruff voice and large frame, all.

“How are you—” Your voice breaks into body-shaking coughs, but that doesn't deter the man. He carefully puts a hand forward and tilts you into his arms; head resting on his chest. Your ears twitch to the sound of his heartbeat, loud and fast. You cling to it like a lifeline as those calluses graze your skin once more.

How was he here?

“What have they fucking done?” John’s voice is dark and volatile, his hand stroking your matted hair. “What did they do?”

He’s not so much asking you as he’s asking himself. You breathe in a wheeze, not noticing the crimson staining John’s clothes—none of it his or yours in the slightest. The other men on the ship weren’t the Fisherman’s priority, only you; always you. But whoever had been in his path had met the unfortunate end of being on the opposite side of his blade.

When he’d found you like this….it was like his entire chest had fallen still. His eyes wide with horror and fear.

John had never felt something that visceral before, except when you hadn’t been in your cove.

“Oh, my Beauty.” Chapped lips press to your forehead, breathing you in as arms curl around you. “Let me bring you home.”

You shake and cry silently into his neck, weak hands coming to grasp at his neck.

“They’re going to take my tail.”

“No,” John’s answer is immediate and firm, pulling you closer until you might slip into his skin. “No, they’re not doing a damn thing to you. I promise, Love, not a single person will ever touch you again, you hear?”

You burrow into his neck, this fisherman’s flesh soft under your force. Hands keep you to him, and with another kiss on your cheek, they tighten and gently move you into the clutch of his arm.

John looks down at you with great distress, eyes flickering over every sign of abuse and hurt. The men whose throats he’d slit in their sleep deserved to be awake and see the blade descending for their neck, he thought.

“I’m going to lift you, Sweetheart, eh?” He grunts to push aside the hatred in his tone, not wanting to scare you. He gazes around the Hold and at the low ceiling—the insistent rocking from the waves just outside.

You suck down greedy breaths and nod slightly, shaking in his arms. John’s eyes crease in sorrow but has no option but to continue; the both of you can’t be here when the remaining men wake or discover the bodies.

Your Fisherman frowns but does what he’s able to both quickly and effectively lift you, your tail hanging limp and dripping blood from the fins. When you tense and whine, John shushes you quietly.

“Hush, now, it’s alright. It’ll all be over soon, I’ve got you. I’m taking you back home if it’s the last thing I damn-well do.” Your teeth grit with held-back pain, every movement was agony and to think made it worse.

Home? Home wasn’t safe anymore. Like taking a knife to the heart, the thought makes the torment all the worse.

John holds you in one arm, head under his ear and rubbing against his beard as his muscles strain to keep you right to him with his torn tunic and blood-freckled skin. In his free hand, he wields his Cutlass and exits the Hold slowly, eyes surveying the scene.

The scores of bodies were only a fraction of the men of this ship—only one side of the crew’s quarters that ascended up to the deck. John knew the anatomy of a ship well, certainly one like this.

His only question was why such an unsavory bunch was living on a King issued hunting vessel in perfect condition. Was the bastard hiring pirates for his extermination game?

“If I ever get my hands on him…” John shuts himself up as someone groans in their sleep from the far wall.

He glares in the general direction and puts his body between yours and the straight direction that he walks—sword parallel to the ground and knife at his belt as a backup. Ready and wound for a fight.

“You..you came for me?” You ask softly as John carries on, your blood leaving a crimson trail behind the two of you; your mind is loose to all except the way your Fisherman’s thumbs run circles in your rent scales, fingers gripping under your tail joint which aches and hurts. His bicep is curled at the small of your back.

John carries you like you weigh nothing.

“‘Course,” the brunette's eyes slide to yours, true honesty and firmness behind his words. You flutter your lashes at the fatigue in your body and his feet speed up, speaking into your scalp and nuzzling his beard into you. “No one messes with my girl.”

“I’m not a…girl, John,” you remind, softly.

The smirk on your head gives you strength, fear steadily draining like contaminated liquid.

“No,” he whispers, “no, not quite. You’re something far more lovely, aren’t you?”

Your heart swells, tears dripping down your cheeks once more before lips slide them away with brushes of a kiss. He carries you up the stairs quickly, sword at the ready.

Lantern light makes you squint, hands tightening around John’s neck.

He hums to you, a small melody that you can latch onto to help focus—it keeps your mind working as everything else falls away. John’s warm flesh and his lungs, the sound of his pulse.

He came for you. No man would do that besides him—no specimen of any species. No one except John.

Your Fisherman.

You’re halfway to freedom, feeling the sea air on your flesh and longing for the depths of untouchable waves. You peek from John’s neck and blink delicately, what little scales still intact shimmering, and fins aching for water.

“John,” he begins to pick up his pace, but still glances in attentive question. “I need to be in the water. I can’t go long without it.” You already felt a bit stronger by just being by the open sea. The man nods and you smile deeply, face twisted. You kiss his cheek deeply. “You have my thanks, Fisherman.”

His tight expression gradually loosens with care and love. “Doubted me, then?”

“Perhaps only a little,” he kisses your lips, cheeky smiles peeling his beard.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eh?” The man’s face is lit by lanterns, stars like a crown above his head that illuminate the small scars and the sheen of sweat like a portrait of a good man.

Perhaps humans were truly more magical than you had been taught to believe, for no mortal man would do this for anybody.

In the midst of him carrying you over to the edge of the ship, he’s only three feet from the drop when the familiar sound of a Flintlock hammer being clicked back hits his ears. You feel John lock up, and your eyebrows crease in confusion; not common to the model of metal and wood.

Looking over his shoulder, you strangle down a raspy gasp.

“John—”

“I know, Love.” He whispers, turning slowly with his sword at his hip. The stranger with the eyepatch has his weapon leveled with the brunette’s chest. “Easy, let me handle it. Keep focusing on me.”

“A thief in the night!” The leader calls, and alarm from below deck start to rise in question at the noise. John grits his teeth and his stance widens. “Thought to make off with my prize, did ya? I’ve not seen you before on this ship.”

“Hell,” John grits out, loudly now that he’s caught. You burrow deeper into him and he shields you, voice hot with rage. “Save me the fuckin’ monologue. She isn’t yours—to own or bloody take.”

As he speaks he points his cutlass in the leader’s general direction, holding it aloft with a strong and pale arm. The leader smirks, and soon the pound of rushing feet enter the deck—men holding weapons and clubs. You make a noise of tension and John tries to shift you farther into his grip even more.

Your tail hangs and brushes the deck, gaining some feeling back to it gradually.

The leader laughs. “What that creature is, Mate, is enough gold for a whole moon’s time in rum and pleasure.” His single eye falls on you as the crew gets closer, crowding in and yelling.

John shuffles back and snarls like a boar, pointing his sword’s tip from one chest to another.

“Keep your bastard eye off of ‘er, you prick. Find your score elsewhere. She’s coming with me.” So sure he sounds that you yourself believe it. Your chest swims with pride.

The crew closes in, but jumping at this stage was dangerous. The ones with firearms could aim in the water before you both could get away and John didn’t know if you could swim still. Your fins were torn and tail flinching with damaged nerves.

Eyepatch barks a vile laugh, “...I think he loves the beast!” John’s body winds even farther and your eyes slip to the side of his red face. He grunts stiffly, hair damp. Everyone follows in their amusement, mocking the two of you. “I knew that necklace around her neck meant something.” Your body stills and you glance down at John’s gifted silver. Blue eyes flash to the same, but as if suddenly realizing the nakedness of your top surrounded by such brutes, your Fisherman pushes on the back of your spine to shove your chest into his own with a panicked look. You grunt in surprise, but let him. “No greedy Mermaid would bother with a trinket like that! A piece of rubbish metal. It means something to her—and I’ll bet that something is you, Thief.”

Me, greedy? Your eyes narrowed into slits. If you knew his name, you’d sing his death song in an instant. Your Fisherman’s face goes stiff, knowing the predicament the two of you were in. There was no way he was giving you up.

But himself…

Tiny lids narrow on the arrogant leader.

“Do you trust me?” John whispers to you, suddenly, as all sides were surrounded and the water just as dangerous as the deck.

Face creasing, you say, confused and worried, “Of course.”

“...Then forgive me.”

He throws you from the side of the deck, and whirs to run his blade through the nearest man.

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jjungkooksthighs · 8 months ago

Text

Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (16)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: (fluff, angst, and smut) abo/werewolf, fantasy

Rating: 18+/nsfw

Word Count: 14.3k (We really said it's been almost a year so we're going to write thirty plus pages)

Summary:

At the bathhouse, you discover your alpha is much worse is off than you originally anticipated. You tend to him, but some scars never fade.

Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER INJURY, LOTS OF BLOOD MENTIONS, GORE, MENTIONS OF BROKEN BONES, MENTIONS OF LOSS OF BODY PARTS, dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, teasing, marking, manhandling

Author's Note:

It's been awhile since I updated. Honestly, the grown-up life is rough. That's all I really have to say to answer for the extended hiatus with this story and my other one. Mental health has been going up and down periodically and it really was so hard to write through it all. I spent about two weeks going back and forth with the chapter. I wondered if it would ever make it to a post several times because things kept getting deleted. I finally decided to just sit down and write and not stop. This is the final result. Thirty-one pages. I hope you enjoy. I'm sorry that this isn't the long-awaited mating chapter that I know you guys all really want to see, but it is important to me that the characters are nuanced and that their connection is not one built purely on the basis of desire. Sure, that is part of it, but there's much more to it. So much more depth and meaning when we build relationships with people. Especially romantic ones. Enjoy!

To read more, click here for the masterlist.

“O-over there, alpha,” you quietly suggest, “It would be easier for me to-“ you flounder in flusterment when the strong arm circled around your front curls possessively around you- “I-It would be easier for m-me to tend to you if you sat down on the bench.”

The male makes a deep, rumbling sound as he draws in another heavy breath of your intoxicating pheromones, “As you wish. But it will cost you for being so irresistible.”

The sound goes straight to your cunt, and you have to bite into your cheek to keep from making the sound of need that your wolf begs you to release. You shift where you stand, hoping that the quaint press of your thighs together will somehow trap the slick from where it is secreted from your sex.

“What…what is the price I must pay for my transgression?” You ask, hoping that balms, ointments, and medicinal solutions splayed on the tray you hold in your hands don’t fall from how much your heart pounds in your chest.

It’s hard enough as it is not to look down, for he is completely, utterly, and mouth-wateringly naked.

“Two things,” his uninjured arm tightens even more around your front, his hand bunching itself in your skirt as he groans at the fresh scent of desire that drifts from you. “The first is you will not leave my sight. I want you as near to me as you can be.” He noses at the side of your throat, your lashes fluttering in the warm sensation of his breath as he utters, “It was a second hell to leave you after that duel and be without you, but I wanted to respect the tradition–and your decision– had you chosen to prepare yourself for me.”

His words have affection swirling in your chest.

This male really was something special. Even after battling three other wolves and being severely injured on your behalf, he still put your needs before his own.

And really, how could you deny him his request when that was all that you wanted, deep down? To just be by his side. Forever his loyal, loving, doting mate.

“You needn’t ask me that, alpha, for it was already in my mind.” You faintly confess.

He likes that answer.

You know based on the way he presses his mouth to the oily gland along your throat. It is gentle and soft, and it is so different from what you’d seen on the glen not too long ago during his duel.

So much violence and so much pain he was capable of bringing, but with you, he would never harm a hair on your head. So great was his love for you that he would protect you from that even if it meant taking those scars onto his body.

He’d given his oath to you that he would do exactly that, and gods, he had kept to it.

It is why you let him maneuver you forward away from the watery basin you’d found him in and toward the long ebony wood bench that almost stretches from one end of the chamber to the other. A tall pillar of white wax holds a flickering wick that is set in brass lanterns hanging from the ceiling on each side of the bench, and in front of its legs are caged candles guarded by glass that have high, bright flames.

“How agreeable you are being. If you can so easily agree to that, then the second of my terms is this.” He turns you both before the front of your knee can make contact with the wood, the arm he has encircled around your waist spinning you so that you face him.

His hand never leaves your side, his fingers remaining entrenched in the sea of your skirts. Somehow, none of the vials fall from the tray you clutch onto.

Golden irises that burn with more intensity than the fire beside him have you utterly struck by their luminousness as he demands, “You will promise me that if this,” he jerks his chin toward his mangled form, “is too much for you, you will tell me. I said before that I only wanted you to tend to me, and I meant it. But if you are uncomfortable, you must say so.”

Again, he was putting you first. Despite the fact that he was hurting, he was still choosing your comfort over his own.

Just how much more could your heart swell for this male?

You shake your head, finding your voice full of doubtlessness and confidence that surge into you as you say, “I want to do this, alpha. I spent years studying the art of medicine and herbal treatments so that I could one day use it to help others.” You rise on your tiptoes to osculate your lips against his. “I would be lying if I told you I hadn’t secretly wanted to learn it mostly for situations like this.”

He smirks against you, his mouth lingering near yours as he teasingly prods, “Situations like this? Are you saying that you thought about getting me shirtless and all alone so you could touch me under the guise of that excuse?”

Heat races to your cheeks and that confidence you’d had before vanishes with it. Soon, you’re blushing as you blurt, “No! I mean, yes! I mean….alpha!”

Years ago, you had never entertained the idea that this male before you would ever become yours. That you would ever be able to have a moment like this with him. He had been a constant thought in your mind from the moment you’d first laid eyes on him when you’d been but children, and as you both grew older, his presence in your mind and thoughts had only grown stronger.

But apart from your dreams and musings, he’d been so far for you to reach with all the duties and responsibilities that had been thrust on you from such a young age. So many other omegas had vied for his attentions, and with all of them clamoring for one look in their direction whenever he had returned to the compound from his exploits deep in the forest or in the forge where he had been stationed, you had never been able to get close enough with a constant herd of wolves –female and male alike– around him.

His rank had drawn many to him, each of them hoping that the next in line to be the ruler of the pack would select them to be part of his inner circle. Any selected by him would instantly rise in rank upon his ascendance to becoming Pack Alpha, and so naturally he had had to be guarded in his interactions and limited in his contact with others beyond his work in the forge as the pack’s only blacksmith beside his father.

Rumors had spread fast in his unannounced absences that he would take with his father for increasing increments of time the older he became, because when he returned to work at the forge, there were bags under his eyes that had become more mature, had become hardened with the calluses on his hands as he worked them day after day.

Sometimes he would return with a new wound on his body that he tried to hide under the various furs he draped over his body. You knew because of the chitter of the omegas that would inevitably gossip about in front of the fire in the omegean den on your way back to your chambers after a long night in the archives that you went to after you left the schoolhouse for the day.

Those were the nights that you found your paws bearing down on the grassy ground as you ran through the hills deep in the woodland in your journey toward your favorite creek that was tucked away behind a wall of vines, deep into the forest, that no one but you knew about.

Or so you had thought.

He’d been there, too. From a distance, of course. From the moment you stepped out of your chambers, he’d been able to smell you. The wind had a cunning way of carrying that to him no matter where he was, and he was helpless to the wolf in him he had been learning to control that bayed and bayed until he listened and tracked that captivating scent that made everything else in the world fade away.

You wonder, as he urges you between his legs that he opens for you in invitation to stand between, just how much he had to sacrifice to be sitting before you now.

Your alpha observes your expressions change from embarrassment to concentrated concern, and he tugs on the invisible cord tying you both together that is the bond you now share. You let him in without hesitation, your thoughts becoming known to him as he draws on the connection.

He can hear your thoughts, can feel your emotions, can see your memories if he taps into it. In the developing stage of the bond, you wish you knew how to show him all of your dreams of him, all of your memories of him, and all your thoughts that you’ve ever had of him.

There’s something that you want him to see, but gods, your voice just won’t work the way you want it to under the emotion that cracks and breaks it. So, you let him see a memory you’d kept buried deep in the trenches of your mind for many, many moons. One that no one but he would ever carry.

It had been a rainy, stormy night. So heavy was the rain that it pelted your skin even through the thick coat of your white fur as you’d torn through the earth with paws too eager to rush you away from the center of your stresses and away to the woodland where it all melted away with the streaks of color that passed by you in your inhuman speed as you ran, ran, and then ran some more.

Thunder had rumbled through the sky on this particular night so loud that even your eardrums rang after the deafening strikes of sound that cut through the sky as lightning flashed before your eyes from under the canopy of trees.

The forest was vast, but that night, it had seemed all too small for you.

You hadn’t stopped until your lungs screamed for air, your haunches burning from how hard you’d pushed them, the bolt of white light in the sky similar to the color of the flame that had burned in the stone fireplace set in the middle of the wall on one end of your chambers while you’d carefully, attentively read the letter left to you on your windowsill.

Such a beautiful poem about a boy who had come to love the girl he admired from afar. And so meticulous had each letter been etched onto the parchment. You knew whoever had written it had taken much time to compose it with each swirl and curve of each syllable.

You had left it on your bed while you had gone to find another book to hide yet another letter from your secret admirer with no name, but had not noticed the shadow that had swept under your door to reveal your father, who had taken one look at the letter on your duvet before anger had turned him cruel at the prospect of his perfect little girl being corrupted by some hormonal male.

He'd cast the parchment into the fire despite your ardent pleas not to, the tears falling quickly when he’d let that fury burn you with pokers of curses and chastisements for your lack of purity.

He had always been adamant that you were to study the ways of the pack and devote yourself to teach its art to the youth. Those letters, to him, were nothing but distractions. Distractions that made you no better than the common whore in the fantasies they would ineluctably fill your head with.

Or so he had said.

That was why you had found yourself bounding through the forest that night with tears in your eyes not even the rain could wash away. But that night, fate had had other ideas.

You’d intended to go to the cave by the creek. You had never made it inside.

You’d stopped behind one of the oak trees on the edge of the forest floor before the soil turned to rock by the stream, the wide-mouthed cave beyond occupied by two figures.

Just by the smell of them, you knew they were of the same blood. One was older with their more muted, aged smell and one was younger.

You knew the scent of the younger one. That scent of blooming gardenia, pear and black vanilla. The same one that lingered on the letters left to you on your windowsill.

Each time the lightning pierced the black sky, their figures flashed. And each time, the two were locked in combat. Each held only a small iron dagger, their fighting leathers more than enough protection for them both lest either were struck by the other.

Unable to look away, you found yourself moving closer until you hid safely behind a thick, bountiful bush and could discern voices. Their voices. Only bits and pieces could be made out through the rainstorm, but it was enough.

“…too slow, son….can’t keep putting your arm up like that…too open and easy for me to…”

The next split of white light through the black sky illuminated them both, and the slightly shorter male with hair the color of ebony had a knife at his throat. It was held there by his father, who shook his head in disapproval as he gripped the younger male’s forearm in a vice-like hold.

“…cannot protect her if you cannot protect yourself. You are not ready.” The older male had decided. “Until you are, you will not see her. Even from afar.”

Another lightning bolt ruptures the clouds covering the moon, and a younger Jungkook had let his dogma guide his blade as he had voiced:

“Eventually I will be. And when I am, she’ll be mine. Not even her father will stand in my way.”

The next time the streak of lightning found its way through the atmosphere, the older male had been twisted around, his arm held behind his back while the younger alpha had pressed his blade to his father’s throat.

A self-satisfied grin with pointed canines protruding from under his upper lip had made your beating muscle in your chest stutter as he had released his father from the binding hold he’d had on him.

You could have sworn he looked right at you from behind the mess of leaves and brambles.

When the white fulmination cleaved through the clouds once more, your heart stopped when his father had quickly captured his son’s wrist to the hand that held the dagger by his neck only to bend forward and rotate forward, effectively flipping Jungkook onto his back. Jungkook, who had been unprepared for such a technique, had been brought to the craggy ground with a grunt, his other hand shooting out to grab for something, anything, to find purchase in as his knife fell from his fingers. Jungkook was fast, but his father had simply been faster.

The older male had easily used the momentum of move to step around and over Jungkook’s now prone form. Jungkook, who had been propped up on one elbow with a sharp looking rock held in his now bleeding hand from the blade of the dagger that had cut into his palm in the fall. It laid too far for him to reach, the essence of his defeat staining it.

White electricity strikes yet again, the deep rumble of thunder loud under the pounding of blood in your ears.

“Distracted. She occupies your mind even now. That…is dangerous, son.” The older male with gray streaking the black hairs stuck over his eyes had said. “Too dangerous for you to be allowed near her until….oncoming rut is over...”

That was the last thing you heard before there had been a flare of heat on your right, the rift of lightning arcing along the old oak’s stump beside you as the clouds clashed and loud sound pierced the earth.

You hadn’t even flinched. That didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the alpha on the ground who’s scent clung to the parchments that made you blush, smile, and kick your feet while you coveted them close to your chest as you wished to the gods that whatever force was keeping him from your side would release him.

The fascination that had turned every letter of his had tilled the very hard edge with which he spoke as he growled, “No. I cannot go through that again. You cannot make me.”

“Won’t I?” His father flipped the dagger in hand. “You’re on the ground right now because you cannot keep your mind off her. What is to stop you from venturing into her chambers tonight when you inevitably begin thinking of how good she smells? Of how pretty she looks when-“

Jungkook had pushed up on his hand, the other holding the rock slicing the air close to his father’s thigh. Each side of the older male’s mouth pulled downward, the metal of his dagger gleaming as sparks had flown upon impact of the pointed edge of the rock hitting the blade with such force.

“Don’t.” Jungkook’s jaw tensed. “Do not dare to say the things I mutter in my sleep when you have me chained to the fucking trees.”

His father had shrugged. “Then become stronger for her. Until you can, you’ll stay here, deep in the woods. Far away from her.”

The cords in the younger alpha’s neck went rigid as he scowled. “I will find my way to her. One way or another.”

With that, he’d pulled his knees toward his chest before punting his father in the chest with his feet. Such energy he’d used to push himself back from the older male as he’d used the force of the action to drive his feet over his head in a backward roll, his bleeding hand reaching around the hilt of the curved dagger on the ground. When he’d gotten to his feet once more, he had bared his teeth with determination set into those expressive features of his.

His father had nodded in approval, “That’s the spirit, son. Never accept defeat. That’s how you win.”

The clash of metal had soon become drowned out by the outpour of rain, but not even the water could snuff out the iotas of light that came at each powerful strike of their blades against each other.

Hours must have passed, but you swore it felt like it had only been minutes as your eyes followed the younger male everywhere he went, his wild dark locks sticking to his forehead and sides of his face as he moved with purpose and confidence.

There was an art to his movements as he continuously, mercilessly brought down his blade on his father’s. Time and time again.

Whether he held a quill or a blade in his hand, he was filled with purpose. Purpose that was entirely carved by you.

It had taken his father being backed into the stream for you to realize that you were too close. And that the air had become too thick to push air through your lungs as the organs in your chest contracted too deeply?

Why had it suddenly become so difficult to breathe?

Jungkook wades into the stream up to his calves, not willing to let up on his father despite the water urging him with its flow against him.

The closer he got, the more labored your breaths became.

You needed to shift. You needed to shed your heavy furs that had been drenched by the rain.

But to do that, you had to leave him.

So, you did. Quietly, you slipped into the night, careful not to make any sound lest you drew any attention to yourself. You hadn’t known you’d been holding your breath until you found your way back to your chambers, your footfalls light as your furs had begun to fall away from you. After you’d collected the rainwater you’d left in a barrel outside your window in several smaller bowls and emptied them into the cauldron hung over the metal hook above your fireplace to heat what would be your bathwater, your hands had sought the comfort of the thickest bound book that you kept on your bookshelf.

You had been too hasty to get to the dog-eared page you’d marked in the book, accidentally tearing the page before finding what you’d come to your book for. Inside it was tucked your favorite letter left to you on your windowsill. One that you found yourself rereading night after night.

It read:

The moon pales in comparison to the light that twinkles in your eyes,

The stars tremble in awe of your brilliance,

The night must blanket them and still, you offer more warmth,

Warmth that not even the sun can make as pleasant,

Warmth that the clouds could not even shade,

Warmth that no rain could fall with,

The flowers around us bloom, but none blossom with the beauty and grace of you,

The seedlings take root, but gods, none do so like the one you’ve planted in me,

The water they draw into themselves is life-giving, but yours is so much nourishing,

Still I sit here, hoping that you will allow me to bask in your radiance,

Still I sit here, promising that I will grow stronger in body, soul, and mind to be at your side,

Still I sit here, thinking of you when I cannot see, hear, or touch you as I do in my dreams.

Wait for me, my beautiful flower who only becomes more alluring under each moon.

Wait for me, and I will be your loving attendant,

Wait for me, and I will be yours.

You are forbidden to me now, but soon, you will not be. Soon, I will make you mine.

You will never have to look longingly at the wolves who hold and dote on each other while your only partner is the books you keep in your library. I will be everything you want me to be if that is what pleases you.

You will always have a shoulder to lean on, an ear that will listen, a hand that will caress you.

You will always have me.

You will never have to spend your nights crying into your pillow alone because of your father. I will be there to hold you close. I will be the fists that pummel him to the ground for daring to hurt you. Or anyone else that meddles your happiness.

All I can do for you now is watch over you from afar. Guard and protect you from the males I know you do not desire. From the females that have become venomous in jealousy of your unmatched intelligence, spirit, and beauty. From the threats that loom deep in the forest.

I hope you can forgive me for keeping my name and a face a secret from you. I suspect by now you have figured out who I am. And if you have, you will then understand why I commune with you this way.

The elders, nor your father, would allow it since you have not yet presented. Besides…it looks like I have some developments myself that I need to make. You have so consumed my mind and body that I can no longer make sense of certain things.

You are everywhere and yet, you elude me. It is the most tragic of ironies.

Until we meet again, my fair flower. I will see you long before you see me, but you can always find me in our dreams.

Always.

-Your Alpha

The air here had been clammy, too, so when you had let your thumb brush at the corner, the oils from it smudged the ink. Panic stole your breath and you not wanting to blemish the beautiful lettering, you’d slipped the parchment under your pillow and gone to the window to open it in hopes of letting some crisp, fresh air in.

Even here, you could still hear the clang of metal from the forest under lightly falling raindrops. You had let your body move on its own when you’d leaned out from the ledge of your windowsill that was only a few feet from the ground, the baser part of you subconsciously trying to be near to him despite the space between you.

That muggy draft that had clung to your ribs still did not dispel as the cold drops trickled down your body, the tears of the sky slow in their consolation as they dribbled along your arm as you lifted it up and stuck it out of the window.

It still wasn’t enough.

You needed to be able to breathe. And thankfully, you knew just what to do from all the books you read.

Hot water could provide relief to respiratory issues.

Your eyes landed on the largest of the wooden bowls you’d used to collect water from the barrel of rainwater outside, each of your hands holding it as you’d dipped it into the cauldron over boiling water, careful not to let it burn your fingers as you brought it to the tub, the sloshing of it causing you to stare down at it to see your reflection.

Your mouth was ajar with partially sharpened teeth that had not fully shifted back yet, your face flushed with redness and your eyes… your dilated pupils, now the color of the sun where they were usually silver like the moon, glowed back at you.

You blinked rapidly, surprise lighting up your face as you gaped.

Your wolf had been scratching at your psyche to do something about the irremovable weight that felt like it was pushing against your organs.

Another bout of thunder rolled through the sky from outside the semi-circular opening in the wall along the far end of the small, square room. The accompanying flash of lightning brought with it the deadly gleam of daggers behind your eyes, the image of Jungkook’s blood staining it in your mind’s eye as the suffocating pressure in your chest worsened.

You’d had to sit on the edge of the tub, unable to get air between your lips and before you could think, you raised the steaming bowl over your head and let it pour over you.

Its cascade down your flesh had immediately silenced your wolf, who preened at the hot sensation of the liquid all over your flesh. Everywhere the water touched, it washed away the uncomfortable weight that had smothered you so.

When you looked into the mirror across the room, the gold in your irises had been swept away with the last drop of water to leave only silver.

Your surprise had been doused until its remnants became distress as you looked up at the moon, your hands coming together before your bosom as you bowed your head in deference to ask, “Please, gods, do not let him suffer for me. Wherever he is, please, protect him from harm. Keep him safe.”

You’d gone to bed that night without bothering to dry off, the lightest of layers heavy on your skin as hushed prayers and pleas for his safety left your lips while you held the letter he’d left you against your thudding heart.

Words have a way of failing you when he’s around, but that? It was so much easier. So much better when you couldn’t find language sufficient to let him know what you wanted to say.

He seems to understand, because then he’s releasing your skirts and grabbing the wooden tray of salves, gauze, and other medicinal solutions with his uninjured hand and, lost in his eyes, you don’t even realize he’s put it beside him until his voice finds you through it all.

You need not worry for me, my love. I have everything I need right here. I may have had to grow up faster than everyone else around us, but I would do it all over again if it meant that you would be mine.

You only notice your hands are empty when you go to brush your forehead against his, your unoccupied hands lifting to cradle each side of his face as your eyes burn with the tears that threaten to fall.

“You are too good to me, alpha. I promise you that you will never have to be alone again. Not now, and not ever.” You pledge as you kneel between his legs, reaching for the thick roll of white translucent fabric with a loose, open weave. You take it between both hands, your mouth setting in a thin line as you rip it so that you have two moderately sized pieces while your alpha takes in the image of you on your knees before him.

“Nor do you, my love. I am officially yours now, just as you are entirely mine. No one can deny us from each other anymore.” He professes, lifting his unharmed arm so he can sweep your hair out of your face while you work.

It was no small thing to allow an omega to do this. The action was something of a rite that went back to the earliest of their ancestors. When an alpha was harmed in battle or in the hunt for prey, the omega that he let dress his wounds, by doing so, accepted the bond between them. To allow an omega to see an alpha at their most vulnerable…it was a very special, intimate moment.

And you knew of that. He knows because the thought surfaces in your mind the moment you daub the dry fabric against the top of each pectoral where four dark and furiously red lines curve diagonally downward and end on each side of his pelvis. Blood beads the incisions that Yoongi’s serrated claws had left, and the tears that had threatened to fall before fight against the entrapment of your eyelids as you try to blink them away.

“It hurts, doesn’t it, alpha?” You ask with the guilt weighing at your words as you uncork one of the small ovular vials containing a yellow liquid, the woody-sweet scent pungent in your nostrils as you use the oil left by crushed eucalyptus to clean your hands before you pour it onto the strips of fabric you’d just torn and after, you push the cork into the vial and set it down before you.

You let guilt drag each of your hands containing the gauze downward very lightly as you follow the large virgules of red. Where you normally would admire the strong, defined contours of his chest, now, the sight of it has woe whispering in your ear.

His skin is hot to the touch. As if fire burns under his flesh. So fuming and inflamed in the redness that surrounds the gaping, curling lacerations. Both sides of his sternum have been raked– no, ripped–through by sharp claws. Yoongi had cut into your mate’s skin eight blood red half-moons; four on either side of his chest that were turned away from each other, their ends incurving from the base of his neck all the way down his torso and even along his hip bones. Layers of crimson ooze and leak down his body like water, and the sight has something in your bosom tightening in on itself as your vision becomes cloudy.

Somewhere down between the middle of his pectorals, the cloths become too saturated and heavy with blood to soak up any more.

Perhaps the tangibility of his suffering is what finally has the tears falling down your cheeks, the burning in your eyes unavoidable no matter how many times you try to blink it away.

Despite that it feels as if fire sears him everywhere Yoongi’s claws had been, there is worse pain to be felt. Like the gut-wrenching punch that is delivered to his belly when he sees the first of your tears slide down your face.

With the hand he has on your chin, he tilts your chin up as he answers honestly, “Nothing harms me more than watching the light of my life weep for me.”

“I…I can’t help it, alpha.” You respond dolefully, your own stomach dropping to the bowels of your body at the high volume of blood he’s losing so quickly. He’d already turned the entire tub of water he’d been in red, and still he bled. If this kept on…

You don’t let that thought continue. You can’t.

You drop the sopping cloths into an empty glass container you’d put next to the roll of gauze only to take the roll between your hands once again. This time, you do not stop unraveling it until you have much thicker stretches of cloth folded into squares. You do not forget to grab the vial of yellow fluid once more, the viscous oil slow to make its journey to the cloths. You lightly press them against the spots you had had the other ones placed against. The second you put them to his mutilated flesh, they slowly turn crimson. The more they are stained with his lifeblood, the more you are soused with leaden compunction.

It burns, yes, but your sadness smolders him more.

“You are blaming yourself for this.”

It is not a question. It’s a statement.

You draggle each of the gauzes down along the underside of his pectorals, letting them rest there as you watch them turn completely red with his blood.

Momentarily, you wonder if the silvers he’d put on you before would be able to numb the contrition that pulls your spirits away from you.

Your mate will not have any of that.

He runs the pad of his thumb along your chin as he coaxes, “Peer into my eyes, Y/N.”

Unquestioningly, you do. He’s more than earned your obedience. What you see in the depths of those orbs is unending and bottomless in the plunge to the part of him that he would never show anyone else. The part of him that he had kept buried and sunken in wait for the right creature to unearth it. So many masks he had had to wear when so many had ulterior motives and designs around him, but this creature before him? He would break them all to pieces so she could see him for what he really was.

Once, he had asked his father how he would really know if anyone wanted him for him and not his power or his rank. His father had simply laughed and told him: You won’t. All you can do is watch and wait to see someone’s true colors when they think no one else is watching.

This creature before him who cried in the face of his pain and suffering did so out of pure, genuine sorrow. He could feel it sinking your spirits, your very thoughts through the bond. He could see it deep in the valley of your eyes that are, even in the guilt that tries to make them cloudy, drizzling with love for him.

There was no doubt in his mind that you were true and that you were absolutely, unequivocally his. That is why he allows the walls of his reservedness to crumble as he confides:

“Hear my words, my love. This is a result of my own weakness. I teased you before about you wanting to do this. But know that you are only in this situation because I wasn’t strong enough to do what I needed to do.” He doesn’t let go of your chin. With his other hand, he places it between your breasts. The action has him sucking his lip between his teeth as excruciating pain shoots through his upper bicep where the flesh has been torn from limb. A river of red gushes from the open wound, but it matters little to him when pangs of your heart are slower even than his as if it, too, was sulking itself in blame. Despite the way his split blood vessels cry more tears of blood in the movement, he goes on with a grimace, “I know what you’re thinking, my sweet, beautiful girl. You are not to blame for this. Do not pity me. Do not feel guilty for me. If anything, I should be the one pitying you for having to tend to me for such serious injuries.” He leans forward, his lips meeting the flesh between your brows, “I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I didn’t come back to you with only a scratch. But I meant every word of what I said when I made that oath to you that I would protect you with my body. My body can be mended. My soul, if it lost you, could not.”

The male before you shouldn’t even be able to move in his condition.

And yet, he does.

For you.

Your own emotions crack and fracture under the seriousness of his words and unhesitant ministrations. Each is packed with the mass of his candor and you can’t stop yourself from pouring your heart out to him.

“You ask me to simply accept this…this agony that you must be feeling, alpha, and I,” you cry out,” I cannot! I care too much for you to simply turn off my emotions. I cannot do it!”

You lift the strips of soddened fabric away from his chest through eyes full of tears, your sight descending to where you hold them in your now shaking hands as you place those, too, in the same glass bowl as the others. “You ask me not to blame myself, but your wounds…they are there because of me. And they are serious. Serious enough that if this keeps on, you-“ Your sniffle, shaking your head in unwillingness to finish the unbearable thought. You take the gauzy roll in your hands once more and unwind it, you have to rely on muscle memory because at this point, the constant slew of tears is too much for you to see through.

Your alpha’s eyes soften as you try to rub at your own, your tear-streaked cheeks sullied by the tracks the salty water had left, the fresh blood that now covers your hands a stark contrast to the darker, dried blood he’d painted on you earlier during the Smearing.

Why did that make you look even more beautiful to him?

“I’m not asking you to simply turn a blind eye to your feelings, sweetheart. Such a task would be difficult for anyone with a heart to attain.” He brings his lips under one of your eyes, the tang of salt and iron left on his lips as he does. “What I ask is that you try not to blame yourself for my errors. It is my misjudgment that earned me more scars. These are not the first, and they likely will not be the last.” He turns his head so he can leave a soft, featherlight kiss under your other eye. “These scars shall be proof of the trial I had to face to earn you. And I would take hundreds of thousands more of these for you. If I had lost an arm or leg tonight, I would have been alright with it. Your smile and your happiness are worth that much to me.”

The sound of the white fabric shredding between your fingers is muffled under his voice. It’s as if your senses have been dulled to all but him. Even the firelight fails to crackle in your ears amidst the steady beat of his own heart while you tremblingly let the lip of the vial teem with the oil that smells of honey, mint, and citrus.

“My happiness should never come at the expense of pain or suffering, alpha,” you murmur mournfully as you eye the bawling gashes of scarlet.

You crimp the gauze into two thick squares once they have been wetted with the oil before holding them down over the underside of each of his pectorals. You wait until the part in contact with his frayed skin is steeped in scarlet before you flip each of them over and depress them along the arched curvatures going in opposite directions toward each side of his pelvis.

His lips tighten, wrinkles forming where none existed before when you tenderly wipe away at the jagged ends of each of the four lines on either hemisphere of his torso where Yoongi’s claw had pierced the deepest, not bothering to hide his expression from you now at his most vulnerable. There was nothing to hide now. No reason to keep his pain from you when he knew that doing so would just upset you more.

It pains you to see him like this. You wish there was a way for you to make it all disappear, but unfortunately, there were no medicinal or herbal remedies that had the power to do that.

“Such is our way, omega. It is my duty to protect you. I will never neglect that obligation if it ensures your safety." He hisses when you gingerly drag the gauze along the same path upward to collect the stray rivulets of crimson that had dripped from the top of his wounds.

The incinerating flare of flames feels like it is scorching him from the inside out under each slash and tear in his flesh left by Yoongi’s claws, and each time you attempt wiping away the bloody tears his body weeps, more of his life essence is there to replace it.

The oil offers a mild cooling sensation, but it is similar to throwing a block of frozen ice into a roaring bonfire.

You note the lack of stoppage of blood flow from those wounds, concern turning your lips down even more. What you had been reluctant to think about before was becoming all the more possible now. Even if you did keep trying to refuse it.

Worry soon lugs you asunder with the guilt that swims densely about you, and your brows furrow as you instruct, “Alpha, I need you to lie down now. You aren’t having any changes in the blood loss and I fear that something bad may happen if you lose too much more.”

He nods, but the action has a dot spotting his vision and no matter how many times he blinks, it remains. Soon, there are more. And as he holds your watery gaze, more tears trek down the contours of your cheeks.

Something in his chest twinges that has nothing to do with the wounds Yoongi had left.

“As you say, my love.” He brings one knee carefully up toward his chest, his foot resting on the edge of the wood as he asks “What will you have me to do with this arm of mine? It’s in bad shape.”

You grab the now near-empty vial of eucalyptus oil that you’d set on the ground between your knees and return it to its place on the tray, your mind easily supplying you with the answer to his question after having spent so many nights hunched over tomes about medicinal treatments and herbal remedies as you rise, one of your hands wrapping around his nape and the other laying itself over the palm he has pressed between your breasts. The arm that palm is connected to is the one that Yoongi had mangled such that you can see bone between the split mess of muscles bordering it.

You can only imagine how much agony he must be in. If you could take it into yourself, you would.

Not that he would let you, though.

His promise to you had been made not only out of love for you, but out of pride as an alpha. An alpha that could not protect their mate was not deserving or worthy of her. It was an alpha’s responsibility by right to be the source of security and protection for his omega. An alpha who could not guarantee that for his omega had failed her.

Or so the tradition had held.

“You need to relax this arm and let me maneuver it so that it rests by your side. What I’m about to do will require a certain position,” you urge him down by the back of his neck, and while you know your measly strength could never compete against his, the fact that he allows you to move him so readily is an obvious display of trust. His back is laid atop the bench first, and you are delicate in the way you guide his head down until it, too, comes to a rest on the wood. “And it…it will hurt. I’m going to have to move your arm so we do not risk further injuring it. After that, I will need to clean it before applying pressure where the worst of the damage is.”

With conviction clearer than any concoction you could give him, he asserts, “Do what you have to do. You know what needs to be done. You have trained and studied well. It goes without saying that you have my trust. All of it.” He adds.

Gods, you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect mate.

“Let me be the voice of reassurance this time, alpha,” you express while you curl your fingers around the hand of his that is placed along your sternum. Your other cups the underside of his forearm and, scrupulously, you usher it to his side before slowly and surely straightening it. He grimaces, and to distract him, you assure, “I’ll do everything I can to fix you. I promise, alpha.”

You monitor the bone in his arm that shifts in the movement, the middle of his humerus exposed and clearly fractured. From the dark line running perpendicular to the bone along the end closest to his elbow, you know instantly that he’s suffered from a transverse fracture to the bone. Honestly, you had expected worse with the way Yoongi had thrashed his head with Jungkook’s poor arm trapped between his teeth. Those teeth had managed to pierce halfway through the vessels and muscles lining his upper arm, the punctures still gushing blood.

It should have been impossible for him to have moved it. And yet…

“How did you move this arm when your bone has been broken, alpha?” You ask, swallowing the emotion that wants to be let out as you assess him.

His brows scrunch together and he answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The pain was inconsequential next to the sadness that pooled in those pretty eyes.”

You fight the burning at the edges of your vision as you silently take your skirt between your fingers, the soft material pliable under your fingers. You don’t say anything. All you can do is let your hands work as you find the slit cut into it and tear along the line.

“What are you doing, my love?”

It is a question not asked out of doubt, but genuine curiosity.

The sound of ripping fabric ceases as you pull a sizable amount of the organza away from you and turn it inside out before placing it onto the tray beside his head and grabbing for the rectangular glass canister next to the eucalyptus oil.

I have to clean it. It’s infected already, and if I don’t get the bacteria out, your condition will worsen. Once I clean it, I will have to mobilize and brace it. A piece of my skirt should be the outer layer so as not to discomfort you.

You don’t trust your voice not to rupture, so you gently push the words to him through the bond as you grab the roll of cotton wool beside the gauze and unwind it before pressing it to your lips, closing your eyes, and silently begging for the mercy of the gods to take pity on him. To save him.

You knew what to do, but there was only so much that herbs and medicinal solutions could do.

You discard the thought like one of the blood-stained gauzes before you. You couldn’t afford to think like that. Especially not when you’d promised to put him at ease as he had always done for you.

When you bring the wool away from your mouth, you lift the lid from the container and the musky, earthy smell of the ginger poultice you’d prepared weeks ago joins the scent of muted iron in the air as you dip the wool into it several times to ensure its transfer onto the material.

The ginger will not hurt you, alpha. The pressure I will have to put on you will, however.

“I meant what I said, omega. Do what you need to do. I can take it.” He confides, opening his mouth so he can bite onto it.

I know, alpha. I know. More than anyone.

You pick up the considerably long, thick strip of wool from where you’d left it in a heap atop of the open poultice, bending over him before straightening it out so that it ran the length of his upper arm. Thankfully, it was just wide and long enough to completely cover his arm.

With one hand holding one end and your other hand on the other, you bring it down over the split skin from just under his shoulder to just above his elbow.

Just as you’d told him, there is no burning sensation as the gelatinous, thick solution is applied and spread across his sheared muscles, blood vessels, and bone. The blood spurting from the ruptures in his flesh is quick to permeate into the cotton, but you’d expected as much.

The ginger and eucalyptus have antioxidants, antibacterial, antiseptic, and disinfecting properties good for fighting infections. That’s why I chose to have Namjoon collect them from my personal store that I made.

Have I ever told you how attractive I find your intelligence?

Yes, alpha. You have.

You smile through the tears as you untwist more cotton wool from its spool, careful to lay it flat over the existing layer you’d just put over him. It, too, becomes saturated with his life’s essence within seconds.

He needed something else. Something to help boost the efficacy of the poultice. And you knew just the thing.

You scan the tray, evaluating the vials and containers left on it as you note the last addition you had yet to make. There, in the middle, was the small wooden box no longer than your hand and no taller than your pinky. You flip open the latch, the powder inside a brilliant yellow with the hint of orange tang under your nose.

His irises follow your every movement as you peel the layers of cotton wool up and off of him, disposing of them both in the same bowl as the other discolored fabrics.

When you unravel the dressings this time and steep them in the poultice, your other grabs a considerably sized clump of the crushed turmeric powder and sprinkles it all over his slashed open arm.

Three handfuls of that later, you are satisfied with the way the powder has been packed over the gash and surround it with several strips of the material lathered in the ginger solution.

The turmeric has curcumin in it, which can enhance granulation tissue formation and wound contraction. It also decreases inflammation and oxidation and can increase antioxidant capacity of the body, which means it helps fight compounds that could damage you.

The words are recited just as you had written them in one of your journals, and you busy yourself remembering that in lieu of your mind wandering to darker, scarier thoughts as his life’s essence clings to your hands while you rip apart more strips of cotton and run them all through the container of poultice.

Keep going, my love. Tell me more.

He feels the quiver of your hands as you lay each rectangular cloth down over his raw, chafed abrasions lining his chest, his uninjured arm wrapping around your thigh to steady you as his temples begin to ache.

The ginger root that this poultice was made from speeds along the healing process for cuts and abrasions among the other qualities it possesses. You won’t have to worry about these dressings falling off.

Underneath each dressing you affix to his front, his very cells feel as if they are being engulfed in an inferno. One that only blazes hotter every second that passes.

The gingerols and shogaols are compounds in it that will work as a natural adhesive to the cotton and to your skin without sticking or gluing it to you.

His second lack of response has you tilting your head in confusion.

You had said before that the poultice was not meant to feel like that, so whatever was happening, he was certain that you were not the cause. Perhaps it was just some strange side effect of blood loss? How odd that this sensation did not spread to his arm. He really should have studied more.

I’m fine, love. I think. My chest… it feels like I’m burning up from the inside. Have you any idea what that could be?

You’d read many books on herbology and medicine practices. None had ever described that as a symptom of blood loss.

With worry making your mouth go drier than cotton, you examine the way he blinks rapidly as if trying to get something out of his eyes.

W-what else ails you, alpha?

More dots have begun to occupy his sight, and no matter how many times he tries to close and open his eyes, they will not dissipate.

I cannot see properly. It is like there are dark circles blotting parts of my vision.

That was definitely a symptom of blood loss. But the burning sensations? That wasn’t characteristic of the lesions that had been cut into his skin. Nor was the ceaseless gush of scarlet from his chest injuries.

You recall the events that had brought you both here, identifying that it had only been Yoongi that had managed to harm your alpha. He’d been bitten on his arm and struck by claws on his chest. Two different points of contact with two different mediums.

You compare the two areas where he’d been mutilated, spotting the angered, puffed up flesh just that became more raised the closer it got to his now covered traumatisms on his torso. Like something was agitating it from the inside. His arm, however, mangled as it is, is not as badly puckered up around the gash despite the blood he’s losing. Which brings you to your next observation: His blood drips slowly and languidly from his chest wounds where it wells and spurts from his arm. With as deeply as Yoongi had pierced through him, he should have been losing more.

What is going on in that pretty head of yours, my love? Have you…have you discovered something?

There’s a slight pause between each of his unhurried words through your bond. As if it took effort to pull them forth.

You push through the distress that wants to drag you down, forcing yourself to focus and do everything that you could to aid him as you turn your attention to his arm now that you had taken care of his chest wounds.

You needed to stop the river of red that streamed down his arm. Without removing the cloth you’d set over it, you use your teeth to shear the white open-weaved fabric from the now nearly depleted roll it had once been spun around.

I will have to apply pressure as I said before to make sure the medicines set on the punctures in your arm. It…it’s going to hurt, alpha. If you want, you can bite onto my skirts. I don’t mind.

The offer earns you a nod, and so you rise to stand by his side and a wad of your skirt in your hands, hoping that he doesn’t mention the way that they shake as you do.

Forgive me, alpha.

It’s all the warning he gets before you place the dressings over the first layer covering his arm and push into the afflicted area, mindful of where his bone has been broken and avoiding that as you squeeze. Unlike the ruptures along his chest, this area does not nearly scald you.

He curses, his teeth grating into the fabric of your skirt as you apologize over and over again, guilt leaving tangible evidence of itself on your face while you cry for him.

Anyone else would have flinched, but not your alpha. No, he simply screws his eyes shut as he hisses through the material between his lips.

I’m sorry, alpha. I’m so, so sorry. But you have to stay like this for five minutes. I have to try to make the bleeding stop.

The dots that had been impairing his vision increase and the ache in his temples he’d felt before turns into a fierce throbbing as the world begins to dim around him while the claw marks along his chest ripple forth with black blood.

You perceive the way his eyes begin to flutter closed, the arm he’s wrapped around your thigh beginning to loosen. A tremble overcomes his body in the way that it suddenly is as if it’s gone down many degrees, and at that, a lump of dread drops into your stomach.

Not wanting him to slip into unconsciousness, you squeal. “N-no! Stay with me, a-alpha!”

Your voice cleaves through the barren desert that has set upon your throat.

I’m sorry, my love…I’m trying, but…it’s cold, yet my body feels like it’s on fire.

There are longer standstills between his words now. Like each one has to be dug up from the recesses of his mind.

Why has it suddenly become a….a blizzard in here? Why does…does my head feel…feel like someone is…is pounding… into it?

The dread in your belly is joined by another chunked mass of fear as his responsiveness slows with the unseen ice that encases and numbs him. When his good arm falls limply to his side from where it had been encircled around your thigh, you snivel, shaking your head vigorously back and forth as you whisper through a cracked voice, “No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be.”

As his eyelids tiredly droop, that’s when the panic grips your organs and wrings them out.

You had to stay strong. And you could not panic. Doing so would only stress him further.

But that thought is difficult to keep under the fleeting consciousness of your mate before you, who squeezes his eyes shut before opening them wide in effort to keep awake as you had instructed as he shivers.

You swallow around a brittle, sandy throat, wiping your hands on your bodice before your attention sifts around the room in search of something, anything, to help you. You start with the tray. The bowl of blood-soaked, soiled gauze and wrappings sits on its edge, the rolls of gauze and cotton wool in front of it. Next to them, the rectangular wooden box of turmeric powder remains beside the canister of ginger extract. Around them, the vial of eucalyptus lays on its side where the other glass containers of assorted colors and contents are placed. Three had been unused.

The first was a smaller brown bottle of oil secreted from crushed neem kernels you’d plucked from the seeds yourself. The second was a moderately sized canister of milk-colored paste you’d boiled and ground from coconuts. The last was a large flask of honey.

All would work to stop the bleeding. Five minutes had felt an eternity with his continually shallow breaths in your ear, his heart rate weakening under the lack of blood to push through his body. You hadn’t understood why your vocal cords felt so sore, but when you release him and the mewling coming from your mouth dies out, that answers the question.

You waste no time emptying the bottle of neem oil over each of his wounds as you sniffle, “Keep looking at me, alpha. Don’t go to sleep. I-I need you awake for me.”

Despite the gnawing pain in his temples and the ever increasing temperature that boils the parts of him under the skin of his thorax, he battles the darkness that wants to swallow him as he tries to stay in the light of your eyes that shine glassily down on him while you pour the honey, with unsteady hands, along each striation channeling his chest and arm before adding another lining of gauze over his crimson turned bandages.

“One more, alpha. One more, and then I can make a splint for your arm.” You don’t care anymore about the snot that runs down your nose with the tears trailing it as his skin begins to lose its color.

He nictates through bleary, dimmed orbs, and the sight twists your heartstrings.

You keep your hands busy, because you know the moment you stop is the moment he could slip through your fingers.

You cover both hands in the creamy mixture and with the first pass of your fingers against his sternum, you wrench your hand back in the overwhelming heat that scorches you like a blazing sun.

“You’re burning up, alpha.” The words are choked out. “It’s gotten worse.”

He says nothing. Doing so would cause it to sear him even more.

His pained expression is answer enough. And the discomfort of the sensation it had brought was nothing compared to what you knew he faced. For him, you would cross any sea of fire. For him, you would do this. No matter the cost.

So, you gently trail your fingers around the reddened, plowed planes of his chest to surround all sides of the new contours there in the substance.

You shake the canister over his arm so that thick dollops land over the flesh there so you can spread them around, too.

Once you’re certain no part of him is bereft of your attention, you straighten and scour the room for anything you could use as a splint. There alone atop the cabinet by the door, was a clipboard with paper. No doubt a visitor’s log.

It was the perfect length for his arm.

Before you leave his side, you check his vitals for any unseen changes. Still he attempts to combat the throes of sleep that wish to pull him asunder, but the most serious of his wounds have now been disinfected and dressed.

“Alpha,” you prod, “I’ll be right back, okay? I need to get something to stabilize your arm.”

You wait for him to give a slow incline of his head, the action causing him to wince as explosive pain fires through his temples.

You turn, but the watchful glance you keep on him remains as you make your way across the room. You do not miss the way his fingers along his good arm twitch as if searching for you.

Your fingers close around the edge of the board of wood, your own chest splintering at the sight.

You return to him within seconds, but gods, it had felt like hours.

This time, you walk over to the side of him where his bad arm now rests, one of your hands wrapping around the underside of his arm to coax it only an inch upward. He lets you so you can slip the board underneath it as you observe him for any fluctuations in symptoms. His pupils are stagnant and idle, but they do not stray from you even as his breathing begins to slow and his heart beats become fainter and fainter.

Worry sets in your veins as you take the piece of your skirts that you’d torn earlier and tie it around the board of wood and the bandages you’d put there.

When you press your index and middle finger to the pulsating vein along his neck, it beats feebly.

He needed to replenish the blood he’d lost before it was too late. And you knew, right then, exactly what you needed to do to fix that.

However, no matter how much you flipped through the pages of the books you’d read in your mind, the answer to his inquiries and asymptomatic conditions he’d alerted you to did not match what you knew of blood loss. Whatever he had described was clearly something else. Something that Yoongi must have done since he’d been the only one to successfully injure your mate.

Yoongi, who had bitten him on the arm and his claws on Jungkook’s torso where, surprisingly, Jungkook had explained the worst of his pain to be. Where you yourself had felt it to be in the irate ire of the wounds there so hot to the touch.

It is with that identification that you scrap the books you’d read about common ailments in lieu of one you’d been hunched over for many weeks trying to memorize in its abundance of knowledge. One that had detailed poisons and toxins. There was one that matched what you had seen and heard from him. One that, if introduced into the body, was capable of corrosive necrosis in cells and had sensations and symptoms that matched what he’d described. One that was odorless, colorless, and impossible to cure.

It must have been dappled on Yoongi’s claws. He must have known about the deadly poison carried by a large fungus that even necromancers hesitated to harvest. It was capable of causing the entire bodily organs and tissues to break down and feel as if they were burning in their degradation when the toxins turned the cells against each other.

Jungkook’s eyes close, and horror clods your ribs and bowels of your body.

You had to keep him awake. For fear of losing his life, you had to keep him from sinking into the darkness.

Stay with me, my mate. My alpha. My love. Please, don’t leave me.

The words course like a ravine through the bond, the waters of your affections evident in the tracks they leave down your cheeks as you lift your leg up and over so you can sit astride him, desperation making you move before your mind can. The raindrops of your sadness fall over him like a fall downpour, and soon, his entire chest is wet with the salve of your handmade solutions and sadness.

The longer his eyes stay shut, the closer he dangles to that dangerous idea you’d kept rejecting and denying. That idea became more real by the moment.

You promised me, alpha. You promised me that you wouldn’t leave me! I can’t do this without you!

Distress takes control as the rush of thoughts spill from you and you bring your hand to your teeth that you had subconsciously sharpened in the iron that now falls across your tongue.

I can’t do this without you, alpha. Life without you was life without meaning. Life without you was like having silver thrust on me every day from the moment I woke to the moment I fell asleep: gray, senseless and deadening.

Something warm trickles from the sides of your lips when all of your now edged, serrated upper teeth easily prick and slice through your palm and you suck a mouthful between your lips.

The taughtened muscles around his eyes and mouth slacken, the movement of his irises behind his lids moving this way and that. As if he was still trying to search for you in the darkness. The gentle thud of his heart is all that you hear in your ears anymore. No other sounds matter.

You speak to him through it, hoping with everything in you that doing so will give him something to hold onto.

I love you, alpha. I love you more than anything in this world. So please, come back to me. Come back to me so I can express it to you, show it to you, and make more wonderful, beautiful, colorful memories with you.

You take his chin between the fingers of your other hand, lifting it before using your thumb to part his lips.

With the hand you’d just bitten, you hold it over his mouth only to turn your palm to the side before curling your digits in, your nails sinking into the fragile flesh to cut into it so that more streaks of crimson dribble down, the dark drops of your blood falling between his lips.

Adam's apple bobs as he tries to swallow it, but it’s not enough.

As you watch your blood spread across his tongue, you can’t help but notice how his skin has gone whiter than sleet, his usual golden glow drained with his life’s essence as he continues to shudder beneath you.

The faint presence of him dwindles in the bond like candlelight that the cold darkness schemes to snuff out, but still he is kindled in yours as you lean forward, your mouth seeking him.

Take my blood, alpha. Drink and replenish what you have lost. It is the only way.

The last sound of you is tucked in his mind just as your mouth slots itself over his, the mouthful of your blood that you had drawn forth from your hand soon emptied into his as he swallows it weakly. You mindfully set your bleeding hand between the middle of his sternum, the thick redness sobbing for him, too, as it spreads down his torso and seeps into the coverings draped across his chest.

With the first swill of you down his throat, the throbbing in his temples begins to dull and the air around him starts to warm.

It’s as if your blood had passed life into him, for his tongue eventually sweeps at the excesses of your mouth for the remnants that percolate from the small scrapes your teeth had left in your cheeks. You let him lick it, and with each pass of his tongue over each one, the muscle beating under your hand on his chest beats steadier. Stronger. Louder.

He required more. Way more after all that he had lost. And you? You intended to give it to him.

When he’s lapped all of your quintessence up, you pull away only to bring the hand you’d bitten to his lips in offering.

With his eyes still closed, he can’t see it, but he can smell it.

The tang of iron is powerful enough to summon his mouth to it, his baser being taking over as he closes his mouth around your open palm.

His teeth pierce through you easily and when your blood bursts forth from the punctures and he sups it without hesitation.

The violent, searing pain stemming from the claw marks along his torso where your blood had permeated through his bandages starts to lessen amid the ache that is dispelled in his skull. The quavering of his body soon ceases in the absence of the chill he’d felt before.

He wraps his lips tighter around you, and when he extracts your essence this time, it is with more urgency.

You run your other hand through his dark, ebony hair, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as he drinks from you.

“Take as much as you need, my love. You will require quite a few mouthfuls to, ah-“

You pause when he detaches from your hand, licking at the stray droplets of your blood before gripping your forearm to bring your wrist to his nose so he can inhale and run his lips longingly along it. His head falls back as he does, the pink muscle slipping between his lips to taste the remnants of you there, too.

“Want to…bite you…right here. Can I?” He asks hoarsely yet huskily.

You’re already answering before he’s even finished. “I’m all yours, alpha.”

The implications of this are not lost on you. By puncturing your scent glands where they produce the oils and scent of you the most–seconded only by your neck–his bite will forever leave his trace where he’d enter you. No other wolf would be able to take in your succulent smell without his lingering odor behind it.

From where you are seated on his lap, you swear you see his eyes roll back behind his lids.

When his canines elongate such that they protrude from his upper lip and he penetrates your flesh along the middle of your wrist, your blood eagerly teems into his mouth. Just like the first time he’d bitten you, there is no pain in the sharpness of those teeth. What was urgency before becomes hunger now as he feeds on you, his cheeks hollowing as he quaffs the life-giving nectar you have produced just for him.

You shudder as he draws deep, gulping mouthful after mouthful and all the worry you’d had before is sapped away as he does.

Your flavor is so fucking saccharine on his tongue, and each time your essence washes down his throat, his body surges with vitality and energy.

He can’t get enough of it. It’s too good. You’re too good.

More he takes and more he swallows like a crazed male, and you allow it as your own lids lower while you ogle him as the released endorphins stored in the glands along your wrist flood you in pleasure as you mindlessly–instinctively– rut your hips into his.

“Do I taste good, alpha?” You moan softly, your body growing limp as the fingers you’d twisted and twined around his locks loosen.

You taste sweeter than sweet.

His good arm shoots out so his fingers can splay around your hip to steady you as he indulges in the pulses and pangs of strength that return to him with each consuming swig of your lifeblood, your hips helped back and forth by the hand he has on one of them as your moans turn to whimpers.

You taste something like pineapple, grapes, strawberries, and everything good in this world.

When his eyes open, he looks at you like you’re a fucking goddess. Like you’re some kind of deity, and he is some servant beneath you.

He revels in the revelation that graces him as he takes in the sight of you atop him.

Your crimson-stained lips have slightly fallen ajar to reveal still jagged, pointed canines, remnants of red still flecking the sides of your mouth. Your silver irises have been glazed by desire, the daubing of crimson along your lids creating a deprived picture.

The dried, dark paint of his own blood that he’d smeared all over you was still there, but the new addition of his scarlet handprint between your breasts and streaks the same color all along your skirt and bodice are all the more depicting of a debased creature.

You straddle him, your gown ripped unevenly along one of your legs to reveal one bare calf and thigh.

How he had fucking ruined you.

His once pure, innocent goddess that must have been a fallen, divine being sent to him to save him.

“J-Jungkook,” you whine when your vision begins to darken at the edges as his teeth bury themselves deeper into your flesh so he can cravingly command more of you down, “I…I-“

The strong hand on waist pulls you down over his hardening member, your breath hitching when you remember he’s entirely naked beneath you.

“Even goddesses have their limit. I can see it,” he groans around your wrist as he savors the way you sag forward, your thighs loosening from where you’d been squeezing him between them. “I can feel it.”

He takes one more mouthful of your rich, piquant ichor, your front slumping forward until your head rests in the crook of his neck.

With your jugular vein so close to his ears, the rhythm set by the tune of your heart beats far too slow. The sound snaps him out of his craze instantly as the hand on your waist clutches you tighter as if you might slip away if he doesn’t hold you close enough.

“Goddess? Do you mean…me?” You drawl out the words through the tingling sensation in your head.

Despite the loss of your blood, affection courses through you when he attentively dislodges his teeth from you and makes sure to catch the bright red drops that run forth from the two new dark blots along the underside of your smaller wrist. As he does, he affirms, “You saved me.”

The hand at your waist gives you another comforting squeeze before it journeys up along your side, your shoulder, and then down your arm until his digits close around your wrist so he can rub soothing circles into it. “I was so lost in the darkness, omega, but your voice…I followed it back to you.”

“Me?” It’s all you can say. The rush of endorphins fades with the extraction of his teeth, and your hips slow to still as his words sober you.

One side of his lips turn up at that. “Yes, my love. You.” He coaxes your wrist upwards so he can kiss you where his teeth and yours had been. “You, the light of my life. The reason for my being, The purpose of my existence.” His head falls to the side as he shepherds your hand toward the palpitating muscle along his chest. “I once thought of you as my queen, but I see now that you’re so much more than that.” He places your hand right above his heart, and you’re so mesmerized by those beaming irises of gold that you don’t even realize what he’s done when those warm, calloused fingers brush along the side of your cheek until they rest in your hair and his palm holds the edge of your jaw to coax it upward as he brings his mouth near to yours. “Your voice is a song that even the muses envy. Your body is the drink of the gods that even they would fight wars for. Your mind and soul are so perfect and good that even demons would wish they could bottle them.”

His eyes twinkle with sincerity as he goes on, both fondness and affection for him taking turns to cleanse you of the desire you’d felt before so that something much deeper can fill your entire being.

“Shhh, alpha… you need to rest now. This can all wait until later.” Your words are throaty and full, for your heart has somehow found its way there, too. “You lost a lot of blood and-“

He seals your mouth with his, and like wax under a newborn wick, you melt into it. He’s warm and gentle in the warmness that he emanates that no candle ever could. The quiet intimacy of it has your lids falling to a close, the air around you making way for you both as you share each other’s breath.

There was nothing quite like this. Nothing like the way that your fingers sought any part of him that they could as they both encircled his uninjured wrist, unwilling to let him go. Nothing like the way your body was perfectly molded against his, the kiss akin to a butterfly’s wing in its softness that could take your breath away. It was the water that quenched after a drought. It was the furs that gave such comfort on a winter’s night. It was the rain and a flame all at once.

And gods, he couldn’t bear even a second’s separation from her. Truly, he’d never been so blessed with the gift of life until now. Until you. Hell would surely have frozen over before he would relinquish this: your mesmerizing, mellow eyes; your pliant, pretty lips; your stuttered, stammered breaths whenever he looked at you; your smaller, tinier hands that loosed and tightened around his wrist as he held you.

But his damned lungs just had to get some air, and so he had been forced into breaking the kiss.

When his mouth parts from yours, he breathes heavily. “I do not need rest when I have you. Imaginings and visions leave little to be desired when their source is on top of me like this. And,” the other side of his lips lift up and you’re sure that thudding in your ears gets louder as he does, “It would be rather impolite not to pay my respects to you, my divine little deity. You were–are–magnificent.”

You try to hide your face in his neck, your cheeks heating up at his praise. He won’t have any of that, and so he urges it back up.

Looking into those eyes is like looking into two orbs spun by the sun. That warmth that emanates over your skin like warm rays makes everything else lackluster, and even his voice carries that vivid color of emotion as he voices, “Do not hide from the truth, my love.”

You make a sound of questioning, not understanding what he’s just said. It’s as if there’s a fuzzy blanket around your body and mind, your disoriented thoughts too sluggish to formulate for you to say much more.

He chuckles lightly, his chest moving up and down gentle enough to not jostle you.

“You do not know it, but I shall help you see.” He offers, nosing at your jawline as he does. “Allow me to show you what you did to me, my love. I think you’ll find the evidence of your miracles when you do.”

He releases you, a quiet whine leaving your lips at the absence of his touch. Soft lips are there to soothe you when his mouth brushes where his hand had been at the edge of your jaw. There he presses his lips as he tells you, “Look down, my love.”

You’d been expecting to see more blood spilling from the open wounds arcing down both sides of his chest, his bandages completely soaked through with his life’s essence.

You did not expect to see one of the lines of gauze you’d laid down over the lacerations lifted in the air by your alpha to reveal a deep gash completely closed, the angry red slash now only a faint line of pink.

As if it were nothing but an old war scar.

At first, you think you might be seeing things.

You blink owlishly at him, and he grins only to pull back another strip of fabric that you’d used to pack another wound.

It, too, is only a faded, paled remnant of what it had been minutes ago.

Your fingers lethargically draw down his torso where the flesh that had been raised and furious is now smooth and normal.

There is no pain that festers there with the poison that had been set upon him by Yoongi’s claw. Its dissipation had had nothing to do with your medicines. He knows that now. It had been you.

Your lids have begun to grow heavy as sleep begins to beckon, and all you can do through the drowsiness that has set as you rest one of your temples against his shoulder so you can still stare at him as you manage the only word you can summon in your dumbfounded state. “How?”

“My mother used to tell me stories about our ancestors. It was said that the first rulers of our kind, who were chosen by the gods, were given abilities no others possessed.” Your mate tosses the soiled dressings into the bowl before he reaches for his splinted arm wrapped in bandages. “Abilities that made the rest of our kind lower their heads in awe.” He unties the knot you’d made out of the ripped fragment of your gown you’d affixed the wooden board to, and while he does, he tells you, “She told me that the king and queen of our kind were fated by their souls. That the first omega’s songs of mourning had so moved the gods when he’d been killed trying to protect her that they gave her the power to heal him through her kiss.”

Slumber drags you away from him, his voice fading the more it tugs and tugs you as he goes on. “So powerful was she that the other wolves revered her as a goddess in her capacity to mend and restore not only the physical body, but the soul and mind as well. And her king? He was vested by the gods who took pity on him with strength, speed, size, and stamina that no other could match.”

Distantly, you think you see a glimpse of the linens you’d put around his arm being peeled back to uncover what you had thought had been a mangled mess of bone and flesh. But no longer. Now, just like his chest, there are only small grazes and punctures that have since been pulled together with slightly darker cicatrix marring him.

When your lids fall closed and sleep takes you from him, he uses that arm to secure you close as he attentively watches over you. In your ear, he confides, “Rest up now, beautiful deity. You shall need it for what is to come, my love.”

#jungkook x reader #jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts writing #bts x reader #jungkook fanfic #bts scenarios #bts #jungkook bts #bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #alpha!jungkook #alpha!jungkook x reader #dom!jungkook #sub!reader

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wayfayrr · 7 months ago

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WE BOTH BE SIMPS FOR SKY ✨ THE PRECIOUS BEAN <33333 He has my entire heart, I love him smmm

But also now, got me sad for Sky cause poor baby deserves to get the experience of self expression through tattoos </3 which I think would work especially well in, say, self aware au, cause I would get to take him to get his first tattoo <33333 paid about $900-1K for all three sessions for my entire sleeve, I will gladly pay whatever for anything he wants done <333 especially if he wants a colored tattoo <3333

But also I’d love to know more of your thoughts on the whole Human vs Hylian thing, what are some key differences between hylians and humans that you haven’t had the opportunity to bring up yet? Doesn’t even have to be key differences, I’d just love to learn more on what your thoughts are <3

~🍀 anon

YEAHHHH SIMPS FOR THE BEST BOYYYY <333

I think sky would actually really want to get a tattoo after learning how they're pretty common for humans (he'd also want to either get one to match one of yours or a new matching set with you <3) but I think he'd want it to have an important meaning - his first one (only ones with self aware sky) has something to do with you, say your favourite flower or something that reminds him of you I also think he'd get something symbolic of crimson (also that price range for a sleeve sounds like a steal from the prices near me ong)

as for other headcanons about humans/hylians? One thing that I've been thinking about but haven't brought up is spice tolerances, and how Hylian spice tolerance is utterly abysmal compared to humans

remember this scene with the goron spice being used as a threat? I think that goron spice is about on par with a mild curry/chili powder.. Wild - They're using something that for most won't really register as spicy to punish the chain for the whole thing with the vai outfit.

Sky probably has a pretty low spice tolerance too but his is more because he's never had anything remotely spicy in his life, he could grow to have more of a tolerance whereas wild has had his body changed a lot by the sheika juice so I think certain tolerances of his got bumped up by a lot too - cal would want to eat it and struggle through but wild just eats it like no ones business In general I think that hylians just have a worse track record with anything you'd eat caffeine, poisons, alcohol, spice and even mint can make them struggle sometimes (Do NOT give wind an energy drink so help you)

I also think that hylians have a pretty weak immune system compared to humans, however it's also rarer for a hylian to get sick than it is for a human to cause of ✨magic✨ if any of the chain were to catch just the common cold from you or sky it will take them OUT, for humans the symptoms are just a runny nose, sore throat, cough and a fever for the hylians all of those things are dialled to one hundred - you get a sniffle? Time can't breathe. sky has a mild cough that he's trying to milk to get you to give him hugs? Warriors sounds like he's hacking up a lung and is that blood he just coughed up!!??

I also think hylians are unable to knowingly lie, like white lies are possible and if they fully believe what they're saying is true then they can. But an outright malicious lie or something like the turncoats? It isn't possible without dark and/or potent magic affecting them in some way. (or by having a human spirit instead of a hylian one >:3c) this also means that most hylians cannot use sarcasm, or at least not very well do with that what you will <3

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sleepingelvhen · 1 year ago

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Sleeping Spider Lily Pt.1

Blade/Reader NSFW Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- [🌹Part 4🌹] Minors DO NOT interact MASTERLIST Once, you were in love with a man called Yingxing. That man died during his involvement with Dan Feng’s betrayal. At least, so you thought. Jing Yuan helped you through your turmoil, comforted you in your pain, and eventually you were able to move on and live your life. Little did you know your lover was simply lying in wait. After years of suffering and pain, Blade arrives on the Luofu with a mission at hand, everything planned for him. That is until he sees you…and all the memories come flooding back.

Days stretched on as if they were years upon years. Every moment nearly torture since you lost the love of your life. You knew Jing Yuan could see it on your face, the numbness in your voice, the distant look in your eyes, the way your body moved robotically during your work in the commission. It was probably a depressing sight, but all sense of self disappeared when Yingxing was gone, and it was impossible to bring yourself back.

You blamed yourself first, lectured yourself on how you could have supported him better, understood him better to stop what he was planning. Then you started blaming the Imbibitor Lunae, focused your attention on your hatred towards the Vidhyadharan high elder for leading Yingxing to his betrayal and death.

Then, when there was no one to blame, when you had to face the reality of his death, you fell into a depression that made it impossible for Jing Yuan to sit aside and watch anymore. He stepped in and pulled you up and suddenly you were on different kinds of missions.

Instead of working on papers and writing reports to the commission, you were going out on patrols with the cloud knights or even with Jing Yuan himself. He talked your ear off, took you out to tea or dinner, he made sure you had company and that you were never alone with your thoughts. Jing Yuan helped you stand and helped you move on. He knew what you needed, and he became your best friend over the many, many years.

Your life filled with new passions and new friends, Jing Yuan shared in your pain and together you kept living. You became a sword in the dark for him, you hunted in the night and fought for Jing Yuan when he couldn’t step away. Together you were a force the Luofu trusted to keep them safe. Finally, you were healing from the pain that seemed to last centuries. Finally you were happy.

The Aeons seemed dissatisfied with your suffering, however. Or maybe your luck had completely run dry. Whatever it was, your mind reeled from what you saw before you.

He walked down the hallway of the Shackling Prison, two guards at his sides, his arms tied in front of him, head low. You watched as his long silky hair swayed with each step, a familiar gait once prideful with long strides was now slow and meticulous.

The blackish-blue hair was familiar, a reminder of when he was young, when you first met him. It was strange at first, having once gotten used to the white color he sported as he aged. But, you found yourself thrown right back to the past. The way he would stare at you, the way his hair felt in your fingers.

The past is gone now. Eyes that once looked upon you with affection now glowed red with anger and bloodlust, a smirk glowering on his face as he looked up at Jing Yuan who had Yanqing at his side, sword at the ready.

"Do you remember me?" Jing Yuan asked, shocking you to your core. He had known...of course he had.

“I do...Of five people, three must pay a price,” he spoke, his voice gravely and deep, daunting in the dark. It echoed in the silent, near empty room, a voice that sounded all too familiar. A voice that made tears spring into your eyes. “You…are not one of them, Jing Yuan.”

You simply watched the scene before you, eyes wide, your body hidden in the shadows of the prison. Your lip trembled along with your fingers, as if your whole body was cold, except you were on the verge of a complete breakdown.

None of the words Jing Yuan said after that registered in your mind, like your ears were completely muffled. Everything around you spun, your eyes only able to see Yingxing, or rather what he had become after years of whatever had happened to him.

This wasn’t the Yingxing you knew…the way he looked at Jingyuan, the way he stood, it was all in anticipation of violence. But he looked like him and you wanted it to be him, your eyes roamed his entire body in desperation for anything that looked like the man he used to be.

You watched him cock his head to the side, his now red eyes quickly glancing to the sides of the room, as if noting the amount of guards in the room, or looking for something. Then his eyes shot to the side, towards where you hid in the far back of the room.

The shadows should have cloaked you, no one ever saw you when you stood here. But his eyes stopped right where you stood, his eyes widening for just a moment. You swore you saw the curve of his mouth fall. It lasted all but a second before his eyes were back on Jing Yuan, the facade of pride back upon his face, like it never happened. Like he never saw you.

“He’s alive!?” You punched your bathroom mirror, tears streaming down your face as you stared at your broken reflection. Jing Yuan stood behind you, leaning against the doorway, his eyes downcast. For once his face was solemn, regretful.

You gripped the sides of the sink, gritting your teeth, trying to stop yourself from sobbing. Years of stitched up pain, of wounds you thought had healed, they all came flooding back. Like blood, the memories spilled out, swallowing all thoughts, forcing you to relive everything all over again.

“He’s alive…” Jing Yuan finally spoke, trying not to cause you more pain. “I’m sorry.”

Deep breaths did nothing to dwindle the anxiety as you turned to face him.

“How long…how long have you known?”

Jing Yuan looked up at you, mouth open, before he stopped himself. His mouth shut as he sighed and looked down at the floor. Of course he had known. All these years, your closest friend had known the love of your life was alive and kept it a secret. Your voice shook as your shoulders slumped, turning away from Jing Yuan.

“Just…just leave…please.”

He said nothing, leaving you alone in your pain. The night was filled with tears and loud sobbing, your face stained and red, eyes sore and burning.

Sleep eluded you, every time you shut your eyes, images of him filled your mind. Yingxing, your lover, now someone you barely recognized. It was impossible, a terrifying prospect, and the worst thing to happen to you now. All the healing, the years of pain…was all of it for nothing? Questions racked your mind until you were too tired to think but also too tired to sleep. And before you knew it, light filtered into your room as morning came and alongside morning, came Jing Yuan and even more bad news.

“What do you mean he escaped!?” You couldn’t help your voice rising, the exhaustion evident in your tone. Jing Yuan simply watched you struggle with the information, his eyes saddened by the pain you dealt with.

“I mean, sometime last night, he broke out of his holding cell, and we suspect he is still somewhere on the Luofu.” Jing Yuan sighed, rubbing his temples. Obviously this situation was affecting him just as badly. He was already notorious for barely getting sleep, it would be a wonder if he had even a moment of rest last night.

“Fuck…fuck…” You pulled back your hair. Everything was quickly going to shit. Jing Yuan had not only caught you up on the new status of Yingxing, who apparently now went by Blade, but also on the fact that there was probably a Stellaron on board the Luofu and that the Stellaron Hunters were involved with both incidents.

“Look, I know this isn’t an ideal situation but,” Jing Yuan sighed again before looking at you. “I’m telling you this because I don’t want you getting involved.”

“What? Why? This is literally my job!”

“Because,” Jing Yuan put his hand on your shoulder, his touch able to calm down your shivers a little bit. “Your past relationship with Ying–Blade–I don’t want you getting hurt even more…”

Your shoulders slumped and you nodded slowly. It made sense, Jing Yuan knew that everything was only causing you pain. He had your best interest in mind but…your eyebrows strewn together and your breath caught in your throat.

“Fine.” Ying Yuan was satisfied and that made the guilt a little worse. Because you knew you were lying. The nighttime was your hunting ground. And Yingxing or rather, Blade, would not run away. Not again, not without the answers you so craved.

#blade x reader #multi chap fic #fanfic #eventual smut #hsr smut #blade hsr #hsr x reader #jing yuan #blade smut

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birdkatze · 10 months ago

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"But werewolves aren't real?" || werewolf! 141 x werewolf! reader Part 3

Future pairings = poly 141 x reader

Chapter pairings = 141! x reader

Words = 1.2k

[Chapter 2] --- [Chapter 4]

Summery: After moving out of the big city and into the forest, you meet some men that might have some awners about whats been causing your pain.

EXPLICIT under the cut, also gets angsty this chapter

Blinking blearily you feel someone noseing at your side. It was Gaz, he motioned for you to follow him. Yawning, you follow him a bit deeper into the woods, a bit further away from the pack. He stops and presses against you making a small happy chuff. He circles around you, before pressing against you again and you both transform into human, flushing as you realize you are both naked.

“It’s okay Duck, just needed to talk to ya.” Smiling he places a hand on your shoulder “I didn’t wanna do it infront of those ruffians..”

That draws a soft laugh from your lips and you look at Gaz curiously.

“So you might have noticed that me and you are much much smaller than the other three” Gaz took in a deep breath “This is going to sound ridiculous, I’m sorry Duck,” Smiling nervously Gaz looked at you sweetly “We are omegas and the other three are alphas..”

You sputter a knee-jerk laugh “W-what?” looking as Gaz confused, you had about one hundred different ideas of what he was going to say and this was not one of them.

“I know, it sounds ridiculous.” Gaz shakes his head “I told Price he was crazy when he first explained it.”

“I thought those didn’t exist in real wolf packs? Like it was exclusive to podcasts?” You look at Gaz still not quite believing him still.

“Well Duck, don’t know if ya’ve noticed but we aren't actual wolves and I promise we aren't a podcast..Ghost hates them- any podcast- said they drive him insane..”

“So what is the um difference other than the um size difference? Or is it just that we are a different size than them?”

“Uh, it affects the um- reproductive system.” Gaz flushed “Basically we can get pregnant, we generate lots of slick, um I’m sorry Duck but we also go through heats- the others go through ruts in all fairness..It's a bloody nightmare.”

Staring at Gaz surprised and a bit incredulously “But I’ve never had any of that happen?”

“Duck you had a device that prevented you from shifting, Soap had one and once it came out um- he went a bit feral..”

“Oh um..Did he go into-” ducking your head you look at Gaz curiously “-rut?”

Gaz snorted, not meanly, nodding his head “He was a nightmare…”

Thinking for a second you bite your lip “That doesn’t sound good…I um don’t even know what I’d do…”

“Something to consider but we all would in a heartbeat offer to take care of you during your heat, we don't’ have to do anything sexual we just want to make sure you stay safe..” Gaz looked at you reassuringly “in a heartbeat we’d help” he stressed.

“What? What do you mean sexual” feeling a presence behind you, you see Price, in his human form- naked of course. Your face is right at dick level. Fuck. Flash of arousal passes over you before you shut it down, blushing.

“You get really horny.” Soap says bluntly, appearing next to you and getting up in your space. Playfully licking your jaw like an overgrown puppy.

“Oh!” you squeak.

“I know this is all a lot, love.” Price helped you to your feet, brushing the dirt off you.

Flushing, you feel another spark of arousal- it had been so long since someone had touched you. It was so foreign and almost terrifying- you haven't felt like that since before you got bit. All four of the men turn to you, their nose picking up on it instantly. You flush, running a hand over your face “Sorry..”

“Don’t apologize Duck, it’s normal- you aren’t in pain right now” Gaz smiled “We don’t need to do anything, I know this is a lot yeah?”

Nodding you look at the four men.

Soap grinned “Well at least you aren’t like me, I was insatiable- wore out these three proper..”

Gaz barked out a laugh “Never been chapped like that...”

Price huffs a laugh.

“Come mer’ lets get ya home, it’s gettn’ cold” Ghost motioned for everyone to go back into the house, staying behind everyone- herding you all into the house.

Stepping back into the house you shiver- you hadn’t realized how cold you were. Looking at the digital thermostat it told you it was 38 F out. Made sense you were so cold- you were also naked.

“I’m gunna go put on some clothes.” You pulled away from the group, you didn’t feel uncomfortable being naked but it wasn’t proper to be naked around strangers. Right? Did that count if the strangers felt like old friends?

“You don’t have to~” Soap teased, looking you up and down.

That earned him a cuff behind the ears from Price and a pinch from Ghost.

Soap pouted and frowned but stopped.

“We should be putting on our clothes mutt” Ghost chastised Soap huffing at him.

“It’s not an issue?” Pausing on the stairs you tilt your head “I- um don’t mind..” you say hesitantly, but you really didn’t want them to put back on their clothes with how mouth watering hot they were.

Soap grins and looks up at Ghost and Price, Gaz smirks too.

“Sorry that came out bad- I um you can put on your clothes if you want I’m sorry..” Blushing as you realized how perverted that sounded.

“Whatever you want, Duck!” smirking Soap gave Ghost and Price the biggest smug look ever.

“Alright, alright..” Price huffs “Listen er’ we should probably get going- we don’t want to impose and we need to get some stuff done..You should relax, love”

Nodding, you felt a stab of disappointment. It made sense, why would they stay at a random stranger's house? It didn’t matter if you were also a werewolf. They had literally met you only earlier today.

The men quickly dress, Soap very begrudgingly. Gaz pulled back on his lace thong very showy, smirking at you- flashing his sharp canines. Soap skulked pulling on his shirt first then pulling up his jeans, only doing the button and leaving them unzipped. Him and Gaz seem very hesitant to leave, it makes you feel anxious.

“One of us will come check on you later tomorrow, love” Price says over his shoulder as he ushers the other men out of the house.

“Okay,” You nod again, closing the door as they leave.

Sighing, you go upstairs and take a shower. You couldn’t understand why you felt so lonely, like you had been left behind. It wasn’t rational! You wipe your tears as you move your pillowcase into the dryer.

The sadness you felt was all encompassing and painful. You end up showering and then taking a hot bath in an attempt to feel better but you only feel worse and worse. When you make it into your bed, with your clean pillow case you break down.

Big tears run down your face as you hold onto your pillow, sobbing loudly. You had never felt this broken and dejected before. You felt sick, scrambling to the toilet to vomit. Any time you feel semi-okay another wave of sickness takes over you, you feel guilty for vomiting up Soap’s soup.

He was so good even though he hardly knew you, feeding you, being nice…Then Price was good too, getting you your heated blanket, making sure you weren’t sick, getting Gaz to get the silver out of your body…Gaz, sweet Gaz- he fixed you right up, sitting with you as you woke up, pulling you aide, being so nice and accommodating…Ghost, helped you shift, made sure you got inside as it got cold.

You wash your mouth out when you finally feel okayish. You were still crying, feeling so incredibly distraught.

#call of duty #mw2 #captain john price #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle gaz x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #angst #a/b/o dynamics

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eldritch-spouse · 1 month ago

Note

I'd like to send a formal apology to Morell, Obie and Zizz for how quickly and effortlessly Tristalis was able to steal their spots in my heart.

Like low-key, Tristalis sounds like the best choice out of all your characters regarding like romantic situations. It could be because we haven't been exposed to his darker traits, but it just seems so far like he's just so sweet but confused regarding like human customs. I just want to cuddle up with him and smother all three of his heads with love and affection.

and the fact that he makes stuffed animals? My biggest comfort item and like just a big love language of mine? As soon as he gives me that stuffed animal on that bus I'm here blushing and crushing immediately.

How would Tristalis react to a romantic interest who gets all giddy and flustered when he gifted them the stuffed animal. Like they're immediately smiling all wide and hugging the stuffed animal to their chest? Just absolutely fawning over it, even tho he can't understand anything they're saying he can practically see the hearts in their eyes.

He's my husband now, he's got no choice- he's gonna be walking down the aisle in a wedding dress by next week. >:(

[Imagine getting mogged by Tristalis rsrsrs. He can be decidedly scary, but he's more permissive than a few of the monsters here.]

Tristalis has had positive reactions to people who see his plushies. Many have come up to him to buy them without the monster even having to do much of anything except rearrange them in public. He's flexible with prices, but not someone who can be scammed easily- Because, even if he's not well-versed in surface customs, he knows the basics of plenty of currencies. Sometimes a child will try to trade a plush for something rather inadequate, and if Tristalis is in a good mood, he'll just give a plush away for a bag of candies.

The only adult Tristalis has ever given plushies to is you. And Lords, does your reaction have him glowing.

He'd been scheming which one you might like best, mostly based on what you were wearing or the color of your eyes and hair. To know that he hit the nail right on the head has him sighing audibly. The Starbeast may not be fluent in your language, but the beam of your smile and the shine of your eyes is all the answer he needs to clap to himself in happiness.

The problem here is that Tristalis is excitable.

He sees you hugging the stuffed plush to yourself and suddenly wants to ramble, mixing words up in an attempt to talk, to let you know more about his crafts.

At some point he just gives up on words altogether, all three heads bobbing occasionally with glee as he shows you other plushies, gives you skeins of yarn to feel and even requests your opinion on possible designs he poorly sketched (drawing is not in his deck of skills, for sure).

Depending on how receptive you are to Tristalis' attention, he may get immediately sidetracked and just follow you around like a lovesick puppy. He can even make smaller things if it guarantees you'll look at him with the same amount of awe you did before.

#Tristalis oc #he's going to make your wedding dress #and his- If you want him to wear a dress he will

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tinydefector · 3 months ago

Text

Kinktober Day 2

Frame Modification- Rodimus x Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: Nsfw, smut, genital modification, strap ons?, human/ Cybertronian.

@tf-kinktober2024

Day 1

Day 3

______________

The human stares at Rodimus for a moment with a raised eyebrow looking at the boxes of equipment. "So what exactly is all of this?" They ask looking over the different components in them. Rodimus scratches his helm sheepishly. "Well, uh, you know my size can be, heh, problematic when it comes to interfacing with you. Don't want to accidentally hurt you due to the size"

He offers a lopsided grin. "So Perceptor and I have been tinkering. These doodads should decrease my, um, girth and increase sensitivity without compromising structure or function, if his calculations hold up."

Rodimus clutches a box hopefully. "I care for you and I know how much you like what we have going on but i want you to be able to have more" His field radiates shy affection.

"Your... downgrading, for me?" They nearly whisper while looking over the three boxes. There were more than one spike mod in the boxes and it made them wonder just how long Rodimus had been planning this.

Rodimus rubs the back of his helm sheepishly. "Well, yeah. This is important to me too, you know?" He gestures to the boxes. "Perceptor and I have been working on different prototypes for a while now. Wanna make sure we get it just right, so they are interchangeable."

Chuckling softly, Rodimus adds, "We may have gone a little overboard with the sampling options." Taking his lover's hands in his gently, Rodimus meets their gaze. "I love you. Your happiness and safety with me means everything to me. If modifying myself helps ensure that, it's a small price."

Squeezing softly, he smiles. "So what d'you say we try 'em out, see which fits and what you like?" He's hoping he hadn't scared them with this information, but he did truly love them and wanted to give them the best he could.

It makes them laugh. "I'd love to. Do all of the pieces interchange?" They inquire while pulling one of the spike mods out looking it over. This one had bright pink lights up the underside but was a bit too large in their hands larger than their arm. Rodimus perks up at the sound of their laughter, fia warm smile falling onto his face. "Sure do!" he replies. "Perce made 'em with modularity in mind."

Leaning in, he points out how the piece in their servos connects. "That one plugs into my panel port. Then the shaft and tip snap together for a secure fit, each piece will fit to the others to integrate." Rodimus smiles before continuing "Pink light show's a bit flashy for me though. what'd you think of the sleek navy or copper ones?" Ever keen to please, he holds them up for his loger to look at.

In truth they never thought they would be sitting there with Rodimus looking at essentially Strap-ons. " I do like the top part of the silver one there, the rest of it is just a little too thick. Might work nicely with the shaft of the Orange one which I do like the lights on and it doesn't look as long as my forearm" they laugh while pointing over to the spike as Rodimus picks it up. The tip wasn't as wide as some of the others. "How do you pull them apart and put them together? Can you show me?"

Rodimus chuckles, field pulsing with affection as he examines the proposed frankenspike. "Good eye! I think you're right - silver tip and orange shaft could be a winner." He deftly twists the pieces apart to demonstrate. "The connector ports are threaded, see? Just twist counter-clockwise to separate, then clockwise to join another piece securely."

Reassembling the hybrid mod, Rodimus presents it proudly. "Well? What do you think - looks like it'll hit all the right nodes but still leave your ports feeling snug?" They laugh at his wording of it but in truth they were enjoying every moment of this.

"Never thought I'd be saying that this looks so pretty. Do they connect up with your bio-lights and pulse the same colour? And how exactly do you attach it to yourself?" As much as they were loving the fact that they and Rodimus would be able to be intimate they are so curious over how it all works.

Rodimus grins, field alight. "Never think I'd be so pleased by a compliment on my crotch accessory collection!" It makes them both burst into laughter wheezing. " but Yea, the light circuits sync right up with my biolights so it'll pulse and change colours"

Rodimus releases his interface panel which at the moment didn't have an attachment, he's rather swift with reattaching the chosen mod in its place. pressurises his lines, watching struts and panels adjust flawlessly around the new appendage. "Seamless integration. The connection anchors it securely while also transferring sensory feedback in real time." Rodimus smiles shyly. "Wanna touch it?." He teases revving his engine.

"Ready for a test drive when you are, sweetspark. I'll go slow and you tell me what you think. Your feelings are my top priority here.” He excitedly remarks. "Can we keep the other pieces too, I think this would be something fun to try and test other pieces over time." Rodimus lights up at their question, excitement filling him. "A collection? I like the way you think!"

"Now then, shall we?" He radiates eager anticipation, "I'm primed and ready to make you sing, sweetspark. Just give me the word." He slowly strokes the smaller mod as the sensation jolts through him.

"Eager are we" they tease, It was strange seeing the new one when they were so used to Rodimus' original Spike but in truth it suited him well. "Sure thing hot shot. I want a show" they giggle sitting back eager to watch.

Carefully he braces himself before encircling the new modification digit rubbing across the tip. Slow, steady pumps elicit delightful shivers up his struts as sensory feedback loops. The lights along the spike light up in the deep orange colour and pulse with each stroke.

A loud moan falls from his vocalizer. His engine purrs louder, Optics half-shuttering, Rodimus meets their gaze with a loving smirk. "Like what you see? gorgeous - just say the word and I'm yours all night."

They shake their heads in amusement. "I want to watch you work that spike Roddy, I like watching you come undone with your servo, dial up the sensitivity" they instruct. Eager to just watch the mech touch himself.

Rodimus chuckles. "As you wish." He begins stroking it much quicker, the sound of his joints popping and grinding join the mix of noises he makes. "How's it feel?" Rodimus vented softly, digits exploring the synthetic spike's sensory net with increasing awe, he had never had one which felt like this and it was making his joints weak from how quickly it had over charged his system, hot air blasting through his fans.

"Incredible... it feels so sensitive." Another moan slips from him sounding more like a whimpered whine of bliss. He gazed at his partner in a haze of affection. "Primus i cant wait to see how you feel clenched around my spike, bet you'll be so warm and soft. Might just be overloaded thinking about it."

"You going to overload, thought you had better stamina roddy" They tease watching the way his plating shutters as he quickened his pace. Rodimus whimpers out while his voice goes rather static. "Hey, cut me some slack - this new array packs way more sensation than the old one. Gonna take some getting used to!"

He overloads into his servo rather quickly. Their eyes focus on the fluid that runs down his servo, it wasn't the light pink one they were used to seeing come from him. “ Did you also change your fluids?” they hum moving closer to brush their hand against his spike. It makes Rodimus jolt as he loudly moans. “Frag!” he calls out platting, shuttering and overheating as he tries to come down from the overwhelming sensation.

“mmmm, yea.. wanted something a little more body safe for you” he admits,it earns him a kiss from them.

_________________

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#transformers #transformers idw #transformers x human #mtmte #transformers x reader #transformers lost light #valveplug #rodimus #mtmte rodimus #rodimus idw #transformers hot rod #rodimus x reader #Rodimus x human

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novaursa · 4 months ago

Text

The Price of Fire (10)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all previous chapters visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 10 000+

- Previous part: 9

- Next part: 11

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska @alyssa-dayne

The carriage comes to a gentle halt in the courtyard of the Red Keep, its wheels settling into the grooves worn into the cobblestones by countless arrivals before you. The imposing walls of the keep rise around you, their ancient stone darkened by time and shadowed by the encroaching dusk. The sound of distant voices and the clatter of armor echoes faintly in the cool evening air as you prepare to disembark.

You reach out to steady your mother, Queen Rhaella, as she begins to step down from the carriage. Though she carries herself with the grace and dignity befitting a queen, you can feel the frailty in her movements, the toll that years of stress and sorrow have taken on her. You offer her a reassuring smile as you help her descend, your hands firm and steady on her arm.

Rhaegar approaches as soon as you and your mother are on solid ground. His expression is warm, though there is a tightness around his eyes that betrays the tension he feels. He offers his arm to both of you, a gesture that is as much about solidarity as it is about etiquette.

"Let me escort you inside," Rhaegar says, his voice soft and filled with affection as he addresses both you and Rhaella.

You and your mother each take one of his arms, the three of you moving together as one as you begin the walk toward the entrance of the Red Keep. The evening shadows lengthen as you approach the towering gates, the flickering torchlight casting an almost ethereal glow on the stone walls. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Lewyn Martell follow closely behind, their presence a comforting constant as you cross the threshold into the keep. Behind them, your retainers trail in respectful silence, their loyalty a silent testament to the devotion they share with your family.

As you enter the keep, you notice Ser Barristan Selmy standing just inside the gate, his white cloak gleaming in the dim light. He nods in greeting to Ser Arthur as the Kingsguard exchange a silent acknowledgment, a mutual respect passing between them. It’s a small, unspoken reassurance in this place where alliances and loyalties are everything.

The familiar, almost oppressive atmosphere of the Red Keep envelops you as you walk deeper into the castle. The stone walls, draped with banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, seem to close in around you, a constant reminder of the weight of your family’s legacy. The corridors are lined with guards and servants, all bowing or curtsying as you pass, their eyes downcast in deference.

As you reach the doors to the throne room, they swing open with a loud creak, revealing the vast chamber beyond. The Iron Throne looms at the far end of the room, its jagged, twisted swords gleaming malevolently in the torchlight. But it is not the throne that captures your attention. It is Terrax, who soars in through the open front gates of the throne room with a powerful beat of his wings.

The dragon’s arrival sends a ripple of shock through the courtiers and guards gathered in the room. He lands with a resounding thud on the stone floor, his claws scraping against the ancient stones as he surveys the room with his golden eyes. The nobles gathered near the edges of the room shrink back, their fear visible, but they dare not move or speak as Terrax strides confidently across the chamber.

Terrax circles the Iron Throne once, his gaze fixed on the twisted metal that makes up the seat of power, before he curls himself behind it. His form coils protectively around the base of the throne, his scales glinting in the firelight as he settles into place. The sight is both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a living embodiment of the power and danger that House Targaryen represents.

King Aerys stands at the foot of the Iron Throne, his eyes wide with a manic sort of wonder as he watches the dragon. His entire being seems to be transfixed by Terrax, as if the dragon’s presence has awakened something deep within him, something ancient and primal.

Pycelle, the Grand Maester, steps forward hesitantly, his voice trembling slightly as he addresses the king. "Your Grace," he begins cautiously, "what would you have us do about the dragon?"

Aerys tears his gaze away from Terrax just long enough to glare at Pycelle, his expression one of barely contained irritation. "Do?" he repeats, his voice rising with a touch of hysteria. "What is there to do? My child will remain here, where it belongs, with the throne. The dragon is ours—mine—born of my blood. It will stay here and guard what is rightfully ours."

The court falls silent at Aerys’s proclamation, the tension in the room thick enough to be cut with a knife. No one dares to question the king, not in this moment when his mood is so volatile, and when the dragon itself seems to be a physical manifestation of his unstable power.

Rhaegar, sensing the growing danger, steps forward with a calm, measured grace. His voice is soft, but firm, as he speaks. "Father, if I may, it would be wise to allow Y/N and Mother to rest after their journey. I will stay here with you, but they should be escorted to their quarters."

Aerys’s eyes flicker with a mixture of emotions—possession, suspicion, perhaps even a fleeting hint of concern—but he nods slowly, as if reluctantly agreeing to Rhaegar’s suggestion. "Very well," he says, though his gaze remains fixed on Terrax. "But the dragon stays."

Rhaegar turns to Ser Arthur, who has remained by your side throughout the entire exchange, his expression stoic and unyielding. "Ser Arthur," Rhaegar instructs quietly, "escort Y/N and our mother to their quarters. Ensure they are safe and that they rest."

Arthur nods, his eyes briefly meeting yours, a silent understanding passing between you. "At once, my prince," he replies, his tone respectful yet firm.

You can feel Aerys’s gaze shifting toward you, his eyes dark and unreadable, and you know that staying any longer would only draw more of his dangerous attention. You give Rhaegar a brief nod of gratitude, your heart heavy with the knowledge of what he must endure alone in the throne room with your father.

As you and your mother begin to make your way out of the chamber, escorted by Ser Arthur and Ser Lewyn, you cast one last glance back at Terrax. The dragon’s golden eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you feel the bond between you flare to life, a connection that is both comforting and unsettling. You know that he will remain vigilant, guarding the Iron Throne as if it were his own lair.

As the doors to the throne room close behind you, sealing off the chaos and danger that lingers within, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. The corridors of the Red Keep are just as dark and foreboding as they were when you first arrived, but now they feel even more suffocating, the weight of your family’s legacy pressing down on you like never before.

Arthur walks beside you, his presence a safe rock in the storm of your thoughts. "We’ll have you and the queen settled soon," he says quietly, his voice filled with the unspoken promise of protection.

The throne room is an oppressive cavern of iron and stone. Aerys stands before the Iron Throne, his eyes alight with a madness that has grown too familiar to those who linger in the Red Keep. He stares, enraptured, at the coiled form of Terrax. The beast’s tail twitches, sending a metallic clang through the chamber as it strikes one of the many swords that make up the grotesque chair. Courtiers whisper among themselves, though none dare to approach too closely, as if the heat of the dragon’s breath might sear their very souls.

Rhaegar remains still, a silent observer to the twisted scene unfolding before him. His face betrays nothing, though a storm brews behind his eyes. The presence of Terrax is both a comfort and a threat—Aerys’ fascination with the dragon, and by extension, with you, has only deepened. But Rhaegar knows that it is a dangerous game his father plays, one that could consume them all in flames if they are not careful.

From the shadows, Varys appears, his footsteps eerily silent as he approaches Rhaegar. The spymaster’s presence is like a chill breeze through the room, unnoticed by most but not by Rhaegar. He feels the man's gaze, probing and calculating.

"Your father seems most taken with the dragon, my prince," Varys murmurs, his voice a smooth whisper. "It is said that dragons are a power unlike any other."

Rhaegar does not turn to look at the Spider, keeping his focus on the throne, where Aerys continues to mutter incoherently, his hands twitching with a madness that grows more consuming with each passing day. "Power can be a dangerous thing in the wrong hands," Rhaegar replies, his tone carefully measured. "And my father’s hands have long since been bloodied by his madness."

Varys inclines his head slightly, as if considering Rhaegar's words. "Indeed, madness and power are a volatile mix. But Terrax... he seems to respond to a different kind of strength, does he not?"

The implication in Varys’s words is clear, and Rhaegar finally turns to face the spymaster. "You know more than you let on, as always," he says quietly, a warning in his voice. "But do not presume to understand everything that transpires between the dragon and my family."

Varys offers a slight smile, but there is no warmth in it. "Of course not, my prince. My only concern is the safety of the realm, and of those who might steer it towards prosperity... or ruin."

Before Rhaegar can respond, Aerys’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and manic. "Bring me a prisoner from the Black Cells!" the king commands, his tone one of gleeful anticipation. "Let the dragon gorge on traitor’s blood!"

Rhaegar’s stomach twists at the order, though he knows better than to object openly. Aerys’s gaze is wild, and the fire in his eyes betrays his obsession—he sees the dragon as his own, a beast to wield as he pleases. But Rhaegar knows that Terrax’s loyalty lies elsewhere, and it is a bond that Aerys can never fully comprehend.

Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower exchange wary glances but move swiftly to obey the king’s order. Jaime is the first to step forward, his golden hair catching the dim light as he bows. "At once, Your Grace," he says, his voice steady despite the unease that flickers in his eyes.

As the Kingsguard move to carry out Aerys's command, Rhaegar forces himself to remain still. His mind races, searching for a way to diffuse the situation without inciting his father's wrath. But he knows that any overt action could draw suspicion, not just towards himself, but towards you as well. And that is a risk he cannot take.

Varys lingers by his side, his presence a constant reminder of the many eyes and ears that serve the realm—or perhaps just themselves. "There are many who would find such a display... unsettling," Varys says, his voice low and carefully neutral. "But perhaps it serves a purpose. To remind the realm of the power that lies within these walls."

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens. "Or to show the realm just how far the madness has spread," he replies, his voice edged with a quiet defiance.

Aerys, oblivious to the quiet exchange, claps his hands together, a grotesque smile spreading across his lips as he waits for the prisoner to be brought forth. Terrax shifts behind the throne, his eyes narrowing as if he senses the tension in the room. The dragon’s tail flicks again, more agitated this time, and Rhaegar feels the beast’s unease resonate within him.

When the prisoner is finally dragged into the throne room, a man broken and emaciated from weeks in the Black Cells, Aerys’s eyes light up with a deranged glee. "Feed him to the dragon!" the king commands, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls.

Terrax shifts slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watches the man approach. The dragon’s nostrils flare, catching the scent of fear in the air, and a low, rumbling growl emanates from deep within his chest. The sound sends a shiver through the courtiers, causing them to step back even further, pressing themselves against the walls as if distance could protect them from what is to come.

Aerys steps away from the throne, his movements slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving the prisoner. There is a twisted excitement in his eyes, a hunger that Rhaegar has seen too many times before. The king continues to move, approaching the man with the deliberate steps of a predator stalking its prey. The prisoner falls to his knees, trembling, his hands clasped together in desperate supplication.

“Mercy, my king,” the prisoner pleads, his voice hoarse and cracked. “Mercy, I beg of you.”

Aerys pauses before him, a cruel smile curling his lips. “Mercy?” he echoes, his voice cold and mocking. “Mercy is for the weak. I offer you something far greater. I offer you the chance to serve your king, to feed his dragon, and in doing so, become part of something far more powerful than yourself.”

The prisoner’s eyes widen in horror as he realizes what Aerys means, but before he can protest further, Aerys turns to Terrax, his arms outstretched as if presenting the man as an offering. “Feast, my child,” he commands, his voice ringing through the throne room. “Feast and grow strong.”

Rhaegar watches, his heart heavy with a mix of disgust and helplessness, as Terrax uncoils from behind the throne, his eyes locked on the prisoner. The dragon’s maw opens slowly, revealing rows of sharp teeth, and in that moment, Rhaegar sees the man’s fate sealed.

There is a sickening sound as Terrax lunges, the prisoner’s scream cut short as the dragon’s jaws close around him. The courtiers gasp, some turning away, others frozen in horrified fascination. The king’s laughter echoes through the room, a sound devoid of sanity, and Rhaegar forces himself to remain still, to not react, though every instinct in him screams to do something, anything, to stop this madness.

But he does not. He cannot.

And so he watches, as the dragon burns and devours the man whole, his father’s laughter still ringing in his ears, a sound that he knows will haunt him for the rest of his days.

The familiar scent of your chambers washes over you as you step inside, the memories of a childhood spent within these walls flooding back all at once. The bed is as you remember it, draped in rich, crimson silk, the golden Targaryen sigil embroidered upon the pillows. Your fingers brush against the soft fabric as you move past, seeking comfort in the familiar texture, but there is little solace to be found in these old comforts. The echoes of what happened in the throne room only hours before still cling to your thoughts, refusing to be banished by the simple act of returning to your old room.

Arthur is with you, as he always is, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of your life. He stands by the door, his silver-white cloak a stark contrast against the dark wood, his eyes watching you with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to know so well. For a moment, the two of you are silent, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill that has settled deep in your bones.

He steps closer, his brow furrowed, and you can see the concern etched into his features. "Y/N," he begins, his voice low, "I know the journey has been long, but there are things—"

The door to your chambers swings open suddenly, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence. Rhaegar enters, his face pale and drawn, his violet eyes wide with something that looks dangerously close to fear. He stops just inside the threshold, his gaze locking onto yours, and for a moment, the two of you simply stare at one another, the unspoken tension between you heavy in the air.

Arthur takes a step back, glancing between you and Rhaegar. "My prince—" he begins, but Rhaegar raises a hand, his voice firm though it trembles with an edge of something darker.

"Leave us, Ser Arthur," Rhaegar says, his tone brooking no argument. "I need to speak with my sister alone."

Arthur hesitates, his eyes searching yours as if seeking permission or reassurance. You nod, though the unease curling in your stomach warns you that something is terribly wrong. He bows his head slightly, a look of reluctance in his eyes as he turns and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

The silence that follows is suffocating, the crackling fire the only sound in the chamber. You can feel the tension rolling off your brother in waves, and before you can stop yourself, you hear it—a voice in the back of your mind, slithering through your thoughts like a serpent.

"You're in for it now," the voice says, followed by a low, mocking cackle that sends a shiver down your spine.

You flinch, your hand instinctively gripping the edge of the bedpost as you force the voice into the recesses of your mind, trying to focus on Rhaegar. The dread that pools in your stomach is only amplified by the voice’s presence, and it takes everything in you to push past it.

"Rhaegar," you say softly, stepping closer to him. "What happened?"

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his eyes downcast, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. When he finally looks up at you, there’s a haunted look in his eyes, one that you’ve never seen before, not even in the darkest moments of his life.

"Aerys," he begins, his voice raw, "Father... he... he brought a prisoner from the Black Cells. He..." Rhaegar struggles to find the words, and the sight of him like this, so shaken, so unlike the composed and regal brother you know, sends a spike of fear through your heart.

He takes a breath, steadying himself, but the tremor in his voice remains. "He fed the man to Terrax," he says at last, the words falling heavily between you, like stones into a dark, bottomless well.

The room seems to spin for a moment, the horror of what he’s said sinking into your mind. You can feel the blood drain from your face as you try to comprehend the enormity of it, the sheer brutality of the act. "He… what?" you whisper, disbelief laced with a growing sense of dread.

Rhaegar turns away, his hands coming to rest on the back of a chair, gripping it tightly as though to ground himself. "He laughed, Y/N. He laughed as Terrax devoured the man whole." His voice cracks, and for the first time, you see the cracks in the armor your brother wears so carefully. "It was madness. Utter madness."

The voice in your head stirs again, murmuring something unintelligible, and you force it down, focusing instead on the here and now, on Rhaegar, who looks as though the weight of the world is crushing him.

"Rhaegar," you say again, more firmly this time, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. He flinches slightly at your touch but doesn’t pull away. "We’ll figure this out. We always do. But right now, you need to breathe. You need to think clearly."

He shakes his head, his grip on the chair tightening until his knuckles are white. "How can I think clearly, Y/N, when our father is descending deeper into madness with each passing day? How can I protect you, or anyone, from what he’s becoming?"

The vulnerability in his voice is almost unbearable, and you find yourself stepping closer, until there’s barely any space between you. "You’re not alone in this, Rhaegar," you say softly, trying to soothe the storm raging within him. "But you mustn't lose yourself to his madness. You have to stay strong."

He looks at you then, truly looks at you, and you can see the battle waging within him—the conflict between the man who wants to protect his family and the prince who feels helpless in the face of his father’s tyranny. Slowly, he nods, as if drawing some strength from your words, though you can still see the shadows lingering in his eyes.

"I’ll try," he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I fear... I fear what he might do next. And I fear that I won’t be able to stop it."

You wish you could offer him more reassurance, something to banish the fear that haunts both of you. But all you can do is stand by him, as you always have, and hope that it will be enough.

Rhaegar’s hand covers yours, a silent gesture of shared strength, and for a moment, the two of you stand there in the dim light of your chambers, the weight of the world pressing down on both of you, but together, you hold it at bay.

The silence that falls between you and Rhaegar is heavy, laden with unspoken fears and shared burdens. You can feel the tension in his posture, the way his fingers still tremble slightly even as he tries to steady himself. The flickering light of the fire casts long silhouettes across the room, dancing on the walls like specters of the past, and you know that this moment, this fragile peace between you, is as fleeting as those shadows.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry, as the weight of what you’ve been hiding presses down on you, demanding release. The nightmares have been your secret, your burden alone, but you can’t keep them from Rhaegar any longer. Not when everything else seems to be unraveling.

"Rhaegar," you begin, your voice hesitant, breaking the silence that has settled between you. His eyes flicker to yours, and you can see the concern there, the quiet, unspoken question.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the words feel heavy, like lead in your throat. "There’s something I need to tell you. Something I haven’t been able to... admit to anyone."

His brow furrows slightly, and he shifts closer, his attention now fully on you. "What is it, Y/N?" he asks softly, his voice a gentle encouragement.

You close your eyes for a moment, gathering your thoughts, before you finally speak. "Ever since the ritual... the one Father forced me to participate in... I’ve been having nightmares. Horrible, vivid nightmares. And... I hear voices, Rhaegar. Voices that aren’t mine. They speak to me, mock me, and sometimes they sound almost... prophetic. But they’re dark, twisted things. I don’t know what they mean, but they haunt me."

Rhaegar’s eyes widen slightly, the concern deepening into something more profound, more protective. His grip on your hand tightens, and he pulls you closer, wrapping his other arm around you in a gesture of comfort, of solidarity. You lean into him, feeling the warmth of his embrace, but it does little to banish the cold dread that has settled in your chest.

"You should have told me sooner," he says, his voice filled with a mixture of worry and something akin to guilt. "I’ve had dreams too, Y/N. I've spoken to you about them. Ever since I was a boy, they’ve come to me in the night—visions of fire, of dragons, of things that I can’t always understand. But they’re part of our blood, our legacy. And the voices... they’re not unheard of. The Targaryens have always had a touch of madness, of visions that blur the line between prophecy and insanity."

You nod against his chest, your hands clutching at the fabric of his tunic as if grounding yourself in the reality of his presence could keep the nightmares at bay. "These dreams... they’re different, Rhaegar. They feel more real, more... personal. And the voices—they seem to know things, things that no one else does. They frighten me."

Rhaegar’s hand strokes your hair gently, a soothing gesture that reminds you of when you were children, and he would comfort you after a particularly frightening dream. But this is different, more serious, more laden with the weight of what your family has become.

"I believe you," he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. "And I’ll do everything I can to help you understand these dreams, these voices."

You want to believe him, to let his words banish the darkness that has taken root in your mind, but there’s a part of you that knows the truth—that some things are beyond even the bond you share with your brother. Still, you take comfort in his presence, in the way he holds you, as if he can shield you from the madness that surrounds you both.

But the moment of fragile peace is shattered when Rhaegar speaks again, his voice tinged with an edge of weariness. "Father... he’s asked that we both attend a formal breakfast tomorrow. He insists that we present ourselves together."

You pull back slightly, looking up at him with wide eyes. The thought of sitting across from Aerys, of enduring his unpredictable moods and twisted demands, fills you with a sense of dread that you can’t quite shake. The firelight flickers in Rhaegar’s eyes, casting specters that seem to dance with the madness you both fear.

And then, as if summoned by your anxiety, the voice returns, slithering through your mind like a serpent.

"Maggots love you. Trust me," it hisses, the words accompanied by that same mocking cackle, as if the very idea of trust is something to be laughed at.

You gasp, the sound escaping your lips before you can stop it, and Rhaegar’s grip tightens, his eyes searching yours for an explanation. But how can you explain something that you barely understand yourself? How can you put into words the terror that grips your heart every time that voice whispers in your ear?

He brushes a thumb across your cheek, his expression softening with concern. "What is it, Y/N? What did you hear?"

For a moment, you consider telling him, but the words catch in your throat, the fear too great, the voice’s presence too overwhelming. Instead, you shake your head, trying to force a smile, though it feels brittle and fragile. "It’s nothing," you whisper, though you know he doesn’t believe you. "Just... nerves, I suppose. Tomorrow will be... difficult."

Rhaegar studies you for a long moment, his gaze searching, but he doesn’t press you further. Instead, he pulls you close again, holding you tightly as if he can keep the darkness at bay simply by being near you.

"We’ll face it as one," he declares, his voice a promise, a vow that you both know might be impossible to keep. "No matter what happens, Y/N, we’ll face it."

You nod, burying your face in his chest, allowing yourself to take comfort in his words, even if they can’t fully banish the fear that lurks in the corners of your mind. Tomorrow is another day, another trial to endure, but for now, in this moment, you have your brother’s arms around you.

The morning sun filters through the tall, narrow windows of the Red Keep’s dining hall, casting long beams of light across the table set with delicate gold-trimmed plates and goblets. The air is heavy with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and exotic fruits, but the opulence of the feast does little to lift the oppressive atmosphere that hangs over the room.

You sit beside Rhaegar, who is dressed in deep indigo robes, embroidered with silver thread that traces the sigils of House Targaryen—three-headed dragons twisting and twining down the length of his sleeves. His long, silver hair is held back by a circlet of polished steel, a symbol of his status as the crown prince, though there is an air of weariness in the set of his shoulders, as if the weight of the crown he is destined to wear already presses upon him.

You, too, are dressed in the colors of your house, your gown a rich shade of crimson that deepens to black at the hem. The bodice is fitted, embroidered with gold and black dragons, the fabric clinging to your form with a graceful but restrained elegance. Your hair, long and silver like Rhaegar’s, is woven into an intricate braid, entwined with threads of gold that glimmer in the morning light. You feel the weight of the court’s gaze upon you, their eyes flitting between you, Rhaegar, and the man who sits at the head of the table—your father, the king.

King Aerys II sits enthroned in his seat, his long, tangled hair and unkempt beard framing a face that once might have been handsome but is now gaunt and lined with the signs of madness. He wears robes of black velvet, edged with gold, and his fingers, covered in rings, tap absently against the table as he watches the room with a gleam in his eye that is both cunning and dangerous. The rest of the court sits in near silence, their conversations muted, the tension in the air palpable.

Your mother, Queen Rhaella, is notably absent, as she often is from these gatherings. Whether by her own will or by Aerys’ decree, you cannot tell, and you’re not sure if it would even make a difference. Rhaella has long since retreated into her own world, seeking solace away from the court and the king's erratic temper.

You sit quietly, your fingers toying with the edge of your goblet, your thoughts a swirl of anxiety and unease. What is this breakfast truly about? Is it about your upcoming wedding to Rhaegar, the marriage that he called you back from Dragonstone for, or is it something darker? Something that has been festering in your father’s mind, a plan he has brooded over in the solitude of his chambers?

The food before you is sumptuous, but you find no appetite for it. The roasted pheasant, the baked bread, the colorful array of fruits—they are all tasteless in your mouth as you pick at your plate, more out of decorum than hunger. The tension in the hall is thick, and you cannot shake the feeling that something terrible is about to unfold.

As you push a piece of meat across your plate, the voice in your head returns, slithering through your thoughts with a twisted glee.

"Try the corpse in the oven with peppers and fur," it whispers, its tone mockingly sweet.

A wave of nausea rolls over you, and your hand freezes, the fork slipping from your fingers. You push the plate away, your stomach churning, and glance up across the hall. Ser Arthur Dayne stands at his post, his eyes sharp, and the moment your gaze meets his, you see the worry etched into his features. He knows you too well, knows that something is wrong, but there is nothing he can do from where he stands. His presence, while comforting, is also a reminder of the dangerous game you are all playing under the watchful eye of the king.

At the head of the table, Aerys is engaged in conversation with Lord Owen Merryweather, the current Hand of the King. Lord Merryweather listens intently, his face a mask of politeness, but there is a tightness around his mouth, a tension that betrays his discomfort. The position of Hand has become a perilous one under Aerys’ reign, and it is clear that Lord Merryweather treads carefully, his words measured, his loyalty always in question.

Rhaegar, sitting beside you, observes the court with a practiced gaze, his expression composed but distant. His eyes linger on Tywin Lannister, who sits further down the table, his face inscrutable as always. Rhaegar has told you before of Tywin’s ambitions, his loyalty ever ambiguous since Aerys dismissed him as Hand. The tension between them is palpable, and you can see that Rhaegar is wary, knowing that Tywin’s loyalty could shift like the sands at any moment.

But it’s when Rhaegar’s gaze softens, turning from the court to you, that you feel a flicker of warmth, a momentary respite from the dread that clings to you. His eyes meet yours, and for a brief second, the weight of the world seems to lift, if only slightly.

Yet that moment of solace is shattered when you feel your father’s gaze land upon you. Aerys’ attention shifts from his conversation with Lord Merryweather, his eyes narrowing as they settle on you with a look that is both possessive and unsettling. You feel his hand reach across the table to take yours, his grip cold and strong, and as his fingers close around yours, you hear the voice again, louder this time, almost gleeful.

"Souls draped in rotten tatters and Father dances in the dark."

The words send a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively try to pull your hand away, but Aerys’ grip tightens, holding you in place. His eyes bore into yours, and you see the madness swirling there, a darkness that seems to stretch into the abyss.

"Are you unwell, daughter?" Aerys asks, his voice deceptively soft, though there is an edge to it that sends a thrill of fear through you. "You seem pale. Is the food not to your liking?"

You force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace, and shake your head. "No, Father," you manage to say, your voice trembling slightly. "The food is fine. I’m just... not very hungry this morning."

Aerys’ eyes narrow further, as if he is searching for the lie in your words, but before he can press further, Rhaegar speaks, his voice calm and steady, though you can sense the tension beneath it.

"Perhaps my sister is simply tired from our journey back to King’s Landing," Rhaegar suggests, his gaze flicking between you and Aerys. "It was a long trip, and she may need time to rest and recover."

Aerys studies you for a moment longer, his gaze piercing, before he finally releases your hand. "Very well," he says, his voice laced with a hint of suspicion. "But do not think to excuse yourself from the feast too early, Y/N. There are matters we must discuss."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and feel Rhaegar’s hand subtly cover yours under the table, a silent reassurance. The court continues to eat, the murmur of conversation resuming, but you can no longer focus on anything other than the dread that gnaws at the edges of your thoughts.

The minutes drag on, each one stretching into an eternity as you and Rhaegar sit in uneasy silence, the weight of your father’s presence pressing down on you like a suffocating shroud. Aerys continues to eat, each bite slow and deliberate, as if he is savoring not just the food but the tension in the room. The courtiers, their own meals forgotten, steal furtive glances at the king, their expressions a mix of apprehension and curiosity. It is clear that they, too, are waiting, their nerves stretched taut as they anticipate whatever madness might spill from Aerys’ lips.

Finally, after what feels like an agonizing eternity, Aerys pushes his plate away with a deliberate slowness that sends a shiver down your spine. The scraping of the plate against the table is the only sound in the hall, a grating noise that echoes in the silence. Then, with a movement so sudden it nearly startles you, Aerys rises to his feet.

The court falls completely silent. All eyes turn to the king, every whisper and murmur dying on the lips of the courtiers as they wait, breath held, for whatever is to come next. Aerys stands tall, his hands resting on the table, his wild eyes gleaming with something dangerous—something that makes your blood run cold.

He takes a deep breath, and then, in a voice that carries through the hall like a blade slicing through the air, he begins to speak.

"My lords, my ladies," Aerys intones, his voice dripping with a mockery of warmth that does nothing to disguise the madness lurking beneath. "I have been pondering long and hard over the future of this realm—over the future of my house. The blood of the dragon runs thick, and it is my duty as your king to ensure that it continues to do so."

The courtiers exchange uneasy glances, uncertain of where this is leading. You can feel Rhaegar tense beside you, his hand still holding yours beneath the table, his grip tightening as he, too, waits for the king’s next words.

Aerys pauses, his gaze sweeping the room, lingering on each of the noble lords and ladies in turn. His eyes gleam with a kind of manic glee as he continues. "I have decided," he says slowly, savoring each word, "that the time has come to solidify the strength of House Targaryen. To ensure that our blood remains pure, untainted by the weakness of lesser houses."

Your heart begins to race, the dread that has been gnawing at you all morning rising like bile in your throat. You have heard this kind of rhetoric from your father before, but there is something about the way he is speaking now, something that suggests this is more than just another of his delusional rants.

Aerys straightens, his hands leaving the table as he spreads his arms wide, as though welcoming the court into some grand, twisted plan. "And so," he announces, his voice booming, "I have decided that I shall marry my daughter, Y/N, myself. She is the mother of my dragon, the key to our house’s rebirth, and together, we shall bring forth a new age for House Targaryen!"

The gasp that ripples through the hall is not a mere wave; it is a thunderclap of shock and horror. The courtiers stare at the king in disbelief, some with wide eyes, others with their mouths slightly agape, as they try to comprehend the enormity of what Aerys has just decreed. Even those who might have expected something drastic from the king seem stunned by the announcement, their shock visible.

Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens almost painfully, and you can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame. His face remains a mask of composure, but you know your brother well enough to see the turmoil beneath the surface. This was not how it was supposed to be. Your two are supposed to wed. That was the announcement the court was waiting to hear. Now, your father has twisted everything, turning it into a horrifying reality that reeks of possession and madness.

You sit frozen, unable to move or speak, your mind reeling from the shock of your father’s words. The voice in your head stirs again, whispering dark, unintelligible things, but you push it down, focusing instead on the scene unfolding before you.

Lord Owen Merryweather is the first to react, rising from his seat with a forced smile on his face, though his eyes betray his unease. "A most wise decision, Your Grace," he says, his voice smooth but strained. "Such a union will surely strengthen the realm and secure the legacy of House Targaryen."

Aerys’ eyes gleam with satisfaction as he nods in acknowledgment, clearly pleased with the Hand’s response. But the court remains uneasy, the murmurs that follow Merryweather’s statement filled with uncertainty and fear.

As you look around the hall, you see Tywin Lannister’s expression harden, his sharp eyes narrowing as he assesses the situation. His face reveals nothing of what he is truly thinking, but you know that Tywin is not one to take such a move lightly. The dismissal as Hand still festers, and his loyalty, if it can be called that, is more precarious than ever.

Your attention snaps back to Aerys as he takes a step closer to you and Rhaegar, his gaze settling on you with a possessive intensity that makes your skin crawl. He reaches out, taking your hand in his once more, and you can’t help but flinch at the coldness of his touch.

"The blood of the dragon must remain pure," Aerys says, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, as if he is sharing a great secret with you alone. "And you, my daughter, will play a pivotal role in that. We shall burn away the impurities and emerge, reborn in fire and blood."

You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure even as your mind screams at you to pull away, to run, to do anything but sit here and accept what he is saying. But you are trapped, caught between the expectations of your house and the madness of the man who rules it.

And then, just as the dread threatens to overwhelm you, the voice returns, its words slithering into your mind with a sickening glee.

"Souls draped in rotten tatters and Father dances in the dark."

The voice cackles, the sound echoing in your skull, and you feel a chill run down your spine. The room seems to tilt for a moment, and you grasp at the edge of the table, trying to steady yourself. Rhaegar notices, his hand squeezing yours in silent support, but there is little he can do in the face of Aerys’ madness.

You force yourself to meet your father’s gaze, the madness in his eyes a reflection of the darkness that has been creeping into your own mind. You want to scream, to cry, to rail against the fate that is being forced upon you, but all you can do is nod, a small, almost imperceptible movement that seals your fate.

Aerys smiles, a cruel, satisfied smile that makes your blood run cold. "Good," he says, his voice low and triumphant. "Very good."

And then, as if the horror of this announcement were not enough, Aerys turns back to the court, his voice rising with manic energy.

"But there is more!" he declares, and the hall falls silent once more, the tension ratcheting up to unbearable levels. "At the time of our wedding, a great purge will begin. We shall cleanse this court, this kingdom, of traitors and those who conspire against us. The flames of the dragon shall consume them, and from their ashes, our reign shall rise, stronger and purer than ever before!"

The courtiers’ murmurs turn to gasps of fear and disbelief. The king’s words have cast a shadow of terror over the room, and the implications of his decree settle heavily over every heart. You can see the horror etched into their faces, the realization that none of them is safe from Aerys’ paranoia and madness.

As you sit there, the court around you buzzing with shock and speculation, you realize that there is no escape from the path your father has set you on. The dance has begun, and you are trapped in it, a pawn in a game far more dangerous than you ever imagined.

The only question that remains is how far you are willing to go to survive it.

The king’s words hang in the air like a death sentence, their weight pressing down on the court until it feels as though the very walls of the Red Keep might crack under the strain. The courtiers, already on edge, now teeter on the brink of panic, their whispers turning into a low, rising murmur of fear and confusion. Aerys stands at the head of the table, a darkly triumphant smile on his lips as he watches the chaos unfold, the madness in his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

At his post near the entrance of the hall, Ser Arthur Dayne’s heart pounds in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears as he struggles to maintain his composure. His grip on the hilt of Dawn tightens, the leather of the hilt creaking under the pressure. He watches as the reality of Aerys’ proclamation sinks into the minds of those gathered, their expressions shifting from shock to terror as they realize the full implications of what has just been decreed.

Arthur’s training, his sense of duty as a Kingsguard, tells him to act, to bring order to the court, to protect the king as he was sworn to do. But in that moment, he feels frozen, unable to move, his gaze fixed on you and Rhaegar, who sit together at the high table, the weight of your father’s madness pressing down on you both.

This was supposed to be different. Arthur’s heart clenches painfully as he remembers the quiet conversations he had with Rhaegar, the plans they had made to ensure your safety. The marriage between you and Rhaegar was supposed to be a safeguard, a promise to keep you out of Aerys’ reach, to shield you from the worst of your father’s madness. But now, that promise has been shattered, and the reality of what Aerys has declared is far worse than any of them had imagined.

As the panic in the hall threatens to spill over, Arthur forces himself to move. He glances at his brethren—Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jaime Lannister, and Ser Oswell Whent—who are all equally awear, their eyes darting between the king and the courtiers. They, too, are struggling to maintain control, to fulfill their duty in the face of the impossible.

Arthur steps forward, his voice cutting through the rising noise with the authority of one who has commanded armies. "Silence!" he calls, his tone firm but controlled, though the effort it takes to maintain that control feels like a battle within itself. "You will show respect for your king."

The courtiers fall silent, their fear and uncertainty now directed toward the Kingsguard, their eyes wide with apprehension. But the tension remains, thick and suffocating, the threat of violence hanging over the room like a sword waiting to fall.

Arthur’s gaze flickers back to you and Rhaegar. His heart aches at the sight of you, pale and shaken, your eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Rhaegar, ever the composed prince, is struggling as well, the weight of what has just been set into motion bearing down on him with crushing force. He leans toward you, his hand still gripping yours beneath the table, his voice low and urgent as he whispers something in your ear. You nod faintly, your movements stiff, as if you’re not entirely in control of your own body.

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat as he watches Rhaegar rise from his seat, his expression carefully neutral as he offers you his hand. "Come," Rhaegar says quietly, his voice soothing, though Arthur can hear the strain beneath the calm. "We should retire, Y/N. There is much to discuss, and you need rest."

You nod again, allowing Rhaegar to help you to your feet, your hand clutching his as though it is the only thing keeping you anchored to reality. Together, you begin to move away from the table, your steps slow and deliberate, as if you’re trying not to draw attention to yourselves. But Arthur knows that in a room full of people, there is no escaping the eyes that watch your every move.

Aerys, too, watches, his gaze narrowing as he notices the subtle attempt to retreat. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Arthur fears that the king will command you to stay, to subject you to whatever twisted designs have taken root in his mind. But instead, Aerys remains silent, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction as if he is content to let you go—for now.

Arthur wants to follow, to abandon his post and go after you, to protect you from the madness that is now so clearly aimed directly at you. But he cannot. He is bound by his oaths, his duty as a Kingsguard, and to abandon his post now would be a betrayal of everything he has sworn to uphold. And yet, as he watches you walk away, led by Rhaegar, he feels the sting of helplessness, a deep and painful wound that cuts through his very soul.

Ser Barristan, ever the stalwart knight, steps forward to assist in maintaining order among the courtiers. His voice is calm but firm as he speaks, offering reassurances that ring hollow in the ears of those who have just witnessed the king’s madness made manifest. Ser Jaime and Ser Oswell take up positions at the exits, their presence a reminder that, despite the chaos, the Kingsguard remain vigilant, ready to enforce the king’s will, no matter how twisted.

But Arthur, his heart heavy with a grief that he cannot show, can only watch as you and Rhaegar make your way out of the hall, each step taking you further from the nightmare that has unfolded. As you pass by him, your eyes meet his for the briefest of moments, and in that gaze, he sees the depth of your despair, the silent plea for help that you cannot voice.

He cannot respond, not in the way he wishes to. All he can do is nod, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture that he hopes conveys the promise that, no matter what happens, he will not abandon you.

But as you disappear from view, led away by Rhaegar, the reality of what has just happened crashes down on him with the force of a storm. The marriage that was supposed to keep you safe, the plan that was meant to protect you, has been twisted into something monstrous by the very man who should have been your protector. And now, there is no escaping the darkness that has been unleashed.

Arthur’s heart shatters at the realization, the weight of his duty pressing down on him like never before. He feels as though he is drowning in the madness that surrounds him, unable to save the one person he swore to protect above all else.

The court remains tense, the fear in the air drowning and suffocating. Arthur forces himself to remain focused, to do his duty, even as his mind races with the impossible choices that now lie before him. The king’s madness has set them all on a path from which there may be no return, and as Arthur stands there, sword in hand, he knows that the hardest decisions are yet to come.

But for now, all he can do is stand his ground, even as the world crumbles around him, and pray that somehow, in the end, there will be a way to save you from the darkness that threatens to consume you all.

As the shock in the hall begins to settle into a simmering unease, Ser Jaime Lannister remains at his post near one of the exits, his sharp eyes scanning the room. The court was still reeling from the king's shocking pronouncement. Jaime's jaw clenches as he watches the courtiers murmur amongst themselves, their faces pale with fear and uncertainty. He had known something like this was coming, had seen the signs, but even he hadn't fully grasped just how far the king's madness had spiraled.

He catches sight of Ser Oswell Whent, who is stationed near the opposite door. Making sure that none of the courtiers are too close to overhear, Jaime makes his way over to him, his movements smooth and controlled despite the tension coiled within him. When he reaches Oswell, Jaime leans in slightly, his voice low and edged with frustration.

"I warned Ser Gerold this would happen," Jaime mutters, his golden hair catching the light as he casts a glance back at the head of the hall, where Aerys remains seated, his eyes alight with his twisted satisfaction. "I told him that Aerys was growing more unstable by the day, that it was only a matter of time before he did something like this. But Gerold refused to listen. He said our duty was to protect the king, not question him."

Oswell's face remains impassive, though his dark eyes flicker with something that could be agreement—or perhaps regret. He nods slightly, acknowledging Jaime's words without fully committing to a response. "Ser Gerold is loyal to the oaths we swore," Oswell replies, his tone measured. "As are we all. But perhaps... perhaps the time has come to reconsider what those oaths truly demand of us."

Jaime’s expression tightens, his frustration barely contained. "Loyalty to a mad king is one thing. Allowing him to destroy his own family—and the realm—is another. We swore to protect the royal family, not to stand by and watch them be consumed by Aerys’ madness."

Oswell glances at Jaime, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Be careful, Ser Jaime. Such talk could be considered treasonous."

Jaime’s gaze hardens, his voice dropping even lower. "Treasonous or not, we both know it’s the truth. Aerys has lost all sense of reason, and the longer we stand by and do nothing, the more lives he’ll ruin—starting with his own children."

Before Oswell can respond, they both notice Ser Barristan Selmy making his way toward Ser Arthur Dayne, who stands near the entrance where Rhaegar and you just exited. The hall has begun to quiet again, the courtiers returning to their seats, though the undercurrent of fear is still present. Jaime watches as Barristan stops beside Arthur, his expression calm but his eyes betraying a deeper concern.

Arthur, still reeling from what has just transpired, barely notices Barristan’s approach until the older knight speaks, his voice low and meant only for Arthur’s ears. "Go after them, Arthur," Barristan says quietly, his tone steady but urgent. "Rhaegar may need your help to get Y/N away from here safely, before Aerys changes his mind and demands she return to the hall."

Arthur turns to Barristan, his eyes filled with the torment of his own inner struggle. "But my duty—"

"Your duty is to protect them," Barristan interrupts, his voice firm. "And right now, the best way to do that is to be by their side. The rest of us will keep things under control here. Go."

Arthur hesitates for only a moment longer, the conflict in his eyes clear. But Barristan’s words have struck a chord within him, and he knows that his place is with you and Rhaegar, especially now that the situation has become so perilous. With a nod of gratitude to Barristan, Arthur turns and swiftly exits the hall, his long strides taking him down the corridor after you and Rhaegar.

Jaime watches him go, a flicker of approval crossing his features. "It seems Ser Barristan has a better sense of duty than Ser Gerold," he remarks quietly to Oswell. "At least someone still remembers what we’re really here for."

Oswell’s gaze follows Arthur as he disappears from view. "It’s a dangerous game we’re playing, Jaime," he says, his voice thoughtful. "But you may be right. If we don’t start making decisions for the right reasons, we’ll all be caught in the fire."

Jaime nods, his expression grim. "And when that happens, no one will escape unscathed."

The two knights exchange a brief, knowing glance before returning to their posts, their minds heavy with the knowledge that the line between loyalty and treason has never been thinner—and that their choices in the coming days could determine not just their own fates, but the fate of the entire realm.

Rhaegar leads you down the corridors of the Red Keep, his hand firm yet gentle as he guides you away from the hall and the madness you’ve just left behind. The echoes of your father’s words still ring in your ears, but they feel distant, like a memory from another life. Your steps are mechanical, your mind numb as you try to process what has just been decreed. Aerys’ madness had always been a looming shadow, but now it has fully enveloped you, binding you to a fate darker than any you could have imagined.

Rhaegar stops once you’re far enough from the throne room, turning to face you. His eyes, usually so composed and thoughtful, are now filled with a deep, painful regret. "Y/N," he begins, his voice soft, almost pleading. "I’m so sorry. I never thought he would... I never thought he would do this. I tried to protect you. I thought marrying you myself would keep you safe, but..." He trails off, his hands gripping your shoulders as if trying to anchor you to him, to reality.

But you hardly register his words. Your mind feels detached, floating somewhere between the horrors of the present and the creeping dread of the future. Your father’s announcement, the grotesque mockery of what should have been a safeguard, feels like a nightmare you cannot wake from. You look at Rhaegar, but it’s as if you’re seeing him from a distance, through a fog that dulls your senses.

"Y/N, please," Rhaegar implores, his voice breaking through the haze. "You have to stay with me. We’ll find a way out of this, I promise. I won’t let him hurt you. I won’t let this happen."

His words reach you, but they don’t penetrate the numbness that has taken hold of you. You want to respond, to tell him that you’re afraid, that you feel as though you’re trapped in a nightmare with no escape, but the words won’t come. Instead, you just stare at him, your eyes wide and vacant, as if you’re somewhere else entirely.

Rhaegar’s grip tightens slightly, his desperation growing. "I should have done more. I should have stopped him. I—"

Before he can finish, the sound of footsteps echoes through the corridor, and Arthur Dayne appears, his face etched with worry and determination. He quickly closes the distance between you, his eyes flickering between you and Rhaegar, taking in the scene before him.

"Rhaegar," Arthur says, his voice steady despite the turmoil you know he must be feeling. "What happened in there... I couldn’t believe it. But right now, we need to focus on getting Y/N somewhere safe. Away from him."

Rhaegar nods, his expression one of grim resolve. "She’s in shock, Arthur. She hasn’t spoken since we left the hall." His voice is laced with guilt, and he looks at you with an almost helpless expression, as though he doesn’t know how to reach you.

Arthur steps closer, his presence a calming force despite the chaos that surrounds you. He gently places a hand on your arm, his touch warm and reassuring. "Y/N," he says softly, his voice low and soothing. "I’m here. We’re both here. We’re not going to let anything happen to you."

You finally blink, the fog in your mind lifting just slightly at the sound of Arthur’s voice. You turn your head to look at him, and for the first time since the throne room, you feel a flicker of something—perhaps it’s safety, perhaps it’s the familiar comfort of his presence. But it’s enough to pull you back, if only a little, from the abyss you’ve been teetering on.

"I—" you start to say, your voice barely more than a whisper, but it catches in your throat. You try again, swallowing hard, and manage to force out, "I don’t know what to do."

Arthur and Rhaegar exchange a glance, both of them clearly grappling with their own fears and uncertainties. But when Arthur speaks, his voice is steady, his words a promise. "We’ll figure it out. We won’t let Aerys take you down with him. Whatever it takes, we’ll protect you."

Rhaegar nods, his hand moving from your shoulder to clasp your hand. "You’re not alone, Y/N. We’ll find a way through this. I swear it."

The sincerity in their voices, the determination in their eyes, offers a small comfort amidst the storm that rages within you. The numbness begins to fade, replaced by the cold, hard reality of your situation—but with it comes a sense of clarity. You’re not alone. Rhaegar and Arthur are here, and they will fight for you, just as you have fought to hold on to whatever sanity remains in the twisted world your father has created.

Slowly, you nod, squeezing Rhaegar’s hand in return, though your grip is weak. "I... I trust you," you manage to say, your voice trembling. "But I’m scared."

Arthur’s hand moves to your back, offering support. "You have every right to be. But fear doesn’t mean we’re defeated. We’ll take this one step at a time."

Rhaegar exhales slowly, as if relieved that he’s finally gotten through to you, if only a little. "Arthur’s right. We’ll take this one step at a time. But for now, let’s get you somewhere safe, away from the court’s eyes and ears. We need to think."

The three of you start moving again, Arthur and Rhaegar flanking you as they guide you through the maze of corridors that lead away from the throne room and its lingering echoes of madness. The walls of the Red Keep, which once felt like a fortress, now seem like a prison—one that you must escape, no matter the cost.

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