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dilatorywriting · 1 year ago

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Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 5.2k

Summary: Teaching a Siren to read is perhaps the best or worst idea that you've ever had. If only you were half as capable of reading between the lines.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

‘U-G-L-Y’

“Wow,” you drawled. “What a wonderful use of your new talents.”

The fish you were cooking landed upside down on the hot stone with a crackling sizzle of skin that you could feel as a jumping prickle of heat all along your arm. You poked at your impromptu stovetop with your impromptu stick-spatula and prepared your impromptu leaf-plates. A true culinary connoisseur, you were. When you were rescued, you were going to argue to Riddle that you deserved a promotion to the kitchens. Though, apparently not everyone appreciated your talents.

‘UGLY’ the Siren poked again, jabbing his talon into the sand.

“Then bring me prettier fish,” you returned, pointed. “It’s not that hard.”

His sharp, black claws came up to point at you next alongside his wonderful, two-syllable insult. Then back to you again, with four fingers this time. Both hands going for it. There was a tight, irritated expression on his face that you refused to call a pout because firstly, surely this vicious king of the seas could never pull something so childish. And secondly, because in these past few days you’d developed a terrible habit of just chattering each and every one of your thoughts aloud. And if you called him bratty, or dared imply such pouting was coming from his regal visage, you were just setting yourself up to get drenched by his flailing tail all over again.

“You can’t hurt my feelings,” you said, bland. “Ugly is the nicest thing you’ve ever called me.”

He huffed and smacked his fins against the sand. The trailing, dark tips cracked against your leg and you kicked him right back. It didn’t actually hurt, no more than a pinch to the side, but you’d spent enough time with this asshole now that not fighting back like a toddler pitching a tantrum wasn’t an option anymore.

Just over two weeks, now. Fifteen days and counting.

Those first few days had been spent in a nervous, prey-like panic, of course. Watching him circle the bay with his shredded fins, crying at the top of his lungs until your goosebumps had goosebumps. And then you’d helped untangle him from the mess you’d made, delicately working salt-brined twine away from weeping wounds. Sure, there’d been that whole hoopla of him pinning you in the sand after your act of Great Chivalry and promptly threatening to rip your throat out with his teeth, but you’d moved past that. The offering of home-cooked meals had softened his scaly hide, and then the even greater move of handing him your species’ alphabet like some great, guarded secret of old had sealed the deal. Cheers all around. It’d only taken you nearly being eaten, disemboweled, and drowned, but you’d made peace with your roommate. What a success story.

And now instead of trying to murder you, he just called you U-G-L-Y.

So, you know, baby steps.

The thin, pointed end of his tail whipped up from where you’d kicked him to twine around your ankle and give a sharp tug that had you sprawling face first into the sand with an oomph. Your great tumble sent all those pretty letters of his scattering in the breeze, and you spat out a mouthful of grit.

“Here’s a new one for you,” you chirped, digging your fingers into the muck. F-U-C-K—Y-O-U.

The Siren yowled, which you’d come to recognize far too well as a prickle along your nape and that forever echoing tug, tug, tug somewhere in your head that could never return the call with its corresponding answer. His tail flailed out again to smack at your hands. It was thick, and scaly, and all smooth, powerful muscle. The fact that he hadn’t crushed your poor fingers into a sad, bony paste by now beneath its wrath was a miracle. If you were a more optimistic person, you’d say he was being extra gentle with you on purpose. But even you weren’t delusional enough to think he liked you that much.

“Okay, okay,” you grouched, spitting out another mouthful of pebbles. “Fine. Just not around the food. Unless you want to have to go hunting for dinner all over again.”

The Siren huffed, rolling his eyes like it was a professional sport, and settled himself prettily back against the butt of his tail like he’d never even tried to beat you to death with his fins at all.

You sighed and pulled yourself back out of the sand, scrubbing it from your salt-sticky skin as best as you were able. You returned to poking at your fish. They weren’t too terribly singed, despite your distraction. And the Siren seemed to like the edges extra crispy either way, so it wasn’t any kind of loss. You were in the middle of balancing your impromptu stick-spatula against another impromptu stick-spoon to try and flip the fish without destroying it entirely when you felt a gentle poke, poke, poke against your arm.

You looked back and the Siren stared down at you, lips canted in a sharp smirk that was all pride.

U-G-L-Y—A-N-D—S-T-U-P-I-D, the sand said.

He’d been struggling with applying the whole -pid noise to the proper lettering, because of how similar it was to -ped. And the spelling had been tripping him up (with much obvious frustration) for the last day or so.

“Well done,” you sighed, not even too terribly upset that it had taken you months in Riddle’s impromptu classrooms to learn what he was picking up over the course of a few, harried sessions delivered with broken bits of sharp sticks and an ever changing canvas. “Try this.”

You scribbled another message in the sand. An insult, naturally, because he seemed to like those. You sounded out the letters as you hopped the tip of your finger over them one-by-one, and the Siren stared down at the inscription with the sort of intense focus meant for ancient tomes or sacred texts. You watched his lips move silently as he sounded it out alongside your mini-lesson, and then he was reaching forward to trace over the letters with the curved tip of a claw—knuckles bumping yours for a moment before shooing your hand away.

You returned to your dinner—finishing up the poor, murdered fish as best as you could and doling it out as usual. You reached out to hand pretty boy his leaf-plate, which he took like a lord accepting a meal from a lowly servant. All upturned noses and pointed disinterest. He set it beside him and nibbled on the offering as he continued to study the new task you’d given him—grand, purple fins splayed out at his sides to brush against your hip like a habit. And this was your life now, apparently. Sitting and frying lazy, shallow water fish over a heated stone while your Siren student studied curse words in the sand. If you managed to survive this, no one would ever believe you.

The wrecked ship called to you like, well, did you even have to say it.

(It felt like a low hanging pun at this point. You’d never be able to use the expression again for as long as you lived without thinking of narrowed, purple eyes nearly rolling up into the back of a too pretty head because you were apparently that annoying.)

Every day when you ventured towards the western side of the islet to feed your teeny, round octopus friend, you couldn’t help but sit and stare at the shattered hull. It’s not like it was in any sort of shape to actually get you off your little, sandy prison, but it was… There was something about it that was familiar enough to scratch an itch in your brain, but just alien enough that figuring out what was itching was outright impossible.

Silver songbirds.

‘Not safe,’ the Siren had demanded, with an almost frantic look to him. Not safe.

Every time you tried to venture closer to get a better look, it was like he could feel it. And he’d be pacing the shoreline like a blood-frenzied shark—rattling off muted, angry complaints the whole time that popped against your skin like soda fizz. So, lesson learned. Keep away.

It was a particularly sweltering afternoon today. Not a cloud in the bright, blue sky and nary a breeze to be seen. Sweat was beading unpleasantly along your brow and all down your back, and you hated it. At least on the Rose Queen there had been shade. And the lower decks of the ship submerged in the waves had always felt at least a little chilled. You could practically feel the damp, cool wood against your cheek. The smell of salt and pine oils in your nose. But here, on this stupid not-island with its barren trees and nothings, you just had to suffer in silence. The memories of your ship had you thinking of the washed up Songbird all over again, and you were in the middle of a heated, internal debate over making a swim for it again when something cold rained down over your face in small, scattered droplets.

You blinked back into focus to see Mister Merman at your ankles. You’d been sitting with your heels in the water, but no deeper. Because the shallows were still his territory, and while he hadn’t tried to hold you under in a while now, it was hard to forget something like that so easily. You didn’t really want to chance it if a foul mood struck him, no matter what sort of fragile truce seemed to exist between the pair of you lately.

Last you’d looked he’d been sunning himself on one of the wide, flat rocks—as he was wont to do. Lavender-tipped hair splayed out along his cheeks in a pool of soft gold and fins spread at his hips like the finest, plum silks. How he never seemed to burn with that delicate, ivory skin of his you had no idea. Maybe it was a Magical, Mystical, Merman perk yet undocumented. Or maybe he was just Like That. But he’d been snoozing away on his favorite boulder, and now he had rolled in with the tide to lounge by your toes. His fingers were spread, still dripping with sea water from where he’d flicked you in the face. You frowned at him—partly curious, but also pissilly blinking salt out of your eyes that stung, because come on dude.

He flicked more water your way and said something that you couldn’t manage to catch the shape of. When you didn’t respond with anything other than a pointed scrub of the water dripping down your cheeks, he reached out to wrap a clawed hand around your ankle and give a gentle tug.

“What?” you frowned, confused, and he tugged again.

He canted his head towards you, and then out to the cove behind him. He slipped back with the soft, frothy roll of the waves—just a foot or two—and clearly meant to pull you with him. You slid against the sandbar with a yelp and dug your heels into the muck to keep from getting yanked all the way in.

“No way,” you snipped, kicking a mess of water into his face. He didn’t even blink, just frowned down at you with a twisty sort of petulance. “I thought we were over this. If you drown me you won’t get any more cooked food, y’know. And I, in turn, would very much like to not be drowned. Win, win.”

That frown of his went stiff, and his lips twitched down at the corners. His amethyst eyes darted away and for a moment you swore that those gemstone irises flashed with something almost like guilt. He rolled forward with the next curl of surf and pressed a claw into the damp, dark sand at your hip. He scratched out a careful message, stubbornly refusing to meet your gaze all the while.

Won’t, it said.

“Forgive me for not believing that,” you returned, dry. “You’re oh-for-two now, I think. And, you know, fool me twice, and all that.” Though maybe the first one didn’t really count, seeing how you were both tangled together and sinking to the bottom in a mutual sort of destruction. But whatever. You were keeping it.

The Siren’s brow pinched in the middle and he reached forward to dig his claws in again.

Accident.

Your own brows jumped nearly to your hairline. You were just about to politely point out that dragging someone to the bottom of the ocean until they were bubbling from the nose and flailing wasn’t really an accident,but then you remembered the startled look on his face. The way he hadn’t stopped you from clawing your way back to the surface and how he’d carefully helped tow you back towards the shore after. And… maybe he hadn’t really meant it. It had to be strange, probably. Being able to thrive so easily below the waves and then be faced with someone who would die if they were left facedown in a puddle.

“…Fine,” you huffed, and his eyes jumped back up to yours with all cat-in-the-cream smugness. “But just because I’m about to drop from heatstroke. Not because you asked.”

The Siren rolled his eyes at you and returned to dragging you by your ankles into the shallows.

The bay really was very lovely. It was crystalline clear and the sort of brilliant blue that you’d never even known existed until you’d left the land for a life on the open ocean. The sand below your feet was soft and white, with barely any pebbles or broken bits of shell to dig into your toes. You watched a few crabs scurry out of the way as you were led deeper and deeper, but most of the cove’s occupants were spoiled and slow. Unbothered by this weird, fleshy, bipedal creature stepping past because they’d never known anything else. Once you hit waist-deep, the Siren let go of you to sink more fully into the water. He swam around you in a languid, looping circle—plum fins cresting the surface to flick water against your arms and scales shining like polished glass in the sunlight. It was still far too shallow for him to move around in earnest with how massive that tail of his was, and how wide and trailing his great, beta-like fins were, but he was still elegant. Still fast and flexible as he swam rings around you like an orbit.

“Show off,” you scoffed, but couldn’t quite bite back the grin twitching at your lips.

Because creature from the deep trying to devour your crew or not, Sirens really were so impressive, weren’t they? Straight out of a storybook, and deserving of every song and tale attributed to them.

You reached out before you could help yourself to run your fingers along his tail. The scales were smooth, and sleek, and cool against your palm. The wispy ends of his fins caught along your fingers, but other than a bit of a tangle, you almost managed to run your hand along the whole of it. And what was it? Eight feet? Ten? Bigger than you at least, that was for sure. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. No fish, or whale hide, or shark. Something entirely of its own.

You realized on the next loop when your fingers danced over a patch of still healing scales that you’d felt already that he had most definitely realized your err in personal space, and was letting you poke about on purpose. You glanced up, embarrassed and warm faced, to see the tail end of a smirk quirking out from the water’s surface. Preening bastard.

You turned up your nose and waded deeper. There was a ripple in the water around you, like a chuckle, and he returned to his looping circles. Occasionally his tail would brush up against you to get you to jump, but otherwise he kept his hands to himself and—as promised—did not attempt to wrestle you down to the sandy floor and your subsequent watery grave.

Once you’d made it up to your chest, the Siren was able to start his dance in earnest. He darted away to make a wide arc around the edge of the cove—sunshine catching on his scales like a glare on the water. He shot from one end to the other, so fast it was nearly dizzying to try and keep up with. And then he was back to circling your ankles all over again—tangling your legs in his fins and curling his talons against your calves to try and drag you deeper.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, paddling after him until you were well and truly above your head. The bay wasn’t very deep, but there were a few areas that dipped down to at least fifteen feet. So soon enough you were bobbing like a top in the gentle surf as he looped around your idly kicking feet—brushing up along your ankles and tugging at the frayed edge of your shirt with his claws when he passed by.

When he next rose above the surface, you’d already taken in a big mouthful of water in preparation, and shot it right into his face. The Siren’s whole expression shriveled up like a hundred-year-old prune and you laughed so hard he had to curl his tail around your waist to keep you from dipping under the waves and choking yourself. You let him drag you around and only grabbed at his fins a little. He would dive below your feet and you’d sink after him. Not nearly as agile or adept, but competent enough to follow his little game of tag without losing completely within the first few seconds. It was—it was nice. Genuinely. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d swam for the fun of it. Way back when you’d first joined up with Riddle’s crew, maybe. It’d been a hot day, just like this one, and you’d been anchored in a safe, shallow inlet off the coast of an archipelago. Deuce and Ace had jumped in first, already brawling, and you’d dove in soon after. It’d been a mess, and Riddle had nearly hung the three of you up by your toes for it. But it’d been fun. Familial. Warm. Something you’d never forget. And while this moment didn’t feel entirely like that one had, there was something similar about it. Sure, you weren’t trying to give the Siren a bloody nose and there were no rock wars, but it was… well, it was nice.

By the end of it, he was swimming lazy, looping shapes around the cove, and you were being dragged alongside him like a raft—kept afloat by the curling press of his tail and relaxing in the afternoon sunshine with the cool ripples of the ocean water to keep you both comfortable in the heat.

“Do you do this a lot?” you asked, as you relaxed in the gentle lull of the surf. “With your pod, I mean.”

The Siren stiffened beneath you, but after a moment he nodded. Slow and rigid. Which—

Oh. Right.

“…sorry,” you mumbled, gaze darting away.

Because he was missing his family just as much as you were missing yours, wasn’t he?

All that frantic pacing at the start of your mutual stranding had just seemed to… fade away as the days passed. He would still circle the entrance of the cove some mornings, singing towards the skies and tilting his head—fins pricked as he searched for an answer. You’d feel it in your nerves, see the gulls overhead dipping in a trance and watch the crabs crawl up onto the sand like they were being dragged out by their little claws. But most of the time now he just… didn’t. He spent his days mumbling over the letters you showed him, or carefully preening over his healing fins and resting in the sun. Catching fish for you to prepare and roast, and taking his meals at your side as you both snipped at each other with sandy curse words. It was pleasant, this routine you’d fallen into together. But all the same, he never really stopped checking the ocean waters. And you could see a spark in his eyes, an itch. The same one that lit yours, no doubt, every time you caught yourself squinting for the outline of ships on the horizon.

The difference between the two of you, of course, was that in a few more days his scales would be healed enough to face the dangers of the open water alone. Life as a rogue mer was notoriously perilous. The lone Sirens were those that poachers were willing to risk battle with for a trophy. They were the ones caught in fishing nets, and found mauled by rival pods. But your Siren was smart. He was big, and strong, and impressive. He’d find a way to survive it, no doubt. One morning you’d wake up and he’d have darted off into the deep to search for his family. To go home. And you…

You would still be trapped here.

Alone.

Forever.

Rotting under the sun with no one to take you swimming in the afternoons. Or bring you clawed up fish to cook for dinner. Or to use your writing lessons just to insult you with scribbled words in the muck.

Which—that was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? At the start of all of this.

And it was only fair, in the end. He was the better of the two of you, after all. Born and bred to thrive in the depths of the sea that would swallow you whole without a thought. And if either of you was going to survive, to find your home again, it was always going to be him. Maybe you’d be a story, like he would have been for you. The strange human with no ears, just like the rest of the pirates whispered about. Who taught him that fire could make fish extra tasty and that leaves could make perfectly serviceable plates if you tried hard enough.

You sighed, and bubbles of salt water frothed along your mouth.

The Siren raised his head from his own lazy sprawl to arch a brow at you in question, and you did the very mature thing of spitting water in his face all over again.

You ended up being dragged through the cove in a flurry of spitting, Siren rage. Laughing and laughing until he huffed and hauled you back to shore to keep you from swallowing any more seawater like the idiot that you were. And it was fine, really it was. He wasn’t so bad, not really. And if he was able to reunite with his pod once more after all those days of hollow wailing and pacing, pacing, pacing that had made something deep in your soul itch like a freshly scabbed wound that you just couldn’t stop picking, well, that wouldn’t be such a bad ending after all.

The next afternoon while you were out on your daily Octopus Wellness Check, you came across a piece of pale, purple sea glass mixed into the rocky shore. It was smooth to the touch and frosted over by the endless tumble of the tide. You held it up to the light and it sparkled just like the Siren’s scales.

“What do you think?” you asked the octopus as it grabbed shredded bits of fish with its chubby, little tentacles. “Do you want it? Or should I give it to—”

You blinked, startled, and realized all at once that you’d never learned the Siren’s name. Or given him yours. You’d just sort of been calling each other a variety of derogatory pseudonyms and hoping for the best. Which, huh. You hadn’t even realized you’d wanted to know his name. It wasn’t yours to take, of course. Let alone from someone who would no doubt be leaving so soon. But it was a thought.

“You always give the best advice, you know,” you told the teeny creature, and it hid from you like you were a great, looming monster of old. “Whether you meant to or not. Thanks for that.”

So on the way back to your cove, you picked through some tufts of beachgrass to find the longest, driest spikes. You began winding them together as you walked, and settled down in your favorite little corner of the inlet to continue your weaving. The Siren, naturally—being as nosy as he was—was immediately hovering over you like a child watching someone hold a bag of sweets just out of reach. You clutched your little project to your chest like a secret, and it had him puffing up in irritation and smacking his fins against your sides like your refusal to share whatever had caught your attention was a crime beyond comparison. He arched up as tall as he could to try and peer over your shoulder, and, in failing at that, just outright tried to snatch the thing from your hands.

“I won’t give it to you if you keep being a pest,” you warned, and immediately he was slipping back to rest on his stomach in the damp sand with a starbright curiosity in his eyes, chin pillowed atop his interlaced fingers and gaze following the movements of your hands like a cat tracking a mouse in its hole. Clearly the promise of it being a treat for him was mollification enough to keep him from hovering.

Once you’d braided a sturdy enough chain, you carefully twined it around the sea glass in a little, crisscrossing cage of fibers. Just knotted enough to keep the ocean-worn trinket safe and in place without hiding the shine of it. With that, you held up your trophy with a dramatic wave, and the Siren was popping up all over again. His amethyst glare tracked the swinging pendant with startling focus and a surprisingly wide-eyed spark of confusion.

“Here,” you said, reaching out to drop the makeshift necklace into his lap. He caught it in his claws, eyes still far too round with shock. “It made me think of your scales. I thought you might like it.”

He was staring down at the gift in utter silence. And not the normal sort of quiet either—where your broken eardrums simply refused to pick up on all his petulant grousing against your person. This was actual silence. His lips were parted like they were caught on a breath, but he wasn’t saying anything. Not even a complaint about how plain and ugly it was. He curled his claws daintily around the woven chain, as if he was afraid of tearing right through it with an accidental prick, and then held the sparkling bauble aloft like he was utterly entranced by the soft gleam of it.

After a long, long moment of that near eerie silence and a pool of dread filling your belly that screamed you’d clearly fucked up in some way (overstepped some weird, Siren tradition. Accidentally insulted his father. Handed him a bad luck omen on a string. Something), the Siren was twisting around to show you the back of his neck. He held up the woven chain so it draped along his shoulder blades, and he pointedly shook the ends at you.

When you just gaped back in shock, he turned to sneer over his shoulder at you and jabbed a claw at his throat, then the necklace, then you, then his throat again. Which, oh. Oh! That—that you could do.

So you reached out to pluck the ends of the grass-woven thread from his talons and he immediately shifted around again to make himself comfortable. Curling his tail firmly against the sand with his plum-lined fins spread out in all their glory like a spill of purple ink along the shoreline. He set his shoulders square and firm, and looked straight ahead with that same, queer sort of focus to him as before.

You tied the ends of the necklace in a bow against his nape, making sure it was securely fastened in place and not snagging any of the softer, shorter hairs at the back of his neck. Once it’d been fussed with to his liking, he turned back around and stared you down until you could feel goosebumps prickling up all along your spine. You wanted to meekly tell him that it was just sea glass. Just a little trinket you’d found in the sand that you’d thought was pretty enough that he might like to have it. But the words died on your tongue. They felt wrong somehow. And you’d put your foot in your mouth plenty of times throughout your life, but this definitely felt like it would have been the biggest boot of all.

“…You like it?” you tried instead, because that sentiment at least seemed less like something that was ready to clog up your throat.

The Siren nodded, firm, his eyes still drilling into yours with that unnerving level of focus.

You coughed into your fist and awkwardly attempted to shift away to give yourself a bit of room, and—Huh. When had his tail come up to wrap around your leg? That made running away a bit inconvenient. You’d just have to try and wriggle your way out and hope he would take mercy on your far inferior musculature, and—

There was a poke at your hip. Tap, tap, tap. One, two, three. And you glanced back up at him with a pinched frown, confused.

The Siren pointed to a scrawl in the sand. Tap, tap, tap.

Acceptable.

You gawked, and then swallowed a laugh so fast it nearly choked you. Because he was still himself, wasn’t he? No matter what. Sassy, asshole fish. Gods, you were going to miss him.

You wiped at the bubbling, giggling tears prickling at the corner of your eyes and reached out to pat at his tail in good humor.

“I hope you find your happy ending,” you beamed, and meant it.

The Siren just looked at you with one of his familiar, lemon-sour puckers. He pointedly reached up to flick at the necklace around his throat, like that had anything to do with him finding his family again at all. Like it wasn’t just some silly trinket you’d gifted him in hopes that maybe one day he could look back fondly on the little human that he’d found himself stranded with. To not just forget you outright. To make your fleeting presence in his life something tangible, rather than just a mess of already fading scars and memories that would too easily be swept away in the depths of the sea.

“At least it’s acceptable,” you said finally around your giggling, and he huffed at you in a way that almost looked fond. You stood from the sand and brushed the mess of grit and salt off your pant legs. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner and I’ll teach you some nicer words tonight. So you can give me a real compliment next time.”

There was spray of water all along your back from where he’d no doubt dove back into the shallows behind you and walloped you with his fins to the best of his ability. And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be bothered by it at all.

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blitzyn · 2 years ago

Text

pervert

miguel o'hara x spiderman!reader

request : none

Synopsis: A game of cat and mouse goes to shit, and you find yourself bound in Miguel's webs.

a/n -> literally nobody asked for this but he's been stuck in my mind for decades and i wanted to get something out for my bbg <3 also super sorry i disappeared again, writers block straight up bitch slapped me and left me in a ditch, plus ive been losing interest in writing for genshin or just the game in general, unfortunately.

wc -> 3.3k

cw -> very dubcon, mean dom miguel, degradation, bondage?, face fucking, google translated spanish, spit as lube, anal fingering, anal sex, slight and brief choking, (semi) public sex??, not beta read

Exhilaration filled your veins as breathy laughs escaped your throat, weaving through buildings and rubble with the precision of someone who has experienced this type of chase countless times before.

And that's because you have. You've been in a near never-ending game of cat and mouse with the esteemed Miguel O'Hara, always close enough to feel the swipe of his talons in the air but too far to catch. No matter how many times he's cornered you, you always find a way to get past him; it was predictable at this point.

That pissed Miguel off like no other, hellbent on capturing you to put an end to your snide remarks, to put you in your place. While that usually would've enticed you in any other circumstance, you weren't too keen on letting him dig his claws into you now that you were chest-deep in this predicament — and his wrath.

"Stop running, already!" he shouted, the sharp edges of fury evident in his voice.

"I'm not running!" you respond, peering back at him with a smug grin. True to your words, you, quite literally, were not running. You were swinging with the agility of a seasoned acrobat, twisting and flipping through debris while looking like you were having fun. You offered him occasional glances and nearly laughed each time. Seeing him, a grown-ass man, almost constantly on all fours was amusing, but hearing him curse and grunt and growl made electricity shoot down your spine in a way that nearly got you caught several times.

Adrenaline filled your body and threatened to burst through your chest each time you evaded him. "Missed me!" you laughed, juking away from his swipe.

"So close!" you flip over him with a taunt. "Try again next time!"

"¡Voy a matarte!¹" He growls, and it was hard to ignore the shudder that rushed through your body. You slightly winced at the feeling. If you don't get your shit together when he spoke Spanish, then you were asking to get caught.

But it's not like you'd mind — Actually, yes, you fucking would!

You click your teeth in annoyance. Despite how hard you tried, you couldn't remove Miguel from your thoughts even though he was right behind you, hunting you down like a wild animal. Your mind strayed toward his broad shoulders, beautifully tiny waist, fat ass (that you'd give a lot to slap), and the massive piece of rubble being hurled at your body.

You blink out of your stupor, feeling your senses going off rather violently. Oh shit.

Everything seemed to move painfully slow as you stared at the debris with wide eyes, noticing Miguel's red web attached to it as he brought it down. You flung your arm out in an attempt to attach your webs to something and swing away, but was unable to pull yourself fast enough as the debris pinned you down to the roof of a building.

"Fuck!" you thought as you grunted and squeezed your eyes shut, agony tearing through your entire body. Swiftly, you pushed against the ground to shove the heavy object off of you, groaning with effort. Just as you managed to stand back up, you heard the familiar thwip! of his web wrapping around your waist and arms to yank you to him.

"Caught you," he said, voice rough and breathless as he panted hard. He loomed over you menacingly, hands curled into a fist.

You struggled, kicking and straining against your binds. "Come on, Miguel." You offer a tense grin. "We both know this won't last very long."

"Ay dios míos,²" he growled, dropping to a knee to roughly press a hand on your face, his fingers digging into your cheekbones. "¡Cállate!³"

...

Woah.

You stared at him with wide eyes, feeling your cock stir in your pants. Oh fuck.

It was hard to ignore your ever growing attraction (and hard-on) for him that seemed to intensify when he deactivated the hologram of his mask. Sweat beaded at his temple while his eyes narrowed at your bound figure, fangs peeking out from behind his lips as he caught his breath.

Even when you were the target of his anger, he was still breathtakingly hot.

You opened your mouth again to shout at him — probably to let you go or something along those lines — but Miguel wasn't having it.

"Why is it so much to ask for you to keep your fucking mouth shut for once?" he hissed, squeezing your cheeks tight enough to ache, but it only went straight to your dick. "Is that all you can do? Run your mouth until someone gets sick of your shit and shuts it for you? Huh?"

You whimpered, meekly shaking your head in denial. Tightly closing your eyes, you swallowed hard and squirmed, secretly trying to will away your hard cock straining against your clothes.

"You're so annoying! Stop moving," he demanded, reflexively looking down to adjust his position over you. His eyes raked over your body for a moment before zeroing in on your erection, pausing in surprise.

...

"Oh, you pervert."

Your eyelids snapped open at his words, mortification seeping deep in your chest as you shifted your head away from him in shame. Despite everything, you could only feel yourself getting harder under his intense gaze.

"Is that why you made me chase after you?" He forced you to look at him again, your face aching at his manhandling. "Because you wanted to fulfill some dirty fantasy of yours?"

He let out a dry laugh. "You couldn't find anyone willing to satisfy that depraved urge, so you turned to me. Just how desperate are you?"

You shook your head again, letting out muffled words. He mercifully removed his hand from your mouth to allow you to speak, sliding lower to rest on your throat. "I was just playing..."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head mockingly, momentarily adjusting himself to grope your painfully stiff dick. "And this was your master plan? To get off at the face of danger? You're more of a degenerate than I thought."

"N-No, I didn't—" you moaned, reflexively bucking your hips up into his hand.

"Stop lying." He squeezed the hand around your throat just enough to force labored gasps from you. "It's stupid how you don't think I've seen the way you look at me — how you think I haven't noticed you eyefucking me."

A furious blush rises on your cheeks as your cock twitches in his hold. It doesn't go unnoticed.

He laughed again, staring at you in mock disbelief. "You're enjoying this."

And this time, you don't deny it.

"Can't say I expected anything higher from you." He rolled his eyes in exasperation and removed his hands from your throat and dick to place them on your thighs. Effortlessly, he pried them apart to slot himself in between your legs, pressing his crotch flush against your ass.

Groaning, you lifted your hips a bit in an attempt to grind on him. With a growl, he swiftly slapped a hand on your abdomen to push you back on the ground.

"Don't move," he said, glaring at you with a mix of arousal and irritation in his eyes. "I've had enough of you getting your way." He leaned forward, a wince crossing your face when he pressed some of his weight onto your stomach. "It's my turn."

"My way—?" You cut yourself off with a huff when he gave you a stern look.

A thought seemed to pique his interest when he suddenly decided to kneel beside your head. It was nigh impossible to tear your eyes away from his crotch, the area beginning to glitch with a dim, pale blue glow at the strain from his hardening cock.

"Let's put your mouth to better use." He grabbed a fistful of your hair and deactivated the hologram covering his dick. It landed on your face with a quiet slap before his hand guided it to your lips.

You hesitantly parted them, only for them to be forced open wider to make room for his cock. You let out a surprised sound at the entry, but he was entirely focused on making you take him completely.

He was gracious enough to take it slow, relishing in the sounds of your gags and sputters and every deep inhale.

"Thaaat's it," he drawled out, sighing heavily when he felt your tongue rub against the underside of the shaft. "Fuck..."

Your eyelashes fluttered as he buried your nose into his pubic hair, uncontrollably drooling over him while you sucked and licked what you could. You felt him harden in your mouth, forcing himself deeper into your throat while it tightened and spasmed.

He increased the speed of his thrusts, absentmindedly shuffling closer to your face. A shiver ran down your spine when he slithered a hand on the junction between the back of your head and neck to hold you firmly.

A garbled whine left your throat as you subconsciously jerked your hips upwards, searching for some form of relief for your aching cock. You strained against the webs around your torso and arms, utterly intoxicated with his taste, his scent, his sounds—with him.

With a groan, he shoved himself as far as he could inside your throat and held you in place, ignoring how you instinctively struggled against him. A high-pitched ring sounded through your ears as your head spun, chest tightening with the need for oxygen.

Shuddering, he finally pulled out of you, watching with satisfaction as you coughed and gasped for air. A mix of saliva and precum connected your lips and the tip of his cock, to which you quickly licked away. You let him inspect you with a hand still buried in your hair, gaze locked in on your drool slicked chin and swollen lips.

A quiet hmph left him before he turned to place himself back in-between your thighs again, this time extending his talons to tear a path in your clothes from your ass to your crotch.

"H-Hey! Hold on—" you protested and kicked his arm away from you.

"Shut up," he cut you off, swatting your foot away while grasping your painfully hard cock again. "Don't act like you don't want this."

"G-God..." you moaned, furrowing your brows as you stared at him. A squeak left your throat when he suddenly pressed your legs to your chest, a quiet ptuh! escaping his lips alongside a glob of saliva that landed on your asshole.

Retracting his talons, he let go of one of your legs to press two fingers against your hole, shoving them inside you abruptly. You winced at the sting his thick fingers made as it mixed in with the arousal that burned in your gut. He separated them in a scissoring motion, moving in and out at a pace that had you yearning for more. His fingertips brushed against spots so frustratingly close to your prostate, you were sure he was purposefully avoiding it to mess with you.

"H-Hurry up," you demanded, the ache in your balls beginning to prove to be something you could hardly handle.

He gave you a sharp look. "Tell me to hurry up again and I'm leaving you like this."

You stared at each other for a moment longer before you looked away in defeat, muttering under your breath. He ignored you and added another finger, the wet squelching blending in with your soft moans. His hard cock pressed on your thigh, and you briefly wondered how he wasn't fucking you within an inch of your life already.

Quickly enough, you were able to realize that he wanted to make you wait. He wanted to give you a hard time — just like you did to him.

"C-C'mon, Miguel." You breathlessly chuckled, straining against the webs around your torso.

"What?" He raised a brow, satisfaction seeping into his expression at your growing desperation.

You opened your mouth again when he unexpectedly jabbed his fingertips onto your prostate, sending a violent surge of electricity through your body. "Fuck!" You cried out as a spurt of precum leaked out of your dick and enlarged the wet spot on your clothes. He continued targeting the gland, refusing to let you get a word in your sentence. The coil in your abdomen tightened into an almost unbearable degree before he abruptly removed his hand from you entirely.

"God, just fuck me already!" You jerked your hips upwards in a futile search for stimulation.

"You sound just like a whore," he commented, tone full of condescension. A heat washed over your body at his words as you stared at him with wide eyes. You tensed when he leaned down, lust and mirth swirling within his red irises. "Is that all you are?"

"What?" You found yourself unable to look away from him. "N-No, I—"

He shoved his cock inside you mid-sentence, tearing a loud moan from your throat. He held your thighs to fold you in half, using his body weight to pin you down. You panted hard as you tilted your head to the side and squeezed your eyes shut. It was hard to focus on anything else but his dick filling you up so perfectly.

Miguel released a gutteral groan, grinding his hips against you. He dug his fingertips into your legs hard enough to bruise, but that was the least of his worries — not when he had you below him. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he leaned back (mercifully removing some of the pressure on your chest) and watched himself move in and out of you, pulling out almost all the way before he slammed himself back inside.

"Ohh, fuck!"

"This is what gets you — mierda⁴ — all compliant, huh?" He taunted, abdomen flexing with every thrust. "The moment you get some dick inside you, you're like a trained mutt."

You opened your eyes to weakly glare at him, to deny what he said, but the moans spilling from your lips did nothing but prove him right.

"Te gusta cuando te trato como si no fueras nada, ¿no?⁵" He leaned back down, hooking his arms around the back of your knees as he pressed his chest against yours, curling his wrists around your thighs to grip the flesh. His breath was hot and heavy against the shell of your ear, lips so close you could feel the vibrations of his voice in your ear drum. "Aren't I right, you dirty little pervert?"

"N-No! S'not right!" You cried out, the burn of his cock stretching you out mixing in with the pleasure so deliciously it was almost addicting.

"Deja de mentirte y admítelo, puta,⁶" he hissed, widening his mouth to graze a fang along your neck threateningly, which sent a shiver down your spine. "Admit it — that you're a depraved whore."

"Admit it." He emphasized each syllable with a thrust, ramming into you hard enough to fuck the breath out of your lungs.

"Shit—fuck! Oh, god!" You sobbed, arching your back into him. You nearly came at the feeling of his abdomen rubbing your aching dick. "I'm a whore! M'your whore!"

His cock throbbed fervently at your words, rewarding you with groans and grunts directly into your ear. Your ass slightly stung at the force of his thrusts as he fucked his anger into you, but neither of you cared.

"Fuuuck!" You drawled out. "Miguel, m'so close! Let — ngh, ah — Let me cum!"

"Yeah?" He cooed in your ear, gently licking the shell. "You gonna cum f'me?"

"Yes, yes—!"

"Then beg."

He stopped moving so unexpectedly that it left you disoriented for a few moments as you stupidly stared at him with wide, watery eyes. "W-What...?"

"Beg to cum," he leaned away from you to get a clearer look at your face. "I'm not repeating myself."

You took a moment to catch your breath (and secretly savor the feeling of his dick twitching inside you). "God, please, Miguel! I need it so bad. I need to cum — please let me cum! I'll be good, I promise! Fuck, Miguel, please let me cum! Please, please, please!"

The sight of the tears along your lash lines sent electricity down his spine as his breath hitched. "You'll be good?" He dryly laughed. "I don't think I believe you."

You opened your mouth in defense when he suddenly slammed himself back inside you, tearing a moan instead of words from your throat. He fucked you hard and fast and deep, grunting in a way you could only describe as animalistic.

But you loved it. You loved how he controlled your body so effortlessly, how he treated you like a cheap fuck toy. You mentally deemed all those chases worth it in the end.

The heat from less than a minute or two prior returned full force as you tilted your head back in ecstasy. You babbled out incoherent words of (what Miguel suspected to be) praise, straining against your binds once again.

You screamed out when the coil in your abdomen finally snapped, electricity shooting down your spine as your cock spurt cum underneath your clothes. You weren't able to process the stain in the fabric when you realized that he hadn't slowed down, deciding to fuck you through your orgasm to chase his own.

You stared up at him, admiring the slight flush on his cheeks, how his brows furrowed in concentration, and even his eyes that shone with disdain towards you.

You could feel his dick throbbing inside you, and you quickly realized that he was about to cum as well. The ecstasy you were granted slowly began to merge with the pain of overstimulation, but it only made the hazy bliss you were in so much better.

"Yes, yes, Miguel!" You gasped out as your legs trembled in his hold. "Cum inside me, please, I want it!"

He grunted at your words, fucking you with a few more harsh thrusts before he suddenly pulled out. It took you a moment longer than normal for you to process the uncomfortable emptiness as he let go of one of your legs to quickly jerk himself off.

"What—No! Please, Miguel!" You pleaded uselessly, wincing when he tightened his grip on your thigh and unintentionally extended his talons. They penetrated through your clothes and pierced your skin, drawing a bit of blood, but that was neither of your concern at the moment.

"Ay, solo cállate ya,⁷" he growled, releasing your thigh to press his palm against your mouth to silence you. You let out pathetic whines and whimpers, but Miguel was focused on achieving his orgasm.

With a final few strokes, he finally came with a loud groan as his cum spurt onto the floor. He angled his hips to make sure none of it landed on you, much to your obvious dismay. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back and stared at your bound body, trembling and helpless. It was satisfying to see you in such a state.

He reactivated the hologram over his softening cock before binding your legs together in a way that hid the large hole in your pants to prevent anyone from figuring out what the two of you did.

He sighed heavily and slung you over his shoulder, standing up to look around and figure out where the fuck he was.

"You have a really nice ass," you commented after a moment, unable to keep your compliments to yourself.

He groaned. It was gonna be a long trip back to HQ.

Translations:

1: "I'm going to kill you!"

2: "Oh my god."

3: "Shut up!"

4: "Shit..."

5: "You like it when I treat you like you're nothing, don't you?"

6: "Stop lying to yourself and admit it."

7: "Oh, just shut up already."

cross-posted on ao3

3K notes · View notes

diejager · 2 years ago

Note

a Miguel x f!reader "who did this to you?" Angst fic?

Bittersweet Devotion

Pairing : Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Cw: angst, neglect, canon death, dead wife, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.5k

Miguel’s been distant these days, the world around him coming to a stop. His temper shortened and his patience dropped lower than it was before, but his attentiveness to his work sharpened. He divulged more of his time to the cause, to defend the multiverse from every anomaly that kept popping up in wildly different universes, at the cost of his personal life. Ever since the *Miles issue* had been dealt with (Spots was stopped from ending Captain Morales’ life prematurely, the canon was kept safe and intact, but his parents knew of his identity and his duty to New York and the multiverse.), Miguel shut himself inside the main office, closed off from the wandering Spider-people he brought over to help him protect their livelihood.

Atop his platform, he worked tirelessly, swiping screen to screen in search of any escaping anomalies. He depended on Lyla to help him search and the rest of the community to capture and contain these anomalies before they could be sent back to their appropriate universe, closing the rifts they used to escape. The brooding Spider-Man locked himself in, imposing shoulder peering from the edge of his high-floating platform while he stayed there most nights; days even, he hadn’t returned to your shared apartment in the building. He ate when you, Jess or Peter B. brought food to him, he drank and cleaned only when you urged him to do so.

Staying in his den meant that he rarely slept, the dark bags under his beautiful eyes growing as the days passed. Anomalies appeared left and right, Spiders were dispersed to catch them, sometimes in solo missions, and other times in teams if Miguel deemed it necessary for the anomaly (Green Goblins, Vultures and Sandman were some that were harder to deal with for their volatile attacks.). If you weren’t sent away on a retrieval mission, you’d be working around his office, keeping it clean and usable while he moved around, growling and throwing things as he went.

That’s where things became complicated, Miguel hated meddling and you were often in his space. While he was soft and caring in your shared room (the one he hadn’t been in for weeks now), he was domineering and imposing around the others. His shorter temper meant he often hissed and growled at you, brown eyes glimmering red as he sneered your way. You hadn’t made much of it, contributing his issues to the stress and anxiety he felt while shouldering all this madness. His glares and growls meant little, he was under pressure, but his words, his rants in your face hurt.

His words burned you to your core, the degrading things he screamed at you when you did something that might’ve ticked him off or the insults he’d throw your way when you did something he deemed unsatisfactory. They stung, but you ignored the pain that tore into your heart, the tears that threatened to fall and the anger you felt at his shrugs. You simply missed him.

Didn’t you deserve some affection? To feel the tender caresses of Miguel’s hands on your skin, the loving promises of his dreams and wishes, and the adoring stares he sent your way. Were you selfish for wanting that? For wanting to have your lover back in your arms. Or were you feeling neglected from the time you spent alone in your bed, the faded scent of his musk, the coldness of your apartment and the uneaten and forgotten plates on the dining table? Were you at fault for feeling forgotten? To sacrifice one for the good of thousands. To sacrifice your love for the safety of all universes. Did one outweigh the other?

“Hijo de puta! Why can’t you do anything right?!” He’d scowl at you, talons digging into the metal of his desk. The ear-splitting sound echoed as he dragged his talons to the edge of the table, red eyes brimming with wrath. He seemed on a warpath, ripping into anything he could get his talons in and throwing the things he could lift off the platform. (Motherfucker-)

You skipped around the objects he threw in his fit, ducking under a chair he gripped and swung randomly, over the desk he kicked, and around the cabinet, he swiped at. Every object he used to vent his emotions were light, in comparison to your given strength. He’d complain afterwards about his things being broken and needing fixing, something you helped him with unless they were too technologically advanced for your time. You webbed all the things you could, aiming your wrist and quickly sticking your end to the floating platform when it stuck to the victims of Miguel’s power.

You danced around him, catching everything without getting too close to Miguel. He acted without thinking at times in these fury-filled moments, eyes tinging red and reverting to his more animalistic side. He’d warned you before about staying clear of him, to wait until he calmed himself down and realized the devastation of his office. Then he’d apologize and kiss you in hopes you’d forgive him (you always did, you knew his biology made him different - more violent - than you and the Spiders.). You’d fix the platform up, remake the broken parts or simply forget about it, like the many cabinets he ended up buying instead of patching them up.

Now especially, his tantrums began more often and lasted longer, a common occurrence when it was rare months ago. You couldn’t fault him, you didn’t want to, even if your heart throbbed painfully at his words, shoulders curving under the immensity of his tone and actions. You loved him, so you’d bare him in his best as in his worst.

“Detente- Simplemente detente!” In his fits of rage, Miguel reverted to his vulgarity, spitting Spanish words at anyone he faced. His voice was low and gravely, body convulsing as he swung at the fizzling, orange screens, dissipating under his aggressive gesture. (Stop- Just stop!)

When his fuse popped, he’d throw words left and right in Spanish, the enchanting slur of his Mexican accent turning hellish, slamming loudly like the Hephaestus’ hammer. Along his hit came the blow, the effects following them. Whether they were positive or negative, he pushed on, frenziedly hammering the weight of his words into whoever was the nearest to him. Which, coincidentally, happened to be you at the moment when you climbed onto his platform to relay the summarised report of last week’s missions from every Spider.

You let him ramble in silence, watching him twist on the spot and walk circles before his desk, turning and gesturing arbitrarily at something that wasn’t there. He’s expressive with his love, his spite, his care, his needs and his fury. He’d make big motions with his hands, voice dipping low and sometimes rising high with the pitch of his impatience. He growls when he’s displeased. He roars when he’s furious. He spits when he’s agitated. He smirks when he’s pleased. If not his voice or his lips, his eyes shine with emotion, showing those who knew how to read him how he felt.

That’s why you ignored the sharp nabs at your person, the low jabs at your work and how you dealt with the other Spiders as his right hand, or at your simple performance of his care. He didn’t want your care when he was busy, he didn’t want your soft and soothing words when he was tracking down another anomaly with vehement hate, and he didn’t want your meddling when he was focused on important matters of the multiverse.

He was stressed, and pressure mounted over self-expectations made him lose himself. Down went his tolerance for failure and mistakes. Down went his awareness of his needs. Down went his patience with people and Lyla. Every man and woman would buck under intense pressure, some would break and stop working, and others would submit to the fate of their failures, but Miguel persevered, he pushed and pushed, pulling at the strings he could grasp, even the shortest ones.

“Can you just- Coño- can you just shut up for a second?!” Miguel bucked, slamming his fist into the desk. It’d probably leave a dent for you or him to fix, a hole in the shape of his fist.

You rushed to him, hand wrapping around his upper arm, supporting his hunched body as you webbed a chair closer to him, pulling on the synthetic fibre until it was behind Miguel. You whispered encouraging words into his ear, easing him into sitting on the rolling furniture. His legs shook, falling limp when he finally sat down, back slumped over and head low. You ran your fingers through his hairline, pulling up his wild mane. His eyes were closed, bags the deepest you’d seen, and his cheeks were sunken, near sickly.

A chill wracked your body at his deteriorating appearance, his exhaustion had finally caught onto him. You wanted to fuss over him, to berate him for letting it get this far, but his exhausted figure made you frown and rethink your words. You couldn’t let this go on, you’d have to sit him down and talk to him after you took care of him. You lowered the platform, watching Miguel from the corner of your eye until you reached the lowest it could go.

“Miguel,” you hushed, pressing your lips to his cheek, soft and gentle for his fatigue. “We need to get you to our room, you can’t work anymore.”

He grumbled, feet weakly moving to ease the weight on your shoulders, you wanted to remind him that you were strong and that you could easily carry him back if you wanted, but he liked to keep his pride as the strongest, the boss that people could depend on. You nodded at those who gave you worried glances, shaking their helping hands for carrying him (you knew Miguel wouldn’t have liked others to touch him so casually.) and asked some to run errands for you while you two were busy. Lyla would take over for now, until you took care of Miguel.

“Let me help you, Miggy. Let me take care of you.”

He slept better than night, the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks - months - and was grounded to a week of rest and recuperation. You helped him shower, washing his back and hair. You cooked his favourite dishes, following the Mexican cooking books you had laying around. You gave him daily massages for the aches over his shoulders and back, massing the tenseness off his arms and legs. At night, you’d force him to bed, blocking his access to his office and kissing him goodnight. The sun rose with you, you rode Hélio’s chariot, turning his nights into mornings as you pulled Selena’s moon into the sky.

While he rested, you worked tirelessly to fill in Miguel’s seat, scouring the multiverse for anomalies and sending Spiders to deal with them. You had Lyla run diagnostics and simulations about the chance for future appearances, playing the game of prediction and bettering the percentage after each successful prediction. Peter B. and Jess could help you around the clock, they shared the job you had as Miguel’s right-hand and worked fantastically together when put in charge of it. They were still sent on missions if you and Lyla determined it was too difficult to face alone, they were skilled and had experience, and they would mentor those who needed help. If the case came forward, you would step away from the office and jump through the multiverse, aiding your fellow Spiders to capture anomalies while Lyla took care of the office.

Miguel came back healthier, stronger and more energetic. He thanked you in the forms of kisses and hugs, gratified words and gestures that made your heart warm, flutter like wings. It nearly made you forget all the heartache he burdened you with within the past months. Nearly.

Something had ticked Miguel off, his ragged breath simmering in the air, a steady stream of fury. It burned like the lowest pits of hell, ruled by the cold tone of its god, seated at the top-most throne of the Underworld. Powerful and iron-handed, Hades led with strong principles and meticulous habits, much like Miguel did. His fury and anger were dealt by Cerberus, the three-headed dog of hell, as ferocious and dangerous as Miguel’s agitated state was.

His shoulders shook, waves of unadulterated rage filtered off his back, rippling his sculpted back as metal creaked under his hands. His talons sunk into the metal, drawing lines in his anger-filled moment. He spun to face you with a roar, arms flailing until he faced you. He heaved heavily, shoulders and chest moving as his blood rushed with emotions, eyes dilated and turned deep red. He stalked towards you in all his mad glory, like the form of the Cyclops casting its dooming shadow on Odysseus’ men. Except, unlike his men, who were eaten in a blink, embraced by death in such a violent but swift way, you’d be ripped apart by it, pieces of your being torn apart for a slow and painful descent.

He moved in big, lumbering steps, looming over you, shoulders broad and demanding. He sneered at you, in ways that would kill others but wound you deeply, to tear your heart out and throw it away like old, wilted flowers. The air seemed stuffy, hot and confining, his breath even hotter, burning you when he stopped inches from you. You gaped at him, eyes wide and fingers trembling, something crossed your mind, a flash of emotion that you never thought possible to connect to Miguel: fear.

“Why can’t you be like-!” He started, mind dead set on breaking you down to your smallest, his force slamming into your softer one. Then he stopped, body seizing as if he was shot, but his round eyes told you he almost let himself slip, to let the name slip from his tongue in a haze. You knew who he was talking about, the memories that he related to her, that he was simply mad, but it didn’t ease the pain that ripped through your heart.

“Like who, Miguel!?” You cried back, hands clenching and rigid on your side. Your body trembling with disgust, shock and heartbreak. You couldn’t believe he would bring her up, to compare you to her and voice it out. It hurt; it drove the nail deeper into your coffin, adding another thing over the mountain of doubt and pain.

He just stared, he couldn’t finish his sentence, a starch contrast to his attitude seconds ago. It pained you that he couldn’t even say the words, to apologize to you about what he said. He knew how to run, how to ignore, and how to push things back. He did that well, and now he couldn’t face what he said to you was pathetic.

“Like who, huh?! Like her!? Like Dana?!” Your vision blurred, and your breath hitched as your body crashed down with agony, sadness and betrayal. You shook this time while he looked on with desperation, body unable to make a sound or motion.

“I- no- mi cielo, no- I didn’t mean to, I swear, ” he reached out, hand (his talons had received back into his pads) extending to touch you, to hold you in an apologetic embrace, but you stepped back, unable to contain your sobs. “Mi vida, please. Perdón, no fue mi intención.” (I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.)

You backed away from him, his warmth, his adoration, his love. His apology sounded guilty, dripping with regret and sorrow. He winced, watching you step away from him, regret gripping his heart as he moved to follow you. Every step you took backward, he took one forward, copying you, trying to approach you as if you were a wounded and unpredictable animal, to appease and soothe you.

You shook your head, tearing your eyes away from his teary ones. You fiddled with your watch, opening a portal to your world and shook off your watch. You jumped back before he could catch you, hand extended to you in a desperate attempt to stop you. He wanted to bring you back into his arms, to kiss the tears away and beg for forgiveness until you let him back in, but to leave him, to throw away the watch that connected you to him. It broke him.

He wouldn’t be able to see you unless you wanted to be seen, the tracker in your watch left blinking before his feet, discarded as you had with him; after he pushed you away, tore you down with his words spurred by the moment’s rush of negativity and pressure. It wasn’t an excuse, he knew that, but it didn’t ease. He sank to the floor, raking it with his talons as he cried out, a pained sob breaking out of his chest as he cradled his head, cursing himself for not being careful, for not heeding your winces and frowns, and not taking your heart into consideration.

You fell when you landed in your universe, knocking a few boxes as you crashed onto your side. Your body jerked, cold droplets pouring down on your broken figure as you sat back up on the pavement. You hissed, the downcast atmosphere making your body heave a heartbroken sob, clutching your chest - where your heart would’ve been if Miguel hadn’t shattered it - and falling into yourself. You made yourself smaller, hiding your tear-stained face between your knees as you let the rain shower over you, soaking you down to your socks.

A relationship built on pain, need and desperation was bound to fall. The carelessness of his ways cracked the edge of your relationship, slowly breaking it down into a shell of what it was. You bled for his cause as you bled for your loss. Like Apollo - a caregiver, a watcher of the fates of the people he oversaw, all the good and evil he could do just by saying the word - Miguel loved and felt, he gave and took, but lost it all in the end. His heart was broken and his soul lost over and over, the people he loved and cared for lost to time and fate. Like the Greek god, he loved what he could not have, loved what he could not hold, loved what he could not keep.

As would Daphne’s story, she loved as much as you did, she cared as much as you did, and she hated as much as you did. In love was the god, as Miguel was with you, heart-stopping in every aspect. He stood like a god over them all, tall, broad and caring. But like any Greek love story, yours was as tragic, the hymn of your love left to fester with hate and anger, with regret and untold pain. Run, you did as Daphne had, crossing where you hoped he couldn’t reach you; where you’d be left hidden from the heartbreaking sorrow.

You didn’t know how long you sat in the rain, perhaps seconds, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, but every moment blurred into one. The once vibrant colours of New York dulled to a boring monochrome, the world was swallowed in tones of black and white. Your limbs felt numb, you could hardly feel the cold, only the drops of rain and the heaviness of your heart in your chest. You could sit here a while longer, to drown in the sensation of the world falling around you-

Then it stopped raining. That wasn’t right, you could see the water crashing onto the ground by your feet, inches from you. Your side felt warm, a calm, soothing warmth that made your body quake from the cool air. You looked to the side and saw feet, big ones. You followed their body, tracing the lines of their soaking pants, to a warm jacket, broad shoulders and to a familiar face.

��Oye, who did this to you?” His voice dripped with worry, a calmness that contradicted his frowning eyes. It was a familiar voice. It was a familiar face. It was Miguel’s face. Your lips quivered, staring at the face of your lover - ex-lover now that you thought about it - with newly shed tears. His eyes widened, even more worried than before as he crouched down to your height, hand running down your back soothingly. “Hey, hey, calm down. It’s all right.”

You wished you could believe his words, believe the softness in his tone and the beat of your torturous heart that missed the Miguel you knew. This one - your universe’s Miguel O’Hara (you didn’t even know you had one in your New York, it felt surreal to your depressed mind.) - was a stranger wearing the face of the person you loved. His face was a carbon copy of your Miguel’s, but softer on the edges, calmer and more… human than Spider-man 2099. His voice was gentler, caring more warmth for a stranger in need than yours has, like a whisper from an angel lulling you into a peaceful rest.

“Vamos, let’s get you out of the rain first.”

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knight-a3 · 4 months ago

Text

Heavenbound AU

Hazbin Masterpost

Lilith, Mother of Demons

Notes under cut, including some Bible info!

Between dolls, snakes, apples, circuses, ducks, etc, there were just too many motifs/thematic elements to shove onto just Lucifer. So, I streamlined and distributed. Lucifer is goat themed, Lilith is snake themed. Charlie is a mix of the two. I also use this to partly to imply that "the Devil" is not solely Lucifer. But humans mistake various different demons as one character. Lucifer is just the one who gets blamed for everything. That's part of why he's a goat; he's a scapegoat.

Snakes- there is a trending theme of Lilith being associated with snakes, and sometimes being the serpent who tempts Eve. I wanted to give her snake hair, but making all of it snakes would be too many and a hassle to draw. So I went with seven to represent the 7 deadly sins. They're all named, just like how Charlie has Hugh.

Pride= Vani (vanity)

Wrath= Irene (Ire)

Gluttony= Tony (gluttony)

Greed= Ava (avarice)

Lust= Libby (libido)

Envy= Desi (desire)

Sloth= Lazlo (lazy)

Owls- lilith has sometimes been translated as owl or as night bird. In some Mesopotamian myths, lilith demons fly. Some tablets depict a lilith with talons, horns, and/or wings.

Vampires - This is a design element that I didn't realize was a historically viable association to make until after I made the design. But I figured it would be good to mention anyway. Lilith has been equated with some vampiric elements over the centuries. It comes from a thematic overlap between succubi and early depictions of vampires. So while I may not have had vampires in mind, I think some of the elements naturally bled through(no pun intended).

Dolls- I took this one from canon Lucifer and gave it to Lilith instead. I figured she was created and used like a doll, so it could fit decently enough.

Full demon form: I designed her to be similar to a lamia from Greek mythology. Lamia is the latin equivalent to lilith, and lamia happen to be associated with snakes. I didn't know that until after I designed her normal form, so it's a neat coincidence. Lamia is both a single character and a type of snake-woman creature. Waist up is woman, waist down is snake. Similar to the nagas of hindu lore. More about Lamia in a bit.

--Heavenbound Backstory--

My ideas for her backstory can be found through HERE.

--is Lilith really Biblical? Kind of, but not really--

So, fun fact. Lilith isn't really in the Bible. The word lilith is mentioned once in Isaiah 34:14 in some translations. But translation is a tricky process and subject to the interpretation of the translator. It's an inevitable issue. It's part of why there are so many different versions of the Bible.

The single mention of lilith isn't even used as a name. Lilit/lilitu/other spelling variations are a type of Mesopotamian she-demon. Basically succubi, but then the concept merged with the child-killer Lamatshu. Liliths are often associated with seduction, wet dreams, reproductive problems, and child death. Using the term lilith had a cultural context that we don't really have now. It's like how people today will blame mysterious phenomenon on aliens.

Other Bible translations will use "night creatures", "screech owls", "Lamia" or other similar phrases instead. The context of the verse can change drastically based on what phrasing is used. Most versions(including the most popular ones like the KJV) steer away from "lilith".

--The Other Woman--

Bible: The idea of a woman before Eve is based on rabbinic myths used to explain a perceived discrepancy in the biblical creation story. In one account, it sounds as if man and woman were created together. In another, it sounds as if woman was created after. These myths also accuse Eve of a lot of misconduct, so it seems like a pretty misogynistic take anyway(and I don't use that phrasing lightly). These myths didn't name the woman, as far as I'm aware.

Lilith as the first wife: The oldest known depiction of Lilith as Adam's first wife is from a medieval Jewish story, the "Alphabet of Ben Sira." The author is unknown, and it's widely considered satirical. Lilith is ultimately portrayed as the evil one.

In some depictions of her, she forces herself on Adam and has his demon children. Or she is infertile and steals and/or kills babies. Or she causes miscarriages and fertility issues.

Samael's wife: In some other depictions, she and Samael are born as one. Sometimes as a hermaphrodite, sometimes in the same manner as Adam and Eve. And yet other depictions, she is the first wife of Samael. Sometimes God castrates Samael to prevent them from having demonic children, so Lilith goes to copulate with unaware sleeping men. Other times Lilith is rendered infertile. Sometimes she's the wife of Asmodeus.

Lamia: In the Latin Vulgate, lilith is translated as lamia. There are elements of early ideas for vampirism. Then Lilith is equated with the Greek character Lamia, who also has conflicting origin stories. Lamia has a human upper half and and snake lower half. In some sources, she is a daughter of Hecate. In another, she is cursed by Hecate to have stillborn children. In another, Hera killed all of Lamia's children, and Lamia's grief turned her into a monster that would steal and devour children. In some instances she was also cursed to never close her eyes/sleep, but Zeus gifted her the ability to remove her eyes instead.

Islam: Arabic folklore depicts a character similar to Lilith. She was rejected by Adam, so she mated with Iblis(the demon king) instead. She gave birth to thousands of demons.

Feminism: Lilith, overall, was depicted as an evil character until the feminist movement in the 70s. That's when she was depicted by Judith Plaskow as a strong willed woman who refused to submit to Adam(I guess they just ignored the history of rape and child murder, great job picking an inspirational feminist icon y'all). It's this feminist interpretation that Hellaverse seems to have based Lilith off of.

I wanted to balance aspects of these while also still favoring the portrayal of Lilith as not-evil. Unless canon decides to make her evil, then I may revisit the idea.

(Feb 19, 2025- fixed typos and rephrased some lined for clarity) (Feb 20, 2025- added the names of the snakes) (Feb 27, 2025- added a full demon form design and notes about it, reworded some lines)

#hazbin hotel #hellaverse #hazbin hotel redesign #lilith morningstar #lilith #heavenbound au #a3 art #fanart #digital art #character sheet

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papathe5th · 1 month ago

Text

THE DARKER, THE BETTER

Pairing: Papa V Perpetua x f!Reader

Words: 2500

Rating: 18+

Tags: power imbalance, corruption kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex

Inspired by Umbra. Dedicated to Anonymous Ghestie.

“I knew you’d come to me, my child.”

“I bet you say that to all the novitiates, Your Dark Excellency.”

Papa V Perpetua didn’t cross the abbey threshold often. And you haven’t been in the same building as him since you joined The United Clergy of Ghost.

.* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *.

In the calendar, the first time you were in the same building was a year ago. In your soul, an entire lifetime has passed.

You were in a record store as one of the employees who happened to be working the night Ghost released their latest psalm in your location. You were also too good at your job, harming yourself to please everyone else.

You ran back and forth, from the cash register to the stockroom, restocking the records and merchandise, and even bringing the Nameless Ghouls markers to sign autographs with, much to Papa’s amusement.

.* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *.

A year later, you are a novitiate Sister of Sin, working on pleasing yourself. It was harder than his silver tongue made it sound.

“Only the ones that are still on their knees after Black Mass has already ended.”

His voice dropped low enough to make it all the way down where you were kneeling, all the way down into your stomach, right under your heart. And you gasped for air when it skipped a beat.

“You were on your feet when I found you.” Papa placed a hand on the side of your face, his gauntlet cold against your burning cheek. “Serving everyone but yourself.” His silver fingertips slid down and settled under your chin, forcing your face upward and his eyes down into yours. “I saw the spark of Wrath under your skin, saw the light shine through. But you were too poisoned by virtue to let it burn those who stoked the flames.”

Papa V Perpetua wore his half-mask everywhere where an eye could fall on his face. It didn’t make facing him any easier for you, something other than Wrath engulfing you when his thumb landed on your bottom lip.

“I am still studying t-t-the…the sins,” you stuttered, sensing the sharp end of the fingertip slip past your trembling lip.

Papa pulled his finger out of your mouth. And you whined when he withdrew his entire hand from you.

“Good,” his black-lined lips stretched into a smirk. “You should make Wrath your next study.” He knew his cold touch had lit a fire under your skin, same as he knew you were boiling over with rage at his children clawing their way into the record store.

“Yes, Papa,” you bit the lip where his touch lingered, holding back any other sound that might slip out. A frustrated groan was rumbling in your throat.

“You can start now,” he raised his voice, allowing it to echo in the empty chapel. “You already gave me attitude.”

“Forgive me, Papa,” you lower your head, hitting your trembling chin against your chest.

His voice rang against the walls and inside your chest. “Don’t act coy. You want to do more than just snark. You want to hurt me.”

“No,” you shook your head, the rest of your body following. “I don’t want to hurt you. I…I want to please you.”

“My child,” his voice lowered once more and his entire body along with it. “If you want to please me, stop suppressing your feelings.” His gauntlet grabbed your chin again, with a punishing grip this time, his silver talons sinking into your skin. “Stop hiding from me.”

“You’re hurting me,” you hissed, the physical pain paling in comparison to the ache of your heart.

“I am?” Papa pressed you, dropping his head to one side, a spark in his white eyes and a sadistic smirk painted on his black lips. “How am I hurting you?”

“You ignored me,” your bottom lip quivers, a sob bubbling from your chest and getting stuck in your throat. “You didn’t even look at me. I was hanging on your every word during Mass, and you…you…I gave up everything for you!”

His smirk widened into a smile, his teeth flashing white and stinging your eyes.

“Everything,” you snarled, hot, angry tears threatening to flood your face and wash out the black paint framing your eyes. “I am nothing without you. Nothing. And it hurts. Oh, Lord, it hurts. And I wish you were feeling it too now.”

“There she is.” Papa pulled on your trembling bottom lip with his talon. “There’s my wrathful angel.”

.* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *.

The last time he called you an ‘angel’ was the first time you were under the same roof. You were the last employee in the building, the one they left to fend for herself, close the place, and host the band while they were waiting for their ride to pull out back, out of the sight of their fans.

“Do you like your job?” Papa enquired after an eternity of watching you work.

He had his eyes on you the entire night and you enjoyed every chill that they sent down your spine.

“It has its perks,” you smiled a little too wide for it to be polite. You were so thrilled to have his undivided attention, all of the tiredness seemed to seep out of your bones when his white eye bore into yours. “Like meeting the musicians.”

“And getting free rides out of them?”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a free seat,” he smirked a little too wide for you, all of the chills now melting down your spine and pooling into your womb. “It’s yours if you want it.”

Papa presented one of his leather-covered hands to you. But, no matter how much of the night you spent admiring him signing autographs, you didn’t take it. And, though he saw you hesitate, his invitation was still open.

“I can take you away from this place.”

His eye was not just striking, it was hitting its mark. Your heart was bared to him, no matter how much your mouth tried to mute it. He saw right through you and knew that you wanted to burn the building down and fly away with him.

“Won’t you follow me, angel?”

“I…Thank you, but I…I got a car.”

.* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *.

With the spark of Wrath lighting a fire in the pit of your stomach and heating up your heart, you slapped his black-painted cheek with your sweaty, shaking, bare palm. While your skin prickled from the contact, his head snapped to the other side, his headpiece sliding off his head.

“Sathanas,” he hissed, pain in his voice and a blush under the now naked cheek. He freed your face and hovered his hand over his own.

“Papa,” you choked, reaching out to console him with the same hand that struck him before your brain caught up to you and stopped your body. “Forgive me,” you cried.

“Do not apologise,” he licked his thumb, tasting it. “Never apologise for giving into temptation,” he closed his mouth around the talon, the blood he drew from your bottom lip making him moan as if it was sweet on his tongue.

“Won’t you follow me?” He rose to his feet and offered you his hand for the second time since you met.

And, this time, you didn’t hesitate.

“Anywhere,” you smiled till your bottom lip split in two and your tears dripped into the wound.

With your hand in his, you stood on two feet, but they weren’t yours anymore. The quake you felt under them was his doing. And the thunder you heard in your chest was a heart that no longer belonged to you.

You followed Papa to the altar, the black candle flames flickering as he pushed the bread and wine out the way, pulled the cloth closer to the edge, and put you up on display. With his gauntlets grabbing the back of your thighs, he lifted you to sit on the black-lace surface, and spread your legs apart by pressing his pelvis between them.

“I knew it from the moment I laid my eyes on you,” he inhaled, nostrils flaring. “I could smell it, too, you know.” He groaned in the back of his throat, his voice a growl as he continued scenting you. “You wanted nothing more than to come to me, but you denied yourself.”

“Yes,” you confessed, snatching the solid silver lapels on his shoulders, stilling yourself while he tore your skirt. “Yes,” you gasped, your sex stripped of its modesty when he snatched your panties with his sharp silver talons. “Yes, Papa,” you moaned when his cold thumb traced your leaking lips, dipped down and then turned up and towards your already sweet swollen spot.

“You’ve been denying yourself the sweetest of sins, haven’t you? None of the other novitiates has gotten near you.” Papa V Perpetua licked the fingers he had between your lower lips, locking eyes with you. “You were wet before I even laid a finger on you. Don’t let me catch you holding anything back now.”

When he tore your top to ribbons, and ruined your bra, you begged: “Touch me.” When you were left on your back, bare and burning, you cussed: “Fuck me.”

“Touch yourself,” Papa placed his hands back on touch-starved thighs, only to hold down your hips. “Fuck yourself.”

It wasn’t him who had left your flesh famished. It was you. And he saw that. And wanted to witness more.

Your fingers are fast as they slip on the slick folds, the index and middle sliding immediately inside. Your thumb is not as big as his, but it pushes down on that button with punishing force.

“Feels good, doesn't it?” His lips were stuck in a wide smile, pulled over his gums as he grinned. Oh, what a sinful sight you must’ve been for even his white eye to be blown out into a black hole. “Feels good to give in.”

“Papa,” you pleaded, all the pleasure bundling in your belly. “Papa, please.” You other hand grabbed onto his, and now you were sinking his gauntlet into the thigh together.

“Please what?”

“Your hand. Your fingers.” Licking your lips, the pleads leaking out of them tasted like desperation. But you were desperate. And you were honest for the first time in your life. “Y-You. Please.”

Papa V Perpetua was pleased with himself. And you. Watching you writhing under him, losing yourself without him was his pleasure. “You need me?” He asked, as if he couldn’t see your fingers furiously stretching out your sex in preparation for him. “You need me to make you come?” He goaded you on, glee painted across his face as the lipstick lined his grin. “You need my cock?” He raked his claws across his robes and revealed himself rising to the occasion.

“I need it,” you heard your own voice reverberate through the chapel, your mouth flooding at the same rate as your cunt as the sight of him.

First, he tore into his threads, making flaccid curtains of his clerical robes around his hardened cock. Then, his gallons returned to your thighs, hooking them in the thin skin right under your knees as he spread you.

“Take me inside you.” He closed his eyes at the tentative touch of your trembling hands. “Take all of me.” His words were streamed through his snarling teeth. “Take it all,” he groaned, his chin hitting his chest as the sound was knocked out of him the second your lips kissed his cock head and he began his wet slide into your sopping cunt.

You were so wet, he splashed your juices all over your hand when his hips slammed against your skin. “Oh, Sathanas,” he sighed, like he tasted air on his tongue for the first time. “Oh, angel.”

With his lungs filled, he knocked the air out of yours with his first thrust. The glides in and out of you were glorious, your cunt welcoming him every time and his cock ramming into it like he had to break down the walls that kept collapsing atop of him.

“You were made for this,” his mouth closed in on your chest, his face hovering right over your heart. His words were proven to be true when his hands left your legs and they circled themselves around his waist. “You were made for me.” His hands returned to your flesh, the sweat helping the silver slide across each breast, chilling the skin and hardening your nipples.

“For you,” your mouth was open, every thought trespassing it. Every shameful sound, too. “All for you.”

“Your soul?” Papa pressed his mouth against your left breast, the one your heart slammed against.

“Yes.”

“Your mind?” His tongue slithered across the goose flesh and glazed your nipple before nipping it.

“Yes!”

“Your body?” His hips halted and his face lifted, demanding your full attention.

With his eyes only inches away and your orgasm a few strokes short of completion, you couldn’t hide from him.

“Your cunt?”

“Please, Papa.”

Papa didn’t take pity on you and pulled out half-way.

“It’s yours, Papa. Yours.”

He pushed himself back in, and pressed the metal forehead of his mask against your bare, blushing one. “Your womb?”

“Yours,” your voice cracked, a sob stuck in your throat. “It’s all yours”

“You’ll take me inside you,” he raised his voice along with his head. “You’ll take me inside your womb.” As his torso rose, his hands slid down yours and took hold of your hips.

“Yes,” you begged. “Yes,” you pleaded.

“You’ll take all of me.”

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, Satan,” you praised.

You didn’t hide your feelings, your blood flaring up as his strokes started up again. And he didn’t hide his intentions as his hips sped up.

“Are you gonna come for me, angel?” Papa pushed his pelvis up into yours with each painful thrust, pressing down on your clitoris.

“Yes.”

“Come for me!”

Each slam against your little bundle of nerves was a strike of lightning in your body. And each wave of ecstasy flooded your brain, drowning out your common sense.

“Take it, angel! Take it all! Come all over my cock and take all my come!”

You came with Papa V Perpetua still inside you. You came on his cock and squeezed your cunt around it until he came, too. You rode the shock waves as your walls collapsed atop of him. And your womb squeezed the last of his semen before your bodies were separated.

Holding his body over yours, his hands on either side of your convulsing cunt, he scooped the come leaking out from between your lips and pushed it back inside.

You searched for him through the haze still clouding your gaze. And gasped when you felt the tip of his talon entering you, your walls welcoming it.

“You’re going to join your Sisters of Sin and take your vows before me tomorrow.” He soothed you, one gauntlet over your womb and one cupping your cunt. “You're going to be mine, angel.”

#the band ghost #ghost #papa v perpetua #papa v perpetua x reader #papa v x reader #papa v #papa 5 #fan fic #my fan fic

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novaursa · 6 months ago

Text

Legacy (winter is coming)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Events of the canon don't match the timeline in this story. The plot is purposefully altered to fit the narrative of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: but you will fly

- Next part: cold winds

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

The wind howled across the hilltop, carrying with it the earthy scent of the Riverlands mixed with faint smoke from Viserion’s great form. The dragon's wings spread wide, kicking up gusts of dust and loose leaves as she settled onto the ground. Her talons dug into the earth, the weight of her landing reverberating through the earth beneath you. You winced, gripping at the ridges of her neck as the last shudder of movement rattled your already battered frame.

The journey had been hard. The strain of staying mounted on Viserion without a proper saddle left your thighs raw, your hands blistered, and countless thin cuts etched into your skin from her scales. Blood smeared your palms, and you could feel it trickling down your legs, staining the fabric of what remained of your riding clothes. You leaned forward for a breath, whispering, “You’ve done well, Viserion. Rest now.”

Viserion’s molten-gold eyes turned to you briefly, softer than one would think a dragon’s could be, before she slumped down onto her haunches. Steam rose faintly from her nostrils as she exhaled, her body coiling protectively near the clearing.

The hill of High Heart rose before you, crowned with its circle of ancient weirwood stumps. The air here felt different—thicker, heavier, as though steeped in old magic. You could feel it settle into your bones. But before you could take another step, the soft sound of footsteps reached your ears. Then voices.

“She said we’d meet her here,” a familiar young voice said, and you turned sharply, your heart skipping.

A group crested the hill—the Brotherhood Without Banners—led by Lord Beric Dondarrion with his ever-present grim determination. Thoros of Myr followed close behind, his robes dusty, the ever-burning faith in his eyes. Behind them trudged men in mismatched armor, and there, to your surprise, stood Arya Stark.

Arya saw you first. Her expression froze, her wild grey eyes widening in disbelief before she broke into a run. “Y/N!”

“Arya?” Your voice cracked, disbelieving, but she was already on you.

The girl flung herself into your arms, her thin frame shaking as she hugged you tightly. The force of her embrace nearly knocked you off balance, and you stumbled back, suppressing a wince as the cuts across your body protested. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, pulling her close, ignoring the pain.

“I knew it! I knew you’d come back,” Arya whispered fiercely into your chest, her voice muffled. “I tried to find you before… but they took you.”

You smoothed a hand over her tangled hair, the gesture calming, though your voice wavered slightly. “I’m here now, little one. And so are you.”

As Arya finally stepped back, her brow furrowed, and she gasped softly. “You’re bleeding.”

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the streaks of crimson that marred your hands and thighs. The ride had taken a greater toll than you realized. “It’s nothing,” you murmured, though Arya clearly didn’t believe you. “Cuts from dragon scales—nothing more.”

Behind her, Lord Beric watched the reunion silently, his one good eye assessing you, but there was no shock in his expression. If anything, he looked unsurprised—as though he had expected this very moment.

“You’ve traveled far,” Beric said at last, stepping closer, his gruff voice low but steady. He glanced at Viserion, whose massive form loomed behind you like a mountain of scales and power. “And brought something the world thought lost.”

You turned to face him fully, your posture straightening despite the pain thrumming in your body. “The world’s forgotten much about dragons. But they are not gone.”

Beric tilted his head slightly, the flicker of a smile almost touching his lips. “I imagine she led you here for a reason.”

“She did,” you replied, casting a glance back at Viserion, who watched the group warily, the muscles in her wings twitching. “This place called to me. There’s something here I need to see. To understand.”

Thoros of Myr finally stepped forward, rubbing his hands together as he regarded the dragon with curiosity and awe. “The Lady of High Heart said the past walks again… and here you stand.”

Arya’s fingers tugged at your torn sleeve, pulling your attention back to her. “Why are you hurt? Did someone do this to you?”

You crouched down to meet her eye level, despite the pull of pain through your legs. “No, Arya. Dragons aren’t made to carry riders, not without saddles. Viserion’s scales are sharp, and I wasn’t prepared.”

Arya glanced back at the dragon cautiously, though her fear seemed to be overshadowed by awe. “She let you ride her?”

“She did,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Arya’s face. “Dragons are not slaves, Arya. They choose. And she chose me.”

Arya’s face twisted in thought, but before she could say more, Beric’s voice cut through the moment. “The Lady awaits us. She will want to see you.”

You nodded faintly, rising back to your feet. Arya moved to your side immediately, like a shadow, her hand brushing against your arm protectively. Beric turned to Thoros and gestured for the others to stay back.

Before you could follow, Viserion let out a low growl, her wings rustling like thunder through the air. You turned back to her, lifting a hand to calm her.

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “Stay here. I’ll return.”

The dragon tilted her head, her eyes locking with yours, unblinking and deep. For a moment, you wondered if she would refuse to let you go, but then Viserion exhaled sharply and slumped back onto her haunches. Arya watched the exchange wide-eyed.

“She listens to you,” Arya murmured, half in wonder. “How do you make her do that?”

You gave her a faint smile as you turned to walk alongside her. “I don’t make her do anything. We understand each other.”

As you followed Beric and Thoros toward the circle of weirwood stumps, Arya’s voice whispered next to you. “You’re like a storybook hero now. Riding dragons and saving the day.”

You smiled down at her, though it was tinged with sadness. “I wish it were as simple as stories, Arya. Dragons aren’t just fire and wonder. They’re war, too.”

Arya looked up at you with a quiet determination in her gaze. “Then I hope you burn the ones who deserve it.”

The hilltop of High Heart loomed before you, its crown of ancient, weathered weirwood stumps standing silent and watchful, steeped in magic older than memory. Each step forward made the air grow heavier, heavy with something unseen but deeply felt—a presence that seemed to pull at you like invisible hands. Arya stayed close at your side, her grey eyes flicking between you and the path ahead.

From behind, the sound of hurried footsteps and clanging armor broke the stillness. “Seven hells,” Hot Pie’s voice carried, breathless and wide-eyed as he pointed toward Viserion, who lay coiled at the base of the hill like a great golden-creamed sentinel. “Is that a real dragon?”

Arya spun around and shot him a glare, her voice sharp as a whisper. “Shush, Hot Pie!” She turned back to you, her expression exasperated. “Ignore him. He’s like that.”

You suppressed a small smile, though your focus remained fixed ahead. “It’s alright. It’s a fair question. Dragons don’t walk this world often anymore.”

Gendry joined them, his usually steady demeanor unsettled as he kept glancing back toward Viserion. “It’s… huge,” he muttered, half in awe. “Does it bite?”

“Only when threatened,” you replied quietly, though a glint of amusement softened your tone.

Hot Pie stared at you in disbelief. “How’re you so calm? That thing could swallow us whole!”

“Because she’s more than a beast,” you answered, your voice steady as you moved forward again. “Come. We’re nearly there.”

When you reached the summit, the chill in the air was sharper, though no breeze stirred. The Lady of High Heart was waiting at the center of the ancient weirwood stumps, her small figure perched atop a gnarled root like a bird of prey. Her milky-white eyes turned toward you the moment you approached, unblinking and all-seeing, as though she had known you would come.

“Child of fire,” she rasped, her voice thin and reedy, yet carrying like a whisper on the wind. “You’ve come at last.”

You stepped closer, Arya hovering protectively near you while Beric and Thoros lingered just behind. “You called me,” you said softly. “Why?”

The ghost of High Heart tilted her head, the corners of her mouth twitching in something like a smile—or a grimace. “I did not call you. He did.”

You frowned, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her small, wrinkled hand rose, pointing a bony finger toward the circle of stumps. The world seemed to shiver as the light around you dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally. A voice whispered faintly, so close it might have been in your ear. “Come, cousin. Walk with me.”

The voice belonged to him—Brynden Rivers.

Suddenly, the world shifted, and you felt yourself pulled, weightless and untethered, into something else. The hilltop dissolved into mist, the figures of Arya, Beric, and the rest swallowed by shadow. When the haze cleared, you were no longer standing on the hill of High Heart but walking through a vast forest of frost-covered trees, their branches clawing at the grey sky.

Beside you strode a figure draped in shadow—a tall man with a pale face, his one red eye gleaming in the cold. Brynden Rivers, the Three-Eyed Raven, walked silently at your side, his heavy cloak brushing the snow-covered ground.

“You came,” he said at last, his voice both gentle and knowing, as though you were old friends meeting after years apart.

“I didn’t have much choice,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Why am I here?”

“To see,” he said simply, gesturing ahead. “To understand.”

The scene around you rippled and changed like water. The forest blurred, replaced by a stark, endless expanse of white. You were standing on the edge of the world—or so it seemed—as a howling wind swept across the frozen tundra. Shadows moved in the distance, dark shapes that sent an icy chill through your bones. The wind carried a sound that made your skin prickle—a shriek, inhuman and terrible.

“What is this?” you asked, your breath visible in the freezing air.

“Beyond the Wall,” Brynden murmured, his red eye fixed on the horizon. “The storm gathers, child of fire. The Long Night comes again, and with it, death.”

You shivered, not just from the cold but from the weight of his words. Shapes became clearer as they emerged from the distance—figures shrouded in frost, their blue eyes glowing like frozen stars. They marched forward, relentless and silent, as if nothing could stop them.

“And why do you show me this?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Brynden turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp and unfathomable. “Your son carries the blood of fire and gold. He is more than you yet know. Protect him, for he will shape the future of this world—and the war to come.”

Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “What do you mean? Damon is just a child—”

“Not forever,” Brynden interrupted, his voice cold as the air around you. “And your husband, Tywin Lannister—he is a man of stone and will. You must keep him close, for the choices you make together will determine whether fire or ice consumes this world.”

The vision rippled again, shifting abruptly. The tundra melted away, replaced by a campfire crackling in the dark. A group of figures sat huddled around it, their faces weary but familiar—wildlings. And there, standing among them, was Jon Snow.

Your breath hitched. Jon looked older, worn by the harshness of the North, but his face was unmistakable. He stood beside the fire, his sword strapped to his back, his expression contemplative. Suddenly, as though sensing your presence, he froze and turned his head sharply.

Jon’s grey eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, it was as if he truly saw you. His mouth parted in surprise, his brow furrowing as recognition dawned across his face.

“Y/N?” he whispered, his voice carried on a wind that seemed to reach you even across the vision. “Is it you?”

You tried to speak, to call his name, but the vision shattered like glass. The sound of Jon’s voice still echoed in your ears as you fell back into the present, the hilltop of High Heart solidifying around you once more.

You stumbled, the weight of what you’d seen pressing on your chest. Arya grabbed your arm to steady you, her voice tight with concern. “What happened? What did you see?”

You blinked, your breath ragged as you looked at Arya, then at Beric and Thoros. The ghost of High Heart was watching you still, her expression unreadable.

“I saw…” You swallowed, the words thick on your tongue. “I saw what’s coming. And Jon.”

Arya’s eyes widened in disbelief, but you had no chance to explain further.

The stillness of the hilltop was shattered as a sudden, sharp pain tore through your body, pulling a cry from your lips. You stumbled forward, clutching at your side where the cuts from Viserion's scales had deepened, raw and angry. The warmth of fresh blood seeped through the torn fabric of your riding clothes, staining your palm crimson.

“Y/N!” Arya’s voice rang out, her hands grabbing at your arm as you faltered. “What’s happening? Are you alright?”

The ghost of High Heart watched silently, her small, withered frame framed by the ancient stumps, her white eyes turning milky pink in the faint light. Without another word, she stepped back into the shadows, her presence dissipating as though she were never there.

“Wait—” you gasped, reaching weakly toward where the ghost had stood, but the pain twisted again, doubling you over. You felt as though fire licked at your skin, the wounds stinging deep with every breath. “The vision—The Others—”

“You’re bleeding too much,” Beric Dondarrion interrupted sharply, stepping forward with urgency. His single eye narrowed as he surveyed your injuries, his gloved hand catching your shoulder to keep you upright. “Thoros, see to her.”

Thoros of Myr nodded and immediately knelt beside you, his movements quick yet careful. “She’s been riding without stopping,” he muttered, his hands tugging at the torn edges of your clothing to get a better look. “The cuts are filthy—dragon scales are sharp as knives, and they’ll fester if we don’t clean them.”

Arya, her face pale with panic, hovered near you. “Then fix it!” she snapped at Thoros, her voice high-pitched and desperate. “Can’t you see she’s in pain? Hurry up!”

“Calm yourself, girl!” Thoros barked, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “Shouting at me won’t help.”

The Myrish priest rummaged through the pouches at his belt, pulling out flasks of water, strips of cloth, and an old salve that smelled of herbs and something faintly bitter. He looked up at Beric. “Hold her steady.”

Beric crouched beside you, his grip strong yet careful as he braced your shoulders. “This will hurt,” he said simply, his eye locking with yours.

“I’ve felt worse,” you managed through gritted teeth, though the sweat beading on your brow betrayed you.

Thoros poured the water over your wounds without warning, and you hissed sharply as the freezing liquid hit your raw skin. Arya flinched at your cry, her small hands curling into fists. “You’re hurting her!”

“I’m saving her,” Thoros replied firmly, his expression set with grim determination. He worked quickly, his fingers skilled as he pressed the salve into the open cuts. The sting burned deep, worse than dragonfire, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“Talk to me,” Beric said, his voice low and even. His hand tightened ever so slightly on your shoulder, grounding you. “Focus. What did you see? What was it?”

You swallowed thickly, your breath coming in shaky bursts as Thoros continued his work. “I saw them… The Others,” you whispered, your voice faint. “The storm beyond the Wall. They’re marching.”

Arya’s face twisted in confusion, though her concern didn’t waver. “The Others? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You nodded faintly, though every muscle in your body trembled with exhaustion. “The dead, Arya. They’re coming—endless and cold. And they won’t stop.”

Thoros exhaled sharply, as if unsettled by your words, but he kept his hands moving. “Visions are dangerous,” he muttered under his breath. “They bind us to things we’re not meant to understand.”

“She understands more than you think,” Beric said, though his gaze remained fixed on you, searching your face for clarity. “And if the dead are marching beyond the Wall, the world will need to know.”

“Let her rest first,” Thoros interjected gruffly, wrapping the last of the cloth bandages around your thigh with quick precision. “She’ll not be spreading any news until she can stand without collapsing.”

Arya hovered close, her worry etched plainly across her young face. “Is she going to be alright?” she asked Thoros, her voice quieter now.

The Myrish priest sighed, wiping his hands clean against his tunic before rising to his feet. “She’ll live,” he said, though his tone carried a note of weariness. “But she needs rest. Proper rest.”

You shifted slightly, testing the bandages as the pain dulled to a throb. “Thank you,” you muttered, though your voice was hoarse.

Beric offered his hand, helping you back to your feet with care. “Easy now. You’re strong, but don��t push yourself.”

“I don’t have time to rest,” you said quietly, glancing toward the direction where Viserion waited below the hill. “There’s more to this… more than I understand.”

“You won’t understand anything if you bleed out,” Thoros shot back, though his tone had softened.

Arya clung to your arm again as you steadied yourself. “You have to stop them. If the dead are coming, we have to do something, don’t we?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a hand against her tangled hair. “We will do something, Arya. But we need to be ready.”

Beric nodded grimly. “Then let us see to it that you survive long enough to face what comes.”

As Thoros gathered his supplies and the Brotherhood set to making camp, you allowed yourself to glance back toward the edge of the hill. The golden shape of Viserion was visible below, curled like a sleeping cat, though her head was lifted, ever watchful. A sense of calm settled over you—fleeting but real.

The vision of the Others, their frozen march and their glowing eyes, still burned in your mind. The world felt heavier now, the weight of what you had seen pressing on your chest. But you had faced storms before. You would face this one too.

The cold wind howled across the frozen expanse, carrying with it the whisper of something unseen. Jon Snow stood at the edge of the camp, his chest rising and falling as he turned his head sharply, his eyes fixed on the emptiness before him. He felt it again—that strange pull, that phantom connection, lingering like a breath of warm air in a place that knew only ice.

“Y/N!” Jon shouted suddenly, the name tearing from his lips before he realized he’d said it aloud. The sound echoed into the silent tundra, scattering the nearby ravens into the pale sky. The wildlings nearby turned to look at him, murmuring in confusion.

Ygritte’s voice cut through the wind, sharp and teasing, though concern underpinned it. “What are you doin’, Crow?” she asked, striding toward him, her red hair wild in the breeze. “You callin’ ghosts now?”

Jon didn’t answer immediately, his brow furrowed as he stared at the emptiness in front of him. He swore he had seen her—standing there, pale as the snow, her silver hair whipped by the wind, her violet eyes filled with something heavy. And she had looked hurt.

Ygritte stepped closer, gripping his arm. “Jon Snow, what in the name of the gods are you shoutin’ at? There’s nothin’ there but wind and ice.”

Jon blinked, breaking out of his daze. “I saw her,” he said quietly, though his voice trembled with uncertainty. “I saw Y/N.”

Ygritte’s brow creased. “Who?”

Jon turned to face her, his breath visible in the freezing air. “The woman who raised me.”

Ygritte tilted her head, skeptical but curious. “Thought you didn’t know your mother, Crow. You always said as much.”

“I don’t,” Jon admitted, his voice rough. “But Y/N—she was the one who cared for me when no one else would. She was like my mother, even if she wasn’t.”

The wildlings nearby shifted closer, their interest piqued. A few murmured amongst themselves, but Ygritte ignored them, narrowing her eyes at Jon. “And who is she, this woman you’re seein’ in the middle of nowhere?”

Jon exhaled, the weight of the answer settling over him. “She’s a Targaryen princess.”

Ygritte stared at him for a long moment, then scoffed, her lips quirking into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A Targaryen? A bloody dragon princess? And you’re just tellin’ me this now?”

Jon shook his head, the ghost of the vision still haunting his thoughts. “It’s not something I talk about. She raised me in Winterfell when Lord Stark brought me back as a babe. She didn’t have to, but she did. Now, Tywin Lannister took her as his wife.”

“And now you’re seein’ her out here,” Ygritte said, her tone laced with doubt. “Beyond the Wall. You think the cold’s gotten to you, Jon Snow?”

Jon turned his head sharply toward her, his expression serious. “I know what I saw, Ygritte. She was here. She looked hurt.”

The smirk faded from her lips, and for a moment, Ygritte studied him in silence, her eyes searching his face. “Hurt, you say?”

Jon nodded slowly. “Aye. Something’s happened to her, and I felt it.”

Ygritte let out a heavy breath, crossing her arms as she glanced back at the wildlings watching from a distance. “You’re tellin’ me a woman raised you like her own and she’s a dragon princess… and now she’s married to a Lannister lord?” The disbelief in her voice was clear, but it was edged with curiosity.

Jon’s jaw tightened at her words. “I don’t believe she wanted that. Tywin Lannister is a man of ambition. He doesn’t make choices without a purpose.”

“And yet you’re here,” Ygritte said, her tone softening just slightly. “Far from your wolves and castles. What do you think it means, Jon Snow, seein’ her like that?”

Jon looked out at the vast, empty horizon, his dark eyes troubled. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

Ygritte watched him, her expression unreadable before she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “Ghosts and visions won’t help you out here. Keep your head where it belongs—on the living.”

Jon glanced at her, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features, but his mind was still far away. “I can’t ignore it, Ygritte. She’s out there, and something’s wrong.”

Ygritte sighed and shook her head, muttering under her breath as she turned to leave him standing alone again. “Bloody Crows and their ghosts…”

As Ygritte moved away, Jon remained where he stood, the cold biting at his face. He looked once more at the empty air where he’d seen you—your pale hair, your wounded stance. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. It had felt too real. You were calling to him, somehow.

And somewhere, across the snow-covered expanse of the North, Jon Snow swore he would find the truth.

The large stone chamber of Casterly Rock was cold, the long table surrounded by men who wore the weight of Tywin Lannister’s authority like heavy cloaks. Maps were spread before them, marked with quills and tokens, outlining routes traveled and territories searched.

Kevan Lannister stood closest to him, his voice steady but edged with hesitation as he finished his latest report. “Our men scoured High Heart, my lord. The hilltop was deserted when we arrived—no trace of the lady or her dragon.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Tywin’s fingers drummed slowly on the arm of his chair, the sound unnervingly deliberate. “No trace?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “Are you telling me that a dragon—a creature large enough to blot out the sun—simply vanished into thin air?”

Kevan shifted uneasily under his brother’s cold stare. “It would seem so, my lord. The locals speak of the hill as a cursed place. Some believe the dragon is… of magic.”

Tywin scoffed sharply, the sound laced with scorn. “Magic.” His gaze flicked over to the other men at the table, daring them to echo such nonsense. None met his eyes. “Find me practical answers, not old wives’ tales.”

Mace Tyrell cleared his throat from the far side of the table, leaning slightly back in his chair. “It appears, Lord Tywin, that the princess and her dragon move with a will of their own—elusive as the wind. Wherever they go, there are whispers, but no proof. It’s as though she has disappeared.”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Mace, and for a moment, it looked as though he might explode with anger. “My wife does not simply disappear, Lord Tyrell,” he said icily. “She is out there, and I will have her found.”

Kevan, unwilling to relent, pressed cautiously. “Brother, we’ve exhausted nearly every path. Riverlands, the Reach—our men are spread thin, and this search is leaving us vulnerable. We are bleeding resources for a single woman—”

“A single woman?” Tywin’s voice cracked like a whip, his face hard as stone as he rose to his feet, towering over the room. “She is worth more than every man sitting at this table, Kevan.”

The room tensed at his outburst, even Mace falling silent. Kevan took a step back, his expression one of wary resignation. “Tywin, I only meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant,” Tywin snapped, his sharp tone cutting through Kevan’s attempted apology. “You think I should abandon her. Cast her aside as though she were nothing.”

Kevan held his ground, though the weight of Tywin’s fury bore down on him. “She’s your wife, yes, but she is also a Targaryen. A dragonlord with a beast at her command. She is not loyal to our banners—can you be certain she will return to you willingly?”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table, his gaze cold enough to freeze steel. “She will return.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Kevan pressed softly, though the tension in the room was palpable. “What then?”

“She will,” Tywin repeated, his voice a growl of absolute conviction. “Because she knows what is at stake. I will not repeat myself again.”

Mace Tyrell, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet through the exchange, finally leaned forward with his hands clasped. “You trust her, then, my lord?”

Tywin turned his gaze to Mace, and for the first time, there was no hint of mockery in the Reach lord’s question. It was genuine curiosity. Tywin straightened, smoothing his hands over his doublet, his composure slowly returning. “Trust?” he echoed, almost as though testing the word. “I trust in her understanding of duty. In her resolve.”

His voice dipped slightly, though there was an edge of finality to it. “And I trust that no one in this realm—not one man—understands what it means to bear the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders better than she does.”

The room fell silent once more, the men around the table avoiding his gaze, their earlier protests buried under the weight of his words. Tywin settled back into his chair, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face.

“Double the patrols in the Riverlands,” he ordered, his tone calm once more but no less commanding. “Send word to every loyal bannerman between here and the Wall. She is not to be harmed. If they see the dragon, they will report to me. No one moves without my word.”

Kevan hesitated for a moment but nodded. “As you say, my lord.”

Tywin turned his gaze back to the map before him, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. His mind was calculating—always calculating. Y/n was out there somewhere, with Viserion at her side, and he would not allow uncertainty to erode his grip on her or their future.

“Dismissed,” Tywin said curtly, and the room began to empty, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of boots echoing through the hall. Kevan lingered for a moment longer but thought better of speaking further, following the others out.

When the door finally closed, Tywin’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly, though his face remained as still and impassive as ever. His gaze lingered on the map, on the Riverlands where her trail had last been seen.

For all his composure, a single thought gnawed at him: Where are you? And why haven’t you come back to me?

The corridors of Casterly Rock were unusually quiet this evening, the heavy tapestries and thick stone walls muffling the sounds of the stronghold. Tywin walked with a measured pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of cold authority. The day’s frustrations hung heavily on him, but he would not allow his weariness to show. His men doubted, Kevan questioned him, and whispers of dragons had begun to snake their way into the ears of his bannermen. But Tywin Lannister had weathered far worse storms.

He reached the door of the nursery and paused briefly before stepping inside. The warmth of the room greeted him—the hearth crackling low, the glow of candlelight casting soft shadows across the walls. A nursemaid rose from her chair and bowed her head as Tywin entered. “Leave us,” he ordered quietly, and the woman scurried away, closing the door behind her.

His son, Damon, lay in a cradle fashioned from carved gold and dark red oak, the Lannister lion emblazoned on its side. The boy stirred softly, his silver-gold hair glowing in the firelight as he let out a content sigh in his sleep. Tywin moved toward him, his usually rigid posture loosening just enough to betray the rare flicker of vulnerability he reserved for moments like this.

He stopped beside the cradle, his sharp gaze softening. The boy’s tiny hand curled around nothing, his peaceful face a sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding him. His blood. His heir. For all the trials of the past moons, here was proof that his efforts had borne fruit. Damon was a future secured, a legacy given form.

As Tywin watched his son, the door creaked open, and the maester entered hesitantly, clutching a scroll in his weathered hands. “My lord,” he said in a low, deferential tone, “Ser Jaime is en route from King’s Landing. He should arrive within the week.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to the old man, a faint narrowing of his eyes the only indication of his thoughts. “Jaime?”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester confirmed, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “It seems Queen Mother sent him. She… insisted.”

*Of course she did. Tywin’s jaw tightened briefly. He could already picture Cersei’s smug defiance, her desire to tighten her grasp on Jaime now that Y/N’s absence had destabilized the fragile peace. She would be hoping for support—perhaps even plotting. Tywin would deal with her when the time came. For now, his focus was elsewhere.

“You will prepare his quarters,” Tywin instructed flatly. “And ensure that no one else is disturbed by his arrival.”

The maester bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He shuffled out of the room, leaving Tywin once more alone with his son.

Tywin sighed softly—an uncharacteristic sound—as he sank into the chair beside the cradle. His gaze returned to Damon, who still slumbered peacefully, oblivious to the weight of expectation placed upon him. For the first time that day, Tywin allowed himself to relax, though it was subtle. The sharp lines of his shoulders eased, and the hard edge in his stare softened.

“You are stronger than you know,” he murmured quietly, his words almost lost to the crackle of the fire. “And you will need to be.”

Tywin leaned back in the chair, watching the boy as he slept. There was something about this small, helpless child that grounded him, even now. Damon was a mix of two powerful bloodlines—Lannister and Targaryen. His existence was proof that Tywin’s plans, for all their trials and conflicts, were succeeding.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. The Targaryens had once been his family’s greatest rivals, and now their legacy was entwined with his own. Tywin’s gaze lingered on the soft silver sheen of Damon’s hair, a reminder of Y/N’s, her fire. He frowned faintly, the thought of her absence stirring something uncomfortable within him. She had left, vanished with her dragon to gods knew where, but he refused to believe she would abandon this—their son, their future.

“You will know her strength,” Tywin said softly, his tone carrying a strange note of conviction. “And mine.”

Damon stirred in his sleep, letting out a small, quiet sigh as though in response. Tywin allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to cross his lips, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He reached into the cradle, his fingers brushing gently over the boy’s small hand. Damon’s fingers twitched instinctively, curling slightly against his father’s.

For a long while, Tywin sat there, silent and still, watching the child. Outside, the Rock’s great halls were alive with whispers of dragons, absent wives, and unstable alliances. But here, in this room, there was quiet—a moment of peace that Tywin would not allow the world to shatter.

When he finally rose, the hardness of his expression returned, but his movements were careful as he tucked the blanket closer around Damon. He lingered one last moment, his gaze lingering on his son.

“You will inherit a world stronger than the one I was given,” he said quietly, his voice firm with promise. “And you will endure.”

Tywin straightened, his full composure restored as he strode toward the door, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor. When he opened it, his features were a mask of calm authority, the face of a man who controlled everything and allowed nothing to slip through his grasp.

And yet, as he stepped into the corridor and the door closed softly behind him, the image of Damon’s small, sleeping form lingered in his mind—an anchor in a storm that refused to calm.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #house targaryen #house lannister #house of the dragon #hotd #got #got/asoiaf #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #legacy

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cybershock24601 · 6 months ago

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Rook de Riva being an expert flirt and great at seduction due to crow training but also being a big virgin with no serious relationship experience because Rook is a romantic and wants everything to be special and no one has been brave enough to try and romance Rook since the last guy who reciprocated interest turned up dead about a week after Viago gave the guy a shovel talk. To be clear, Viago had nothing to do with it and it was completely unrelated but that did not stop rumors of the Fifth Talon getting rid of anyone who looks at his protege/annoying little sibling wrong. Viago also has no interest in correcting those rumors if it means it will keep people away from Rook because if they aren’t willing to risk the Fifth Talon’s wrath than obviously they aren’t worthy of Rook anyways.

All this turns out to be for naught when Rook strides into the Cantori Diamond years later completely lovesick because guess what Viago? I got a boyfriend 💖 And Viago just has to stand there with gritted teeth while Rook recounts everything they love about the 50 something necromancer that Rook has decided is the love of their life and future husband. Teia finds the whole thing amusing and Viago is fuming because Emmrich doesnt even have the grace to be properly intimidated by a talk with the Fifth Talon and was more than happy to chatter on about all the ways that Rook is a absolutely wonderful. At least Rook has found someone that seems to actually care for them but Viago doesn’t have to be happy about! (He is though because Rook deserves everything in the world they want but Viago would never say it aloud.

#speaking as an older sibling it is horrifying when you realize your little sibling is having sex #I need to make Viago suffer as I have #viago de riva #rook #rook de riva #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #dragon age #dragon age veilguard

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circeyoru · 1 year ago

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Collection of Overlords _ Part 5 = Requested

[Alastor x Soul Owner of All Overlords!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 1.5 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 (here) — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9 — Part 10 — Part 11 — Part 12 — Part 13 — Part 14 — Part 15 — Part 16 — Epilogue

You honestly, truly didn’t want to bring up the negatives because it’s been so long since everyone was gathered here. You merely wanted to celebrate the achievement some of your Elites have done and reward them accordingly, then you’ll move on to another topic

But no, those three sinners sharing the title of Overlords just couldn’t fully grasp their situation and keep their mouths shut until they were back in what tiny territory they have. You’ve overlooked their words since it was their privacy

However, not when they bring it to the open

Everyone tensed up when the glass shattered in your direction. Slowly, their heads turned in your direction. On another occasion, they’d melt under your gaze as it wasn’t always that your eyes were visible

Yet this was not such a time. They felt caged and suffocated, the air around them pressuring them to be more compacted. The smile you had was long gone, now replaced by a slight frown and your eyes were sharp, cold and cruel. They could see the shadowy wisps around you while your hair floated in the air

You stood from your seat, glaring down. Your surroundings molding to match your aura and deathly wrath and rage towards souls that you deemed to be placed in your Elite Collection

The other Overlords regained their composure and sat in their seats with their heads slightly bowed, the Vees were in a different state

Their arms up and heads tilted to the side as though they were puppets on strings. The slight shake in their limbs suggests they were fighting the power that held them in such a humiliating place. Velvette and Valentino started to choke as though the air was sucked out of them, while Vox’s screen face cracked more and more from the pressure

“How brazen of you to judge your fellow Overlords in front of me.” Your voice roared even though it was soft and gentle. “I will have to remind you that it was I who chose them to be under my wing, that includes you.”

What a front. What a misleading trap. You’re not one to initiate fights, but you do provoke fights to give yourself an excuse to let out some steam. That’s to the other demons and sinner, not your Collection, as you give them their chances to change and correct their way on their own. Like how you let Zestial and the others warn the Vees before something triggering happens.

“Brazen. Brazen.” Cages appeared around the room, some perched on the top of the chairs, some on the table, and some hovering around you with their wings flapping. “Disrespectful. Disrespectful.”

“No, wait, I…” Vox raised his hands, trying to explain himself but words fall short from his speakers.

“You have no right to say they are ganging up on you three when you have been acting as a group since the beginning. You have no right to say they are not fighting because where were you when Carmilla and Rosie were providing support and Alastor was fighting on the front lines?” You laughed dryly, “Yes, I recall…”

The Vees’ bodies tensed up even more, twitching like branches in the wind. Your dear Cages flew over to them, pecking their bodies with their beck and clawing their flesh with their talons that were coated with angelic steel, courtesy of Carmilla.

“You were safe in your little bunker and watched the entire battle like a show. Don’t make me start with you three using the souls you own as meat shields and bait!” Your eyes narrowed, then you raised your hand with your palm facing upwards and her fingers curled inwards a bit. “You certainly have no right to bet your soul because it is not yours to use anymore.” You growled, “If anything, you should be ashamed of sharing your title as an Overlord with others.”

At your last words, the deafening, crunching sounds of bones and metal started to echo in the silent room. Zestial closed his eyes, opting to drink from his cup. Carmilla sighed, exasperated, while her head shook from side to side with the smallest of motion. Zeezi gulp at the scene with fear, but she can’t help but smirk a bit. Rosie watched in fascination with the most intrigued expression. And Alastor peeked over to your glorious form.

Vox, Velvette, and Valentino’s bodies were squished and squeezed into the shape of a ball at the slow forming of your fist. Their screams muffled by your powers, their lips were sewn shut with a glowing silver line that appeared along with more silver strings that held them up. Only broke when their bodies were reshaped into balls and dropped on the table, noticing that Valentino’s size was even smaller than what his other two partners have. Their blood spread across the table, but nothing was dirtied by the liquid.

Your beloved Cages flew to what was your Overlords, some ripping pieces of meat as much as they could with their beaks and claws and some licking the blood on the table.

“There is so much more that I could pick on you three for, however, I want to have you three know it was never my intention to keep everything this dark.” You sighed and massaged the side of your head with a finger. Your eyes glowed with an aura around them, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll correct your current ways before my patience is gone. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.” Vox was quick to mutter out despite his current state.

“Crystal clear… Master.” Velvette followed after.

“I’m s… sorry… Master.” Valentino whined out.

With the snap of your fingers, they were back to their normal form. They gasped and patted themselves, their minds reliving what they had gone through. They bowed before taking their seats, “Thank you for your mercy, Master.”

Your eyes closed and a smile reformed on your face, “Well then! Let’s move on to something more fun!”

Just like that, the meeting’s main agenda was finally mentioned. You needed your Overlords to dominate the lowlives that were claiming to be Overlords and trying to take territories for themselves

The hologram changed to the landscape of the Pride Ring, and the signature colours of the Overlords marked their respective territories. An eerie black colour mixed with silver marked those that were occupied by self-proclaimed Overlords

You had already checked that there were no Overlords worthwhile to add to your collection, so you gave your Overlords the chance to claim more lands, as well as the opportunity to impress you with their ability to perform a given test. There was a lot of land to cover, so you sat back and let them divide it amongst themselves

It was almost laughable how docile the Vees were acting now, if they had been like so in the first place, then your hand wouldn’t be forced. Still, with some demons and sinners, if they aren’t reminded what real power looks like, they’ll never learn

Their discussion was civil and structured, with Carmilla marking down and arranging the biggest threat and size of new territories. You trust in her judgment. Most picked their preferred land as it was near what territory they have, the ones that benefit most from this was the Vees as they needed to win back your favour in order to wipe the slate clean of their mistakes

While they did so, this time without the arguing and fighting since they had been warned. You petted your Cages one by one and let them return to where they came from, continuing to serve you until you saw they could help more in their former bodies or a humanoid one. You played around with their claws and wings, even feeding them with the everlasting snacks that you summoned when there was no need to

A smile graced the peaceful scene as you sighed in relief over the cooperation they are capable of. You see them working together, it’ll be better if they could set aside their differences and help each other grow

However, you also know it’s impossible for such an idealistic fantasy to come true. This was Hell, no matter how well you have them under your control, they have free will, therefore, free thought. Lucifer’s right when he believes the people of Hell to be awful, even thinking his daughter was wasting time helping them

You’ll have to deny it because Princess Charlie’s redemption worked. For you were approached by the true Ruler of Heaven in regards to a soul needing to leave Hell and go to Heaven. Similar to your role, they reminded in the background and not rule over the souls of Heaven. The only difference was that they were more mischievous in their actions to prove the high-ranking angels wrong

It’s not your business. So you didn’t care. You let that soul leave your realm either way

Still, the individuals before you wouldn’t be able to leave Hell. Never. You won’t allow it since they have sold their souls to you. Even if they are redempted, you won’t let their soul leave and Heaven’s true Ruler knows better than to fight you on that. You’ll let other souls go, but not ones within your Collection

“My Liege, we have divided our work.” Alastor brought you out of your thoughts.

You looked over to the other Overlord, who all nodded, showing willingness and agreement to Alastor’s words. You smiled. Yes, if only they didn’t sell their souls to you. “In that case, that’s all for this meeting. I know you won’t keep me waiting or disappoint me.”

“Yes!”

You return to the hotel with your disguised form already taken place when you teleported back. Alastor was such a dear to offer making you a meal to relax and rewind after a long meeting, so you went and sat down, waiting patiently in the dining room with a book in hand

While your eyes seem to be reading the words on the page, you were keeping an eye out for Overlords

Zestial had gone back to his home and reorganize his knowledge and information collected. You have a feeling he’ll be giving you a report some time soon. Since your little absence, he has been diligently working away with what he was provided. He was an Overlord to not much of you until you gave him, after all. Yet he produces excellent results all the same. Very outstanding

Camilla was preserving the room you have significantly changed to the point that nothing would be changed, now you know where to go when another meeting were to take place. You have a good chuckle when you saw Odette and Clara take turns sitting where you sat like schoolgirls with their idol or crush

It’s good not to be feared. Of course, you understand that they weren’t in a contract with you unlike their mother, so maybe that element of fear wasn’t present as they won’t offend you anyhow. You adore those two and secretly put a little protection charm on them when they left before the meeting started. Seriously, them meeting other demons and sinners while delivering weapons is dangerous

Rosie, being the dear she is, went back to Cannibal Town and retold her people the joyous news of your visit. While it was never specified when, they were already preparing a grand welcome for you. Now, you’re feeling a bit awkward since you didn’t plan an exact date. You thought just a spontaneous visit would do

As if sensing your thoughts, Rosie reminded everyone there was no set date or time you’ll be visiting. The cannibals were forced to stop their rushed preparations, but some still prepared all the same. You seriously couldn’t help but smile at their exchange. You do enjoy how Rosie treated you normally at casual times and wasn’t always as a superior

Zeezi was quick to start in her assignment. Immediately acting after mobilizing the souls she owned, the marked territories she was to take over were swiftly put into her hands and her power did grow. Of course, you saw growth in her. Before, she’d be charging head-first into battle. Here, she studied her target from afar for a while then she hunted them down

Now the Vees, they were recovering from their little ordeal. The wounds done on them from your Cages’ angelic touches weren’t recovered by your recovery power, licking their wounds, they made sure to reevaluate themselves and watch what they do. Valentino received quick the shouting from Vox and Velvette, but he shouted back, in the end, it turned out to be a bit of a blaming-on-each-other shout

You had hoped this would be a push for Vox and Velvette to step away from Valentino, to isolate him because there wasn’t much contribution he offered the two. Vox and Velvette can go hand-in-hand and you don’t mind it, they complement each other and their dynamic could be something like Zestial and Carmilla or Alastor and Rosie. But you know it was a stretch to expect them to do so now

Time will tell how your little Overlord group will go

“And now, we change the layout. Remember the bar was in the lobby before? Well, now it’s next to the kitchen and we have a giant dining room where everyone can have meals together! Oh oh! We can even host parties here and feasts!” Charlie’s voice became louder and louder. You figure she was giving a tour to another new guest and minded your business.

“No way…” Now that was a familiar voice.

“Yes way! We can totally host—” Charlie cut off, and her tone became confused. “Uh, dad, where’re you going?”

When the thought registered, Lucifer was already sitting in front of the empty seat in front of you with a bright smile, “My golly! It’s you!”

You smiled politely, keeping up an act, “Yes, greetings, your highness.”

Lucifer laughed, waving his hand like a slap to dismiss it, “Oh, come on! Where’s the familiarity? I owe you so much! Teach!”

Your smile twitched as did your eye, “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Charlie!” Lucifer called over his daughter. Your smile widened as you felt like screaming into the void. “Meet my lovely teacher that helped me become the man I am today, King of Hell and all that! This is The Collector, or Silver!” He whispered, “A bit shy on the name, or it’s a taboo to say it. You know how it is.”

“Collector!?” Charlie exclaimed with wide eyes, doubling back and forth from her father to you. “But. But! Guest? How? Huh!?”

Husk spit out his drink from what he heard at the bar, immediately wiping his mouth when he looked over to the commotion. “Oh sh*t…”

You sighed and glared at Lucifer with a twitching smile while still in your disguised form, “You…”

Note: And that concludes the meeting~ No tease this time~

I'll be moving back to {Unwanted Soul} plotline (I think), so in the meantime, you guys can send in some scenes you want for this, and I'll see how to write them or treat it as trivia~!

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

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haematinon · 3 months ago

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Created for my new book, Ergo Cosmos, I will put a link the in notes if you are curious to read the first chapter :)

Those who are seriously wronged embody the Wrathful aspect of the Veiled Lady—a dreadful burden to bear, for rarely does retribution bring solace. Yet even She was compelled to unsheathe the sword: when blood is spilled, the virtuous soul must don the talons of the hawk.

#artists on tumblr #fantasy #fantasy illustration #artbook #character design #character art #retro scifi #ttrpg #ink #female knight #lady knight #dark fantasy #knightcore #knightposting #dungeon synth #sci fi and fantasy

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writerunnamed · 8 months ago

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note: I am both shocked, and grateful at the response this story has gotten. I didn't tag anyone, and I expected maybe a few people to be into it but you proved me so wrong. So thankful that you all like it, please don't be shy. Slide into the dms, spam me with asks, lets go nuts together. xo (thanks so much for going through and betaing this chapter @frannyzooey xo) Joel(stepdad), significant age gap, female reader. 18+ legal, reader is 20 (warnings: pov sex, shower sex, really inappropriate dirty talk, slight Dom-Joel vibes, daddy kink, heavy guilt) 4k word count masterlist

The guilt doesn’t creep in, it consumes like a five alarm fire. It’s weight holding you pressed to your bed as the shadows in your room stretch out with the fading of the golden hour light. The darkness helps, but not nearly enough to make any kind of a difference.

He’d left after, closing your bedroom door behind him with your slick still smeared all over his dick and the realization of what you’ve done keeps hitting you. It keeps dropping stones in your gut, further weighing you down, naked, in the incriminating wet patch on your sheets. You hear your mother open the front door an indeterminable amount of time after. Your face burns, your heart races, she has to know. Surely she’d felt it, like a phantom limb while she was working, a ghost knife in the shape of her daughter, stabbing her in the back.

You wait, barely breathing, sheets clutched in the talons of your fingersfor her to storm in, to rip you out of the house by your skin but it doesn’t happen. You hear him laugh, hear them chat as though nothing has happened. Your heart rate steadily lowers, and it becomes apparent that her wrath isn’t pending.

The ax hanging over your head is being held by you, and no one else.

You stay there, uncomfortable, ashamed, cold, until it’s late enough that the house falls silent. Then, and only then do you get up and change the sheets. You pad out to the bathroom and shower, silently telling yourself that it was a temporary lapse in judgment. It was a psychotic episode. It was a hallucination, there’s no way you’d actually done that. It must have been imagined, but then you clean between your legs and feel the soreness and curse yourself all over again.

You do your best to wash him off of you, wash the whole encounter, the whole mistake, and vow to yourself to never give it another thought. You console yourself with the thought that he must feel awful too, surely. He was probably lying there next to your mother, terrified with guilt. The devil on your shoulder, that cruel thing inside laughed at your naivety, practically yelling at you to smarten up. He doesn’t feel guilty, he’s probably snoring, his balls empty, his body pleasantly tired without a care in the world.

Sleep eventually finds you, giving you the blissful respite of the dreamless dark.

—

A week goes by and you can almost convince yourself it had been a dream. Your mother is her normal, distant, distracted self. Joel works and blessedly you have managed to avoid any unsupervised interactions. Your brain however, has splintered and each shard has its role. The first keeps you sane, it does it best to make sure you focus on anything but the event you will not name. Another convinces you that things have almost fixed themselves since… well, that. It fools you into believing that it was somehow a cure. Things feel better in the house. The tension is gone, Joel seems disinterested, your mother is preoccupied. A tentative truce has somehow been enforced.

There is another shard, an unwelcome and unruly and now untethered part of you that screams for a repeat performance. It begs and pleads for you to corner Joel and take what he gave again and again. The other aspects keep it restrained for most of the day. Work, responsibilities, the general needs and demands of the day take up most of your bandwidth but at night, at night it reigns supreme and without opposition.

In the comforting dark of your now tainted space, that illicit part of you floods your mind's eye with the vision of Joel there, in your bed. It recalls the feeling of his mouth on your nipples with crystalline clarity, makes you feel the way he molded your body to take him, the way you came around his cock with that word in your mouth.

You were grateful for the toy, but he’d been so frustratingly right about it not doing much. After him, the toy was a tease. It was barely a taste of what he’d been able to do, but it didn’t stop you from using it. It was the safest option, until you could find someone appropriate.

Or get the fuck out of that house and forget about the whole thing.

More days pass, and that tension filters through your defences, It glides in and fills every angle of the house, every corner with a need borne of your interlude.

Joel’s eyes linger again, he tracks your movements whether your mother is around or not. He smiles, he tests, pushes your limits with a passing hand on your lower back. His fingers linger when he hands you a plate or a mug, he sits close enough for his thighs to press to yours on the couch, the soft light of the tv and the lamp casting shadows across you both.

Your mother doesn’t pay attention, or doesn’t see it. You are not a threat to her relationship, why would you be? In any normal, healthy family this would never be something to be worried about, not in a million years. In a proper family, a stepfather would not fuck his stepdaughter.

A stepdaughter would not fantasize about it either.

The guilt builds the more time passes, but it wars with another, less wholesome feeling. Desire. Unadulterated lust. There is a part of you, a growing, strengthening part that craves him, that bombards you with different ways to have him inside you again, to beg him to fuck you harder, to give it to you longer, to beg for him to come inside you and mark you as his own and this scares you half to death.

Soon though, it eclipses that guilt and takes you to the breaking point.

It comes to a head one day, when you come home to both of them smiling and happy.

“Hey babygirl.”

He smiles when you set your bag down and you ignore the way your body comes to life with that endearment.

“Go on up and get dressed, I’m takin’ my girls out for dinner.”

Your mother beams, sliding her arms around his waist with a dreamy smile. “I got a promotion, Joel is going to treat us.” She’s in a very good mood.

“Oh, I’m alright, bit tired but you two go ahead. Have a drink for me.” You smile your sincerest smile, urging them to leave you alone. The toy floats in your brain, calling to you with the promise of the momentary relief it brings, however paltry compared to him.

“Nonsense. Go on, we’re all goin’.” He raises an eyebrow, and you sigh, already resigned. “Go on, don’t make me ask you again, we gotta celebrate.” There is a playful, yet iron-strong tone that you know in your heart you cannot disobey.

“We can go on our own if she wants to stay.” Your mom combs his hair back with her fingers, fixing it and he lets her, smiling down at her as you make your way up the stairs.

“We’re all goin’-” It’s the last thing you hear him say before you close your door and go about getting dressed.

It’s a pretty fancy steakhouse, a place you’d only ever been to once on a date. He’d put on a nice shirt, and your mom wore one of her nicer dresses. You couldn’t exactly wear leggings, so you’d dug out a dress of your own and trudged along despite your wish to be anywhere but.

He slid into the booth beside you. You said nothing.

Your mother talks about her job, about how happy she is they’re taking notice of all her hard work and you’re genuinely proud of her. Growing up you don’t remember her holding down a job for more than a few months, Joel had changed that too. He’d pushed her to buckle down and take her employment seriously and it had paid off. It was just another one of those contradictory things about him, something you should have loved him for, a genuine, paternal thing but it didn’t mesh with your new dynamic.

Paternal. What a joke.

The food is good, and you enjoy it in relative silence while your mother prattles on about her work, her manager, her team while Joel smiles and looks her in the eye. It’s almost pleasant, almost normal, the three of you, mother, father and daughter in a dark little booth celebrating a win.

It’s almost nice, until you feel his hand on your knee under the table.

You jump, the shock of it making you drop your fork.

“You alright babygirl?” He smiles, genuine concern on his face as heat floods your body and you nod, frantically. With a tight smile you go to pick it up but he stops you, and ducks under the table to fish for it. Your mom laughs it off and you smile, blood pounding when you feel his hand again while he’s reaching for the fork. It moves your skirt up, exposing more of your thigh.

“I’ll ask the waiter for a new one.” He sits up and winks, adjusting himself so he’s a little closer. His hand lands back on your thigh and his thumb strokes at the skin, little circles that make you lightheaded.

“I think I need to use the little girls room.” Your mother puts her napkin on the table and for a moment you think this is your chance. If she asks if you need to go, you’ll jump at the chance – but his hand tightens, just enough to let you know to stay put.

She doesn’t ask, and when she rounds the corner he turns to you, eyes bright with the same lust you’ve been stomping down inside.

“Happy you’re here babygirl, been missin’ you.” His hand slides up until it’s pressed against your core. Your breath comes in pants, and you’re rendered silent.

“Been dreamin’ about havin’ you again. Been fightin’ the urge to sneak in and spread you out on that little bed, eat that pretty little cunt til you’re cryin for me to fuck you.”

He presses close, tilting your face up to press his lips against yours soft enough to tickle. “You been thinkin’ about me?” He presses another little kiss, and you pull away, terrified to see strangers staring at you disgusted.

No one is looking though, and he knows.

“Joel, stop, not here.” You’re frantic, heart racing, pussy leaking.

“Who am I?” he raises his eyebrows, expecting.

You close your eyes, letting out a sigh. “She’ll be back any minute.”

“Say it babygirl, say what I know you’re wantin’ to say. Who am I?” His hand lands on your thigh again.

It’s on the tip of your tongue and you hate that he’s right, you do want to say it. You want to scream it.

“...Daddy.” It’s barely a whisper, but it feels so good.

“Little louder honey.” He slides up, pressing his fingers against your clit.

“Daddy, please–” You give in, and it comes out almost a moan. There’s that sense again, of falling into a trap you hadn’t seen him set but it’s secondary to the self-satisfied smile on his face, to the way your body primes itself for whatever he deems fit. Your thighs clamp around his hand, the restaurant falls away and all that matters is his warm breath ghosting across your face, his strength, the press of his fingers.

“That’s better.” He smiles, and moves away and it’s with an unspeakable relief that you see your mother round the corner again, eyes on her feet while you adjust and move further away. The guilt gnaws at you, but the other thing rages, paints her as an interruption for a moment before you reign it in. She smiles when she slides into her side of the booth.

“How ‘bout we get dessert? I could do with a little somethin’ sweet.” He smiles, and she agrees.

They chat idly on the drive back to the house. She mentions how the excitement has given her a headache, and he urges her to go rest. It’s terrifying, the change in him: his attitude with her, his obvious care and the juxtaposition to his behavior in the restaurant.

Needing a break from the tension he built inside you earlier, you grab a change of clothes and run for the shower, grateful for the temporary oasis.

You try to take your time, to focus on anything and everything except the overwhelming need to be fucked into your matress. A few, blissfully steam-filled minutes later you hear the bathroom door open.

“Mom?” You call out, but after a few silent moments you think you might have imagined it. Until the curtain opens and Joel steps in as naked as the day he was born.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You let out a terrified whisper and your first instinct is to cover yourself.

“Calm down, your mama’s sleepin’. She was feelin’ drained' from work and everythin’ so she took an ambien.” He steps towards you, forcing you to take a step back. “This water’s fit to burn my skin off.” He hisses but doesn’t adjust the temperature.

He steps under the spray while you tuck yourself against the corner, shaking from the chilly tile pressing against your back. Your arm is pressed to your front covering your breasts, and the other is cupping your pussy, hiding your bits from his gaze. In contrast, he’s unbothered by his nakedness. His cock is soft, his arms are strong, his middle a little soft, but his beauty is undeniable. This is a man’s body, and you take it in with increasing want.

Your eyes betray you, your body betrays you, everything inside you seems to scream betrayal when he’s alone with you like this. He tilts his face up into the hot spray. He’s so fucking handsome, so virile, so hung. You kick yourself as you stare at his cock, already knowing that you’re going to give in to him, despite your mother being asleep just down the hall.

“Come on babygirl, get under the water with me.” He reaches forward, taking your hand and pulling you towards him. You let him, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage at the feel of him pressing you close to him. The water cascades over you both, steam billowing out and his hands travel the expanse of your back. They slide over your shoulders, reaching down to cup your backside. He pulls you closer, pressing his mouth to yours and you can’t help but moan.

He smiles, moving his kisses to your neck, your shoulders and that thing inside you wins yet again. Your hands press against his chest, they move over the muscles of his arms that you cannot help but stare at, they caress his back and up to curl through the hair at the base of his neck.

You pull his face to yours for a deeper kiss, the kiss you’ve been craving since he left you wet and trembling in your bed. He groans when your tongue licks into his mouth and then it changes. From an almost sweet exploration, to a desperate need to consume one another. His cock hardens against your belly and your cunt aches at the feel of it.

“Give it to me, I want it.” Someone who cannot be you begs him, clutching at his hair when he licks at your neck, his hands palming at your breasts as your back hits the tile again.

“What do you want, baby?” He lifts your thigh, wrapping it around his hip as he slots his cock at the seam of your cunt. He doesn’t press, just glides it between your legs, never notching the blunt tip of it at your entrance like you hope he will. The head of it nudges at your clit and he rocks it against you, teasing you into madness.

You know what he wants, you want it too. As hard as he is, as desperate as you know he is to slip inside, he has all the patience in the world.

He knows this. He also knows that you are much more desperate than him.

“I want your cock daddy, please, I need it.” You all but moan, some, pathetic, half-human thing burning with a fever, begging to be fucked like a whore. Begging him. The one person you shouldn’t beg this from.

“Such a good girl, such a quick learner.” He finally grasps himself in hand, making sure you watch him as he angles himself and slides home in one smooth, brutal stroke. The moan you let out is a loud, filthy thing.

“Shh, can’t have you makin’ all that noise honey,” He slips his forearm under your calf to open you up wide, his other hand coming up to wrap around your throat. He snaps his hips hard enough to make everything bounce and you cannot imagine ever being this fucking turned on, this hot for another person.

“Or maybe you do, maybe you want your mama to come in here, see how well her babygirl takes her daddys cock.”

You close your eyes at that, it’s too filthy, it’s too depraved but your cunt still drools out its passion for him.

“You get so wet when I tell you how well you take it, even here I can feel her soakin’ me.” He stares at the juncture of your thighs- watches himself spearing you with his cock. Your eyes are half-glazed, admiring the way his neck strains, the definition in his arms, the way his mouth hangs open. His skin red from exertion and the heat of the water.

He’s right, something inside feeds off his praise no matter how fucking wrong it is, you need it.

“Yes daddy, I like it.” You confess, already damned anyway.

“I know baby, I know.” He lets go of your throat and holds onto your ass before sticking his tongue down your throat. You whimper into his mouth, holding onto his neck for dear life while inching closer and closer to the orgasm building in your hips, in the base of your spine.

“Wanna feel her now, come all over me honey-“ he begs in your ear, his hips stuttering slightly and a madness overtakes you as you shove your fingers into his mouth and slip them down over your clit. He moans, pressing his palm into the hinge of your knee, somehow opening you up even more and then it’s there, in your fingers, in your limbs and in your very soul.

“Yes, that’s it baby, yes-“ he turns his thrusts into a grinding roll, and it’s with a horrified glee that you feel him paint your insides in his come. Your eyes glued to the place you’re joined, a curious thought springs up unbidden: nothing in the world could pull you away from him at that moment, with his cock inside and his hands on your body. That realization should scare you but it doesn’t. Would your mom bursting through the door make you come to your senses? Do you really want to know the answer to that question?

“Daddy… I can feel it really deep.” You say the words in what feels like a drunken stupor and he lets out a punched out groan, pulling out to watch as he drips out of the place you now know he fucking owns.

“That’s where it belongs, honey. Nice and deep.” He lowers your leg, but pulls you close and tucks you under his chin.

“Daddy loves you, you know that right? I’m so proud of you baby.”

You’re exhausted, but the guilt doesn’t come as quickly as the first time. It’s hard for it to make it through the comfort of the hot water, the cocoon of his arms, the steady reassuring thump of his heart under your cheek. The soft press of his lips to your forehead.

He stays. He washes your hair, cleans his come from between your legs and the fatherly lines of him blur even more.

It’s wrong. You know it. It’s obviously so fucking wrong. But it feels so right, it feels good, it feels safe for him to shield your eyes from the suds, for him to massage the knots out of your back, for him to kiss you soft, for his fingers to pluck at your soapy nipples.

When you’re done and in bed, you fall asleep, and dream of a steamy bathroom and soft, chapped lips at your temple.

–

The next morning finds you well-rested. That might actually bother you more than it should, comparatively speaking. That he would be the person to fuck you well enough to give you a good nights sleep seems like some cosmically cruel joke. Memories of your mother sleeping in on Saturdays after a night out with him make you groan into your pillow.

Any acceptance, any complicity was far and foreign in the unforgiving light of day. All of the comfort you’d felt in the tail-end of that unholy shower now angered you. It was manipulation, it was coercion, how could you do that? Let him in, in all of the different ways he’d managed to push inside you in the time since you’d been home, past your protective walls and quite literally between your fucking legs. It had to be something he’d done to make you crazy. A temporary insanity, surely,

You let out a huff, noting but almost unseeing the dust motes dancing in shafts of light coming in through the window. The guilt was heavy and hot in your belly, and not only because of the betrayal but because you knew, deep in your soul, that you would not–could not deny him. That was a fact.

The pillow at your side found itself pressed to your face to cover the groan of frustration at the cringy realization that you were just another woman with daddy issues.

Hours you laid there, torturing yourself with so many flavors of guilt.

Guilt at indulging, guilt at craving, guilt at knowing that you’d most likely doing it again, guilt at tentatively imagining other places you wanted him to fuck you. Guilt at the look of devotion on your mother’s face when he smiled at her. Guilt at the dark, cruel little thing that rejoiced at him wanting you so bad.

They were both sitting at the kitchen table when you finally came downstairs. Your stomach dropped at the sight of him sitting there, in his usual place with the paper in his hands. His face gave nothing away when he looked up at you, a talent he shouldn’t have.

“Good morning, sleep okay?” Your mom smiled, moving to the sink.

“Yeah, slept great.” You smile back and you almost feel Joel’s chest puff out. You ignore him.

“That’s good, why don’t you come do groceries with me? I’m going to do a big trip so you guys aren’t starving while I’m gone next week.”

She misses your frown as she empties the dishwasher. Something big wraps itself around you, something foreboding, something inescapable. His paper flicks almost imperceptibly in the corner of your eye and still, you ignore it.

“What do you mean?” You question her, but it’s almost prophetic, because you already know.

“I thought I’d told you, I have a work trip. A conference, because of the promotion. I’m leaving on Monday morning, and I’ll be gone until Thursday. I wanted to leave the fridge full so the two of you don’t have to worry. Want to come?”

She’s still focused on putting away the dishes when you finally meet his eye. Your stomach rolls at the wink he flashes you. You can feel his thoughts like a sunburn, skin tight with the burn of it, at the promise of all of the things you already know he’ll make you do.

The things you know, deep down, you’ll beg him for.

Fuck.

#joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel x y/n #joel x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #tw stepdad #daddy joel #daddy k!nk

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knight-hiccup · 25 days ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₁

This is Chapter 11 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 11.4k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 11

A/N: Content Advisory: This chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It contains explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Additionally, it features realistic portrayals of wounds inflicted upon the Red Death and other dragons. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised due to the intense and disturbing nature of the material. There are also light/lightning/flashing gifs. You’re responsible for what you read.

The wind howled like a chorus of restless spirits, a mournful dirge born of Njord's restless breath over the vast open sea, clawing at your face with icy fingers as the Deadly Nadder carved through the twilight sky. Two days and one night had bled into a relentless blur since Hiccup's hurried lessons in the arena, his voice steady as he taught the others to wield the dragons' might against the vast, untamed ocean.

Now, perched atop the Nadder's vibrant scales, you clung to Hiccup's waist, your arms a steadfast anchor of warmth against the cold as he guided the beast through the fog-choked air. Astrid pressed close behind you, her grip firm on the ropes, her breath a faint rhythm against the gale.

The dragon's wings beat with a thunderous cadence, each stroke a defiant chant against the abyss below—a sea of churning black, unbroken by land, whispering tales of Aegir's wrath. The night descended swiftly, the sun sinking as the moon cast a faint, pale glow across the starry, bruise-purple sky.

Your cloak, heavy with the weight of wolves' fur, whipped against your sides, its warmth a frail shield against the frost that gnawed at your bones as you dug your face into Hiccups own. The horizon stretched endless, a void where sky and sea merged, and yet Hiccup's resolve burned brighter than any beacon, steering you all toward the dragons' nest by memory and determination drawn by Toothless' chained suffering.

Your mind drifted, tugged back to a moment from the first day's flight, when the ocean's expanse had swallowed all sense of Berk. Snotlout, ever brash, had pushed his Monstrous Nightmare into a reckless dive, his nervous laughter ringing like a war horn as he taunted the others to match his daring.

The dragon's flames had flared almost reaching the boy, a defiant blaze against the gray, then a sudden gust caught the Nightmare's wing, sending Snotlout plummeting toward the waves. Your heart had lurched, a scream trapped in your throat, but Hiccup's instincts were swifter than thought. He'd urged the Nadder into a spiraling descent, its talons grazing Snotlout's cloak and grabbing him with time to spare.

With a grunt Snotlout sighed in relief thinking no one heard. When Hiccup hauled his cousin onto the Nightmare's back, the boy's face paled, his bravado shattered by the rush. Hiccup had guided Snotlout's dragon—calming the beast with a murmured command.

The incident had sobered him, his posture rigid as he gripped the dragons' horns, his showboating silenced by the ocean's unforgiving void. Now, as you flew, Snotlout rode the dragon with a cautious hand, his silhouette a dark smudge against the fog, no longer daring the gods to test his mettle.

Hiccup snapped you back to the present—lifting your head, Hiccup’s shout pierced the gale, sharp as a raven’s cry over the storm.

"Land ahead!" he called, pointing to a faint shadow piercing the mist—a jagged islet, one of the scattered teeth of islets that meant you were only a few more hours to Helheim's Gates' edge until you would see the gray shroud that hid a new world. The islet came into view rising from the sea's embrace as the twilight deepened, the sun's last embers sinking beyond the horizon, and Hiccup urged the Nadder downward, his command a signal for the others.

"Swiftly, before the light's gone!" The dragons obeyed, their wings slicing the air as they descended toward the rocky outcrop, its surface slick with salt and seaweed, gleaming like the scales of Jörmungandr himself. You landed with a jolt, the Nadder's talons scraping stone, and dismounted in a flurry of cloaks and ropes.

The rest followed, their dragons settling around with rumbles of exhaustion. Five hours, Hiccup had decreed, to rest and steel themselves before the dawn's first light—just enough time to catch up to the longships. The air carried a bitter chill, laced with the tang of brine and the faint musk of dragon breath, and you drew your fur cloak tighter, its weight a bulwark against the cold that sought to claim you.

The camp took shape under the gang's weary hands; A blaze kindled from flint and driftwood, casting a golden glow across the stone. You all huddled close for warmth, your fur cloaks—etched with runes of Eihwaz for resilience—draping like war banners over your shoulders.

The dragons curled around you, their scales radiating a primal warmth that rivaled the fire's crackling heart, their breaths a low hymn to Freyr's enduring strength. The Nightmare's tail flicked, sending sparks skyward, while the Gronckle snored, its bulk heavy against the wind. You settled beside Hiccup and Fishlegs, your body sinking into your furs, the day's flight leaching the strength from your limbs.

After the others had long fallen asleep, Hiccup and you talked for some time about what was to come. Trying to figure out a plan but coming short with anything but risky ones. The sky was crystal clear as you two lied down beside each other staring at the stars, unable to sleep from the stress. Without hesitation Hiccup slid his hand into yours without glancing your way, squeezing it in reassurance.

"Stop worrying, okay?" he said, his voice steady and warm. "We've got this, you and me. Whatever's coming—whatever obstacles try to stand in our way—we'll face them together, just like always. We've beaten the odds before, haven't we? Time and time again, we've come through stronger—nothing will get in the way again."

He paused, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet intensity, the kind that carried the weight of years spent side by side—through victories that left you breathless with laughter and losses that carved you all raw.

Moved by his certainty, your fingers curled around his with a gentle, unspoken reply. You squeezed tightly, as if to anchor yourself to his resolve, then shifted closer until you were pressed against his side, your head resting lightly on his arm. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, a quiet shield against the chill.

He stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by your closeness, his breath catching as he processed your move. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips—a private, tender thing, meant only for himself, as if he'd just rediscovered a truth he'd always known.

With a careful, almost reverent motion, he draped his arm around your shoulders, drawing you nearer to share his warmth. His embrace was steady, protective, a silent little oath that echoed his earlier words: they were in this together, unyielding against whatever lay ahead.

In the stillness that followed, the air seemed to hum peacefully in your closeness. The world beyond you faded, leaving only the quiet rhythm of your breathing—If only it were to stay this way.

"I trust you," you murmured sleepily, voice a fragile thread of sound, barely louder than the sigh of the wind—but he heard you.

The words slipped from your lips with a quiet conviction. Nothing else was said, as sleep claimed you swiftly, a mercy granted by the gods from the cold, and your dreams still a darken tapestry of Toothless' wails and Hiccup's tear-streaked face as you clutched his cloak.

Beside you, Hiccup still lay awake, his gaze tracing the contours of your sleeping form, the firelight dancing across your features. A smile, soft as a feather falling, curved his lips, and he let the warmth of your presence lull him into slumber, your fur cloaks pooling around you both comfortably.

Dawn's approach stirred you first, years of Gobber and Marta's relentless training etched into your bones, forcing your eyes open despite the weight of exhaustion. The fire had dwindled, its flames licking weakly at the driftwood.

Hiccup now had both his arms wrapped around you, his face close but tucked in his furs, and his hair falling over his eyes as he slept peacefully. It warmed you, and you couldn't help but lay your head back down and admire this rare moment. How cute he looked in this moment to you, it made you smile uncontrollably.

However, you couldn't stay there forever no matter how much you wanted to. So, ever so gently you unwrapped his arms from you causing him to stir and mumble, earning yet another smile from you and you rose quietly to hunt for more wood, the warmth of him gone and the chill replacing it.

With practiced care, you fed the blaze quietly, the crackle of fresh logs a defiant song as old as time, playing against the predawn chill. The air smelled of salty, ocean breeze and charred driftwood, mingled with the faint sweetness of the herbs you'd packed. From your bag, you retrieved a small iron skillet, its surface worn by countless meals, and set to work.

Strips of smoked boar sizzled, alongside some rye bread in herb-butter and cheese, their savory aroma curling into the air like an offering to Odin. The gang slept on, their snores a discordant chorus, but the scent of breakfast tugged at Hiccup's senses. He stirred, his auburn hair a wild tangle, and propped himself up, blinking against the fire's glow.

His fur cloak—thick and oversized, nearly swallowing his lanky frame—trailed the ground as he shuffled to your side, settling close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Your smile reached your eyes, a light to him in the frost-kissed dawn.

The closeness of him steadied you, his breathing a soft rhythm that mingled with the fire's crackle, its warmth seeping into your bones against the northern cold. This far from Berk, the air bit deeper, a chill that whispered of Niflheim's frozen halls, but your cloak—lined with wolf pelts and stitched with Algiz runes—held the frost at bay.

Hiccup's own cloak, a massive bear hide that seemed to engulf him, drew a quiet laugh from you, bright and sudden, slicing through the dawn's hush. "You look like a bear cub stumbling from its den," you said, nodding at the cloak's bulk, your voice laced with affection.

"Did you raid Gobber's stores for the largest one he had?" Hiccup's lips quirked, a crooked smile breaking through the weariness carved into his face.

"It's practical," he countered with a shrug and wave of his hand, tugging the fur tighter with a mock huff, his green eyes glinting with a teasing spark. "Keeps the wind out—and makes me look formidable, don't you think?"

Your laughter softened—easy not to wake the others as a shared warmth bloomed in the space between you—a small fleeting shield against the war awaiting beyond the horizon, a terror which gnawed at you.

The moment stretched, a quiet harbor amidst the break of your journey, until Hiccup's voice broke the silence, low and earnest.

"Need help with anything?" he asked, his gaze flicking to the skillet, a flicker of guilt in his eyes at letting you shoulder the work alone.

You nodded toward the bag at his side, its leather worn from travel. "Fill the wooden cups," you said, your tone gentle but firm. "They're in there."

He set to work, his fingers deft despite the cold, pouring water from his waterskin into the small carved oak cups, their surfaces etched with tiny runes. The meat hissed in the skillet, their aroma growing richer, and soon Astrid stirred, her braid askew as she blinked awake, drawn by the scent.

Tuffnut followed, his yawn a raucous bellow that shattered the quiet, rousing the others. Snotlout groaned, his stomach growling as he sat up, eyes gleaming with hunger.

"It's been weeks since I tasted your glorious cooking," he admitted sleepily—eyes still closed his voice thick with anticipation, a rare note of gratitude beneath his usual bluster which made you snort.

The gang gathered around the fire—slowly, one by one, and gathering their food portion. Their furs pooling like a warrior's camp while the dragons' warmth encircled you all as the first light of dawn crept over the islet, heralding the battle to come.

As you all sat there in silence, the fire's embers pulsed like the dying heart of a dragon, casting a flickering glow across the rocky islet, cloaks draped heavy with the pounding weight of Freya's woven threads on your shoulders. Sleep clung to your eyes, a stubborn veil that sharpened the truth dawning in your chests—this was no saga whispered by skalds, but a war clawing at the horizon.

The dragons' nest loomed, a jagged wound in Midgard's flesh, and beyond it, the specter of kin—Stoick, Spitelout. . .Gobber—the Vikings of Berk—whose axes might turn against you if Hiccup's plea for peace fell on ears hardened by centuries of blood-feud. You would be a liar if you said it didn't terrify you.

Your hands tightened around the wooden cup, its Tiwaz rune rough against your palm, as the reality settled like a stone in everyone's gut: this was your first war, a crucible forged of hundreds of years in dragon fire and Viking steel, where failure could shatter the fragile hope Hiccup had finally kindled.

The sea churned beyond, its waves a restless hymn to Aegir's wrath in silence as the meal had vanished, bread and boar savored and gone, leaving you all to linger in the fire's waning warmth, reluctant to break the fragile calm.

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, huddled close, their whispers a soft cadence, plotting something or steeling their nerves—you couldn't tell. Astrid, Hiccup, and Fishlegs sat by the embers, their voices low, weaving plans and contingencies, their words punctuated by the Gronckle's snores.

Snotlout, ever restless, stood apart, performing a bizarre ritual of armpit stretches and grunts, his movements jerking like a berserker's dance, as if to banish fear through sheer bravado. You rose, your cloak trailing as you drifted to the islet's edge, where the sea stretched toward the unseen nest.

Stretching alone, your muscles loosened under the fur's weight, but your thoughts spiraled into a maelstrom of worry. In the horizon was a gray veil—seen even from where you stood, hiding the longships and Toothless' chained form, and a gnawing unease settled in your bones, whispering of perils beyond the beast fire.

The sun hit you in orange hues, like fire licking at your worried soul—breathtaking, like the calm before a storm. Your boots scuffed the slick stone, the wind's briny sting sharp against your face, and you stared into the fog, searching for answers the sea refused to yield.

The unease deepened, a shadow cast by no sun, and your brows furrowed, carving lines of dread across your face. You didn't hear Hiccup's approach, his boots muffled by the wind's mournful wail, until his hand—warm, calloused—rested on your shoulder. You jolted, spinning to face him, your breath catching as his green eyes met yours, soft yet piercing, like the first light of Yggdrasil's dawn.

He studied you, reading the worry etched into your features as easily as a runestone, and his expression softened, a quiet sorrow flickering beneath his resolve. Slowly, his fingers brushed your cheek, a fleeting touch that traced the curve of your skin before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was tender, unguarded, and it sent a shiver through you, warmer than the cloak's embrace.

"Don't carry this alone," he said, his voice low, woven with the strength of Thor's hammer. He glanced back, ensuring the gang's chatter masked his words, then leaned closer, his breath a faint warmth against the cold.

"Whatever we face, stay close to me," his words, earnest and calculated, carried a spark of something deeper, a longing he hadn't meant to betray, and it hung between you like a star kindled in the dark.

Your face warmed, a flush blooming beneath the wind's bite, and your stomach fluttered, urging you to close the distance. You kissed his blushed cheek then stared at him to pull him into an embrace that could anchor you both against the coming war as his arms tighten around you.

Astrid's shout sliced through the moment, sharp as a blade. "Dragons are ready! Pack up—we're heading out!"

Her voice carried the weight of command, stirring the gang to their feet, their cloaks flapping as they gathered their meager supplies. Hiccup turned, his gaze lingering on you, and offered that knowing smile—crooked, confident, the one that had steadied you through countless trials.

It was your promise that he'd stand beside you, come what may. You nodded, the dread in your chest easing just enough to let you breathe, and followed him back to the group, your boots crunching against the stone. The dragons stirred, their wings rustling like war banners, and the islet grew taut with purpose, the dawn's first light glinting off scales as you prepared to fly toward the nest—and the war that awaited.

A/N: Content Advisory: This following part of this chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It contains explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Additionally, it features realistic portrayals of wounds inflicted upon the Red Death and other dragons. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised due to the intense and disturbing nature of the material. There are also light/lightning/flashing gifs. You're responsible for what you read.

The veil of Helheim's Gate loomed before you, a churning wall of gray cloud that swallowed the dawn's frail light, as if the jaws of Níðhöggr himself had exhaled the fog to shroud the dragons' nest. A few hours' flight had brought you to this threshold, the air growing thicker, heavier, with each beat of the Deadly Nadder's wings.

You clung to Astrid's shoulders, Hiccup's arms tight around you from behind, his breath steady against the wind's feral howl. You all hovered at the veil's edge, your dragons shifting restlessly, their scales glinting like war-forged iron under the muted sky.

Nostrils flaring with chests that pulsed faintly, as if pleading with the gods for passage through this accursed haze. Ruffnut's voice broke the silence, flat and hollow, her words tinged with a dread that mirrored the knot in your gut.

"This fog. . .it's like flying into Hel's own maw. Are we sure this is even a good idea?"

Her monotone cut through the wind, her eyes darting to the others, seeking reassurance none could offer. The rest murmured in agreement, their faces pale as bone, but Hiccup's voice rose, steady as a chieftain's oath.

"Trust the dragons," he said, his tone unyielding. "They know the path. Follow their lead."

He nodded to Astrid, who gripped the Nadder's reins, urging it forward with a sharp command, and you felt Hiccup's hands tighten as you plunged into the veil, the world behind dissolving into a stinging, ashen blur.

The air grew warm, unnaturally so, a cloying heat that seeped through your wolf-pelt cloak and pricked at your skin like embers from a cursed forge. The deeper you flew, the more the warmth turned oppressive, a suffocating weight that pressed against your chest, whispering of the nest's unholy heart.

Unease coiled in your gut, shared by the gang's tense silence—Snotlout's knuckles white on the nightmare's horns, Fishlegs's muttered prayers to Thor, the twins' bickering stilled by the fog's eerie grip. Even Hiccup and Astrid, who had once glimpsed the nest in darkness, seemed to falter, their breaths sharp against the heat.

This was no mere cavity but a wound in Midgard's flesh, its pulse a drumbeat of dread that quickened your own. Eyes seemed to watch from the fog's depths, unseen and malevolent, and the Nadder beneath you stirred, its movements jerky, as if drawn by a force beyond its will. The other dragons followed suit, their wings slicing the haze with frenzied urgency, as if hypnotized by some ancient call.

"This is it! We're getting close!" Hiccup shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Let the dragons guide us—they know the way!"

Astrid's whispered words, barely audible, sent a chill through you, "I hope we're not too late. . ." Her doubt pierced your resolve, and your gut twisted, the weight of Toothless' chains and Stoick's war pressing heavier as the veil swallowed you whole.

The haze bit like embers, searing your vision, blinding and relentless, a gray shroud that choked your senses and burned your throat with each ragged breath. Visibility vanished, the world reduced to the Nadder's frantic wingbeats and the gang's muffled cries. Ruffnut and Tuffnut grappled with their Zippleback, its twin heads thrashing as they clung to the dragons horns, cursing under their breath.

Snotlout squeezed his eyes shut, his face a mask of terror, while Fishlegs wailed, "We're gonna slam into a rock!" But you, Hiccup, and Astrid held fast, trusting the Nadder's instinct, its talons curling as it surged forward urgently. Hiccup's grip on your waist tightened, a lifeline against the blinding winds, and you leaned into him, your heart pounding like a war drum.

Then, as if the gods had torn the veil asunder, the fog expeditiously parted, and the nightmare unfurled before you—a vision so horrific it seared itself into your soul as you blinked the burning ash away. The Red Death loomed—roaring—a mountain of scales and malice, its massive form sprawled across the volcanic shore like a titan cast from Ragnarök's forge.

Its hide, a patchwork of red, blue, and gray, gleamed sickly in the firelight, its six eyes—a piercing silver and slitted—burning with a hunger that could devour worlds. Jagged spines lined its back, each the size of a longship's mast—the same as the crown on its head, and its maw gaped wide, revealing rows of teeth like blackened spears, dripping with molten saliva that hissed against the stone. The volcano behind it towered, its new crater glowing with an infernal light, casting the beast in a dread silhouette that seemed to choke the very air.

Your heart plummeted, a stone sinking into the abyss of your gut, as your mouth fell open, eyes wide with disbelief that clawed at your sanity. The beast bellow surged, a tide of malice that drowned the cries of the dying, and around it, chaos reigned. Longships lay shattered, their dragon-headed prows splintered into kindling, Embers gnawed the wreckage, their glow consuming the shore.

Bodies floated in the water, Viking warriors reduced to broken husks, their armor spent, and flesh torn, legs stripped to bone by rocks and splinter. Bodies burnt to crisp by dragon fire, their nudity a grotesque testament to the battle's savagery. Crimson tides churned, fed by the slaughter’s toll, pooling on the black sand where survivors screamed, their battle cries ragged with defiance and despair.

A warrior's arm dangled from a jagged rock, severed at the shoulder, its fingers still clutching a sword etched with Algiz runes, now useless. Another lay sprawled, his chest caved in, ribs jutting like shattered spears, his eyes staring blankly at the sky as blood bubbled from his lips.

The air reeked of charred flesh, sulfur, and iron, a miasma that choked your lungs and burned your eyes with tears—not of sorrow, but of raw, visceral horror. Just as there were dozens of men, there were dozens of dead dragons that littered the ground, their scales scorched and muted, wings torn to pieces, a Gronckle's head half-severed as if bitten off, its tongue lolling in a pool of its own ichor. This was war, a slaughter forged in fire and evil, and it hit you like a million shards of ice, piercing every hope you'd carried from Berk.

The scene unfolded in agonizing slow motion, as if the Norns had woven time into a tapestry of torment, forcing you to witness each atrocity with unbearable clarity. From the Nadder's back, you saw a Viking charge toward the dragon, his axe raised, only for the beast's tail to whip through the air, crushing his legs into a pulpy mess.

Another collapsed, screaming, his armor splitting as blood sprayed, his thighs bared to the bone, a grotesque nudity born of violence. The Red Death's claw descended, tearing through his chest like a warm knife through butter, and his scream died in a wet gurgle, his body flung into the sea like offal.

"Hiccup!" Your voice ripped through the inferno's roar, a sharp, desperate cry that slashed like a blade through the chaotic din surrounding them. The name rang out, raw and urgent, as your breath clouded in the frigid air, mingling with the sulfurous reek of the dragons' nest.

You all hovered in a fleeting pocket of stillness, suspended amidst the terror of noise and motion—a cacophony of shouted orders, the clatter of steel, and the relentless howl of the wind that threatened to swallow them whole. Hiccups own eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and resolve, scoured the carnage below, searching for a thread of hope amidst the shattered longships and blood-soaked shores.

His grip on your waist tightened, his ragged breath hot against your ear, grounding you as he ground himself. Astrid wove the Nadder through a blast of flame, its heat searing the air like the breath of Muspelheim.

"Stay with me," he whispered, his words a sorrowful yet solemn vow to Odin, etched with the weight of a warrior's oath. The beast guttural cry pulsed, a tremor that cracked the stone beneath, its six eyes blazing like cursed stars—whipping against the gale as the battle's horror unfolded.

"I've got a plan!" Hiccup’s call rang out, bold as a chieftain’s horn, rallying the gang, commanding attention. Every ear turned, locked on him, though none dared look away from the Red Death's towering malice of a titan.

"Fishlegs! Break it down!" he called, his gaze snapping to the boy, who flinched, his round face pale with terror and confusion. "The dragon, Fishlegs! Give us your analysis—now!"

Fishlegs blinked, then scanned the beast, his voice trembling but rising with the frantic clarity of survival. "Alright—uh—heavily armored skull, tail built for bashing and crushing! Stay clear of both! Small eyes, huge nostrils—depends on scent and sound, not sight!"

Hiccup nodded, his mind racing, a spark of strategy kindling in his green eyes. "Okay. . ." He breathes, "Good. Lout! Legs! Stick to its blind spots, make as much noise as you can—keep it disoriented! Ruff! Tuff! Find its shot limit—piss it off, get it reckless!"

Snotlout's brow furrowed, his voice sharp with disbelief. "As if it's not already angry?"

Ruffnut barked a laugh, her eyes glinting with feral glee. "That's my specialty!"

Tuffnut scoffed, yanking at the Zippleback's reins. "Since when!? Everyone knows I'm more irritating!" Tuffnut went to argue going to flip his dragon's head.

Hiccup's shout silenced their bickering, sharp as a chieftain's command. "Focus! Just do what I told you! I'll be back as soon as I can!" Hiccup shouts and the three of you leave them.

He turned to Astrid, his voice steady. "Keep driving, watch for threats. We're finding Toothless." You and Hiccup scanned the chaos below, hearts pounding in unison, bound by a shared resolve to save the Night Fury.

The Nadder dove, Astrid's hands steady on the reins as you and Hiccup searched the burning shore for Toothless. The Red Death's hide bore wounds—gashes from Viking spears and swords still pierced in its legs, oozing a viscous green ichor that steamed on the stone—but they were mere scratches to a beast that dwarfed mountains.

You could hear the arrival of the twins, Lout and Legs arrive on the scene surprising everyone down below as they went to work on top of dragons. The beast tail lashed, smashing another longship into splinters, and a Viking's body sailed through the air as Astrid, you and Hiccup flew by, his gut split open, entrails trailing like a comet's tail before he struck the volcano's rim, lifeless.

Your stomach churned, bile clawing at your throat as the screams of the dying wove into the dragons' roars, a symphony of despair laced with the twins' reckless taunts. Toothless’ anguished roar tore through the inferno, a cry of chained defiance. His chained form a dark silhouette against a burning ship, his obsidian scales scorched but defiant. Hiccup's eyes locked on him, his resolve a blazing beacon.

"There!" he shouted, pointing to the Night Fury's thrashing form, his voice thick with urgency.

Astrid guided the Nadder downward, flames licking at the dragon's wings as the inferno around Toothless grew, a pyre threatening to consume him. Hiccup rose into a kneel behind you, his hand bracing on your shoulder for balance, and leapt onto the ship's burning deck, the wood groaning under his weight. Without hesitation, you followed, landing hard, the heat searing through your boots as embers stung your face.

"It's too dangerous!" Hiccup protested, his eyes wide with fear for you, but your stern gaze silenced him, a fire in your expression that brooked no argument.

"Together, remember?" you half-shouted, your voice cutting through the crackle of flames.

He sighed, a flicker of pride softening his fear, and nodded to Astrid. "Go help the others!"

Astrid pulled the Nadder skyward, her curse lost in the wind as she rejoined the fray. The ship groaned, its timbers buckling under the fire's assault, and Toothless grew frantic, his chains rattling like the shackles of Fenrir.

Around you, it was nothing but a slaughterhouse—Viking corpses strewn like offal, one warrior's legs bared to bone by splintered wood, his flesh a blackened ruin, another's skull crushed, brain matter oozing onto the sand. The air tasted of iron and char, a miasma that choked your lungs, but you and Hiccup moved as one, your eyes fixed on Toothless, bound by a vow to free him or die trying.

The Red Death's snarl thundered, in a wrathful hymn which shook the earth, a call to Ragnarök, and the war's bloody tide surged, its cost carving deeper into your soul. Hiccup and you tried to figure out how to unchain Toothless in a frenzy of anxiety.

The burning ship groaned beneath your boots, its timbers splintering as flames licked closer like a ravenous beast. Toothless thrashed against his chains, his obsidian scales heating, his concerned wails a dagger to the gut as you and Hiccup worked frantically to free him.

"It's alright, bud! We're here, hold on!" Hiccup's voice broke through the fire's roar, raw with desperation as he tore at the crude headpiece clamping Toothless' jaws, its iron bolts rusted and unyielding.

You scrambled to the dragon's side, your fingers fumbling with the leather bands binding his hind limbs, their edges biting into his flesh, leaving raw, weeping welts. With a grunt, you released the straps, his wings unfurling with a leathery snap, their tips singed but unbroken.

Hiccup attacked the chains at the dragon's chest, his dagger scraping against iron links, now twisted by the fire's heat. The air choked with ash and blood, the reek of charred flesh mingling with the sulfurous stench of the nest, and every crackle of the encroaching flames tightened the knot in your gut that you were losing time.

Beyond the ship, the Red Death spit for that of the volcano's blackened rim—annoyed by the twins and Snotlout, its gouts of fire painting the sky in hues of Ragnarök, while a Viking screams as he gets tossed in the air and eaten—ragged, futile— a sound that quickly echoed from the blood-dust air.

Your hands were fast as you freed one hind chain, the iron clanking against the deck, but a sudden uproar from the gang pierced the chaos—Snotlout's curses, Fishlegs's panicked shouts, the Zippleback's twin roars mingling with the dragon's thunder. Their struggle to keep the beast distracted faltered, a fraying thread that made Hiccup panic, and your stomach lurched, torn between Toothless and the friends facing death's maw.

Hiccup's hand seized your arm, spinning you to face him, his green eyes blazing with urgency through the smoke. "Listen to me!" he shouted, his voice cutting like a seax through the din. "I've got this—you need to help them!"

You opened your mouth to protest, the words clawing at your throat, but he pressed on, his grip tightening. "They need you more than I do right now! I need time to free Toothless, to get us there faster. I'm begging you—I've got this, please."

His plea, raw and unguarded, carried the weight of his shoulders. Your frown deepened, a maelstrom of fear and loyalty warring within, but you nodded, your voice steady despite the ache.

"Alright." With a heavy sigh, you turned, the flames' heat searing your back as you moved to leave, each step a battle against the instinct to stay.

"Hiccup!" you shouted, pausing at the ship's edge, your voice sharp with a fear you couldn't bury. He turned, his face smudged with soot, his eyes meeting yours through the haze.

"Be careful," you said, the words a quiet prayer to Freya, laced with the weight of all you couldn't say.

His lips curved, a faint, crooked smile that held his defiance. "You too," he replied, his voice soft but resolute, a vow to return to you.

He turned back to Toothless, the steel pole he found flashing as he hacked at the chains, the Night Fury's sounds mingling with the fire's crackle. You leapt from the ship, landing hard on the black sand, the impact jarring your knees as embers stung your face.

The chill that shivered down your spine at the sight all around brought new nightmares—Viking and dragon remains strewn like broken offerings, one alive, but in agony held his leg screaming—his right leg split open, and femur jutting like shattered oars, A dark tide seeped from his wounds, staining the sand. Another lay face-down, his lower half stripped from his upper half to the battle's savagery. A dead Zippleback sprawled nearby, one skull caved in, the other torn from its body, green ichor seeping from a gash that exposed its shattered jaw.

The beast hide, oozing viscous green from spear wounds, loomed like a mountain, its roars drowning the gang's desperate cries. You ran toward them, your cloak flapping like a war banner, the weight of Hiccup's trust and the gang's survival driving you into the heart of the inferno.

The air was a furnace, thick with the stench of blood and ash, as you sprinted across the shore, dodging a falling spar from a burning longship. The gang's dragons wove through the sky, their roars a defiant hymn against the Red Death's wrath, but their movements grew frantic, their strength waning under the beast's relentless assault.

Snotlout's shouts, laced with profanity, rang out as he urged his hammer into one of the dragons' eyes, while Fishlegs's voice cracked, lost in panic as he came hurling down with his Gronckle. The Zippleback's twin heads spewed gas and sparks, but the beast massive claw swiped through the air, narrowly missing them, its bellow shaking the earth like Jörmungandr's thrash.

A Viking's scream cut short nearby, his body hurled skyward, his armor rent to expose a gutted chest, entrails dangling as he was crushed under the beast paw, the ash swallowing his blood. Your stomach roiled, the horror sinking deeper, but Hiccup's plea echoed in your mind, amidst the carnage.

Toothless' wails grew fainter behind you, Hiccup's silhouette a shadow in the flames, and you pushed forward, your heart a war drum beating for the clan, for Hiccup, for the hope of ending this slaughter. The Red Death's eyes burned through the smoke, a promise of death, and the war's bloody tide surged, its cost carving into your soul as you raced to join the fight.

The inferno raged, a crucible of fire and blood that painted the dragons' nest in hues of Ragnarök's dawn. Astrid's sharp eyes caught your wave through the smoke, her Deadly Nadder swooping low, its talons grazing the black sand as you leapt onto its back, landing with a thud behind her.

The dragon's scales burned hot beneath you, its wings slicing the air as it climbed. "Where's Hiccup and that dragon?" Astrid shouted, her voice a blade over the cacophony of roars and screams.

"He's got it under control!" you yelled back, your words steady despite the chaos. "Hiccup needs us to buy him time! Get me to the beast's head—I'll join Snotlout!"

Astrid grunted, her jaw tight, and urged the Nadder toward the Red Death's massive skull, weaving through gouts of flame that seared the air like Loki's deceit. The beast was distracted, its six eyes swiveling toward the Zippleback's taunting blasts, the twins' laughter a reckless hymn to Thor.

You leapt from the Nadder's back, a warrior born of Berk's unforgiving heart, your movements fluid and precise, a dance of defiance against the Red Death's anger. Mid-air, you unclasped your wolf-pelt cloak letting it fall in a discarded heap down below, the weight shedding to reveal the battle-hardened form beneath.

Astrid's voice rang out as she pulled away, "Good luck!" The Nadder banked sharply, joining the fray above, leaving you to face the beast with Snotlout, your pulse surges like a dragon's beating wings, tempered by the fire of years in silent practice.

You landed atop the beast's thrashing head, balancing on its jagged scales with the grace of a Valkyrie, your boots gripping the slick surface as it roared, a sound that split the sky like Mjölnir's strike. Kneeling swiftly, you drew twin daggers from your fur-lined boots, their blades etched with Sowilo runes, gleaming with the promise of victory.

You sprinted into a slide across the beast's skull, opposite Snotlout, who hammered at its right eyes with desperate blows, his curses lost in the wind. Without hesitation, you plunged one dagger into the dragons hide, the blade sinking deep into its armored flesh, anchoring you as you hurled the second dagger with lethal precision into one of its six eyes on the left.

The orb burst, green ichor spraying like a cursed tide, blinding the eye and drawing a bellow of agony that shook the volcano's rim. The gang froze, jaws agape, their eyes wide at your transformation—from the quiet baker who kneaded bread in Berk's hearths to a warrior forged in secret, trained daily to slay dragons, now unleashed in a maelstrom of steel and fury.

Tuffnut's voice broke the stunned silence, a wild cheer cutting through the chaos.

"Holy fucking Thor, you're a badass!" he shouted, his Zippleback weaving dangerously close as he gawked.

Snotlout faltered, his hammer pausing mid-swing, mesmerized by your ferocity, until your voice snapped like a whip. "Focus on the task at hand!"

The beast thrashed, its head jerking in agony, and you and Snotlout clung to its scales, your muscles straining as the beast's roars drowned the warrior cries of Vikings below. Seizing the moment, Astrid and the twins struck from behind, the Nadder's spines and the Zippleback's gas blasts peppering the beast's flanks, drawing gouts of steaming ichor.

You drew another dagger from your boot, its hilt now worn from hidden practice, and sprinted toward the next eye, your boots slipping on the blood-slick scales. With a cry, you drove the blade deep into the second orb, the eye rupturing in a spray of viscous green splattering you in its hot blood.

The Red Death's screech a death knell that rattled your bones. The beast bucked, knocking Snotlout backward, his body slamming into the crown of spines, where he clung, cursing, "Hel!"

You dangled from the beast's brow, your dagger lodged in its hide the only thing keeping you from the jagged shore far below, your arms burning as you fought to hold on. The dragons remaining eye locked on you, burning with a fury that could sunder mountains, its massive claw swiping futilely, too short to reach.

You yelped, your grip slipping, Snotlout too far to help, his own hands clawing at the spines for survival. Astrid's shout pierced the chaos—"Hiccup's up!"—and a surge of strength flooded your core. With a guttural cry, you heaved yourself upward, muscles screaming, and scrambled back onto the beast's head, your daggers flashing as you charged the opposite side—wasting no time.

The twins' Zippleback dove, snatching Snotlout in the air from the crown just as he had scrambled across, their gas trail igniting in a burst that singed the dragon's neck. Astrid's Nadder swooped toward you, but the beast's head thrashed, as if sensing her intent to get you, forcing her to bank sharply.

The Red Death's maw opened, inhaling with a force that sucked the air from the sky, pulling Astrid's Nadder into a spiraling struggle, her curses lost in the wind. Then, a piercing shriek tore through the chaos—the unmistakable phantom wail of a Night Fury. Your heart leapt, knowing Hiccup and Toothless had joined the fray, their shadow a fleeting hope against the madness.

In that split second, you drew another dagger, your last, and drove it into a third eye, the orb exploding in a gush of ichor that coated your arm in a hot mess, as the beast's roar shook the earth. Astrid's Nadder broke free, her wings beating furiously as she climbed.

Its jaws gaped wider in agony, its throat glowing with molten fire, and Hiccup seized the moment—Toothless' plasma blast rocketed into the maw, a blinding violet star that erupted in the beast's gullet. The shockwave knocked you off balance, your boots slipping as you tumbled down the beast rising head, the world spinning in a blur of fire and blood. You plummeted, the shore rushing up, and shut your eyes, bracing for the end. But the ground never came.

"Did you get her?" Hiccup shouted.

Toothless' talons gripped your shoulders, his gummy smile a relief as he held you aloft, his wings beating against the smoke. Hiccup leaned forward, his face taut with worry, his eyes searching yours for signs of harm. He extended a hand, and with Toothless' help, you scrambled onto the dragon's back, settling behind Hiccup with a breathless effort, your arms wrapping around him as the Night Fury soared.

Your veins pounded, adrenaline and relief flooding your veins, and in a fleeting act of instinct, you pressed a kiss to Hiccup's cheek, the gesture soft against the war's brutality. He turned, his eyes widen, and he smiled, and gently took your hand to kiss it, his touch a calm amidst the chaos.

Hiccup's resolve hardened, a new Hiccup—fierce and perilous like a warrior ignited within, roused from slumber with a singular purpose. His eyes locked on the beast, burning with unyielding determination.

Toothless' wings cut through the smoke, landing hard on a rocky outcrop away from the heart of the fray, the black sand trembling beneath his talons. The Red Death's roars echoed, a thunderous curse that shook the island, its wounded eyes oozing green ichor like tears of a fallen god.

Hiccup's face was taut, smudged with soot and resolve, as he turned to you, his voice urgent but steady. "You need to get off," he said, his green eyes locking with yours, a storm of determination swirling within.

"Toothless and I—we've trained for this. I have to do it alone."

Your heart lurched, a protest rising in your throat. "But Hiccup!" you cried, the words raw with fear for him. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pressed his own against yours, the gesture soft yet fierce, a shy substitute for the words he couldn't yet speak. The warmth of his lips lingered, grounding you.

"Trust me," he urged, his voice a plea, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity, as if willing you to believe in him one last time. You bit your lip, your chest tight with dread, but nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I do trust you. . ." Slipping off Toothless' back, you landed on the blood-slick stone, your boots slipping slightly as you took Hiccup's hand. He stared down at you, his gaze serious yet softened with a love that needed no words.

"Go get him—Dragon Master," you said, your voice steady despite the ache, a spark of pride cutting through your fear.

Hiccup's lips curved into a smirk, and Toothless' gummy tongue swiped your arm, a fleeting comfort before the Night Fury's wings clapped, launching them skyward in a thunderous burst that echoed like Mjölnir and lightning.

Footsteps pounded behind you, and you turned to see Stoick, Gobber, Marta, Astrid and the gang, and more sprinting toward you, their faces etched with awe and terror as they watched Hiccup and Toothless climb the sky. Stoick's armor was dented, blood streaking his beard, while Gobber's peg leg scraped the sand, his hook gleaming with ichor.

Marta's braid was singed, her axe notched from battle, and Astrid's eyes burned with a mix of pride and worry, her Nadder circling above. The Red Death, still reeling from its blinded eyes, thrashed sluggishly, its massive form casting a shadow like Jörmungandr's coils, its roars muffled by the pain of your daggers' wounds.

Sulfur clouded your senses in a miasma that clawed at your lungs, but your eyes stayed fixed on Hiccup, a lone silhouette against the inferno, Toothless' wings a blur as they vanished into the smoke. The Night Fury’s keening howl shattered the silence, in a spectral call from the heavens—Its unmistakable wail, a phantom echo reverberating through the nest, but their speed rendered them invisible, a specter of vengeance born of lightning and death itself.

Then, a violet plasma blast erupted, slamming into the Red Death's flank, the explosion illuminating the beast's hide in a sickly glow, ichor spraying like a cursed fountain. The crowd gasped, Stoick's fist clenching—worried and proud—as Hiccup and Toothless vanished again, swallowed by the haze.

A slow, creeping terror gripped you, your breath catching as the beast stirred with a vibrating growl of pure red hatred, its massive wings unfurling from lack of use with a groan that rivaled the earth's own lament. The wings stretched, blotting out the sky, casting you all into a darkness as absolute as Hel's embrace, their jagged edges tearing at the clouds like the claws of Níðhöggr.

Debris rained down—shattered scales, bone fragments, and ash—pelting your shoulders as you braced against the onslaught, the wind howling with the beast's fury. With a bone-rattling leap, the dragon launched skyward, its wings flapping with a force that unleashed a gale, knocking you and the Vikings backward with hard force.

Screams and grunts filled the air—Gobber cursing, "Fucking beast!" as he stumbled, Marta shielding her face, Stoick planting his feet like an oak against the storm. Each flap sent shockwaves, the sand stinging your skin, until the beast climbed higher, its shadow receding as it pursued Hiccup and Toothless into the heavens.

Beneath your ribs, a relentless pulse surged, echoing the clash of war as you scrambled to your feet, the Vikings rallying around you, their faces pale but resolute—a testament to the battle's cry. The Red Death's roars grew distant, its wounded maw trailing smoke, but the nest still burned, flames licking at the wreckage of longships, their dragon-headed prows reduced to kindling.

Toothless’ distant cries pulsed through the smoke—thrashing—in hope amidst the carnage, and you clung to Hiccup's promise, your daggers spent but your spirit unbroken. Stoick's hand rested on your shoulder, heavy with unspoken gratitude, his eyes fixed on the sky where his son waged war against a beast.

The gang's dragons circled around them, their roars a defiant chorus, but the beast shadow loomed, a promise of death that threatened to consume all. Your gaze never wavered, locked on the heavens, where Hiccup and Toothless fought to end this slaughter.

The sky churned darker, a cauldron of smoke and storm clouds that swallowed the frail light of the afternoon skies, as if the gods themselves mourned the slaughter below. All of your eyes were fixed on the heavens where Hiccup and Toothless had vanished. Roars reverberated, a primal curse that shook the ground like the footsteps of Ymir, its wounded head and maw trailing wisps of black smoke, and three of its six eyes blinded by your daggers, oozing green ichor that hissed against its scales and splattered down below.

Then, a shadow broke through the distant haze—Toothless' sleek form, Hiccup's silhouette hunched low, streaking across the sky like a comet forged in Valhalla's fires. They flew far off, a daring gambit to lure the Red Death away from the island, away from the survivors huddled on the blood-soaked shore.

"Quite the chief you have in the making there. . ." Gobber bellowed to Stoick beside him, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"Aye. . ." Stoick murmured, his voice hushed with awe, utterly thunderstruck.

The beast followed, its massive frame a nightmare of scales and fury, its remaining eyes locked on Hiccup and Toothless with a hunger that could devour the stars. It ignored you all, its roars a single-minded vow to crush the Night Fury and his rider, the only ones who dared defy its reign.

You watched, astonishment and fear warring in your chest, as Hiccup and Toothless banked sharply, their speed a blur against the gray veil. The beast pursuit was relentless, its wings—each flap a thunderclap—tearing through the air, knocking jagged islets into the sea as it passed.

The splintered rock sent waves crashing, salty droplets splashing your face, stinging your eyes, while shards of sand and stone pelted you all, the debris biting like fangs. Stoick's bellow was nearly drowned by the gale, his massive frame shielding the teens with Marta as Gobber braced against the wind, his hook glinting with ichor. Your gaze never wavered, fists clenched, a silent prayer to Freya etched in your eyes for Hiccups safe return.

Hiccup's plan unfolded with desperate precision, guiding Toothless higher, their forms weaving through the chaos to draw the beast away from the nest's heart. The beast bulk grazed another islet, shattering it into rubble that rained into the sea, the impact sending a tremor through the ground beneath you.

Hiccup urged Toothless upward, the Night Fury's wings slicing the air as they climbed into the heavens again, vanishing into a roiling storm of dark gray clouds that churned like the breath of Níðhöggr. The sky swallowed them, their piercing shrieks fading into an eerie silence, leaving only the Red Death's distant roars and the crackle of burning longships.

Your breath caught, your lips bitten raw with worry, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue as you stared at the clouds, willing Hiccup to emerge. Stoick's hand tightened on your shoulder, his grip a mirror of your own fear, his weathered face carved with the anguish of a father who might lose his son.

The Vikings around you stood frozen, their shields dented and bloodied, their eyes reflecting the same dread—Gobber muttering curses, Marta clutching her axe, Astrid's jaw tight with unspoken terror. The nest burned below, flames licking your skin with glows of red, its dragon-headed prow reduced to ash, while a Viking's corpse nearby stared blankly.

The silence stretched, a torturous void that gnawed at your resolve, the weight of Hiccup's absence pressing like a stone on your chest. When suddenly the Red Death's shadow loomed beyond the clouds, its wings casting flickers of darkness through the storm, as the Night Furys' blast bent on in vengeance against it one after another—showing the beast silhouette.

Your pulse pounded, eyes never leaving the sky. Stoick's grip steadied you, his silence growing louder, as you all shared vigil for the boy who carried Berk's hope. And you all held your breath, their outcome hanging on a thread woven by the Norns, as you waited for your Dragon Master to return.

A sudden roar tore through the silence, not the Red Death's bellow but a rushing of a thousand winds, as if a mountain had been hurled from the heavens by Thor's own hand. The smoke parted, a veil ripped asunder, revealing the beast plummeting face-first toward the earth, its massive frame a colossus of ruin.

Flames choked its maw, erupting from within, a molten inferno that lit its scales in a sickly glow, its three blinded eyes still oozing green ichor like cursed rivers rushing. Its wings tattered and riddled with holes from the Night Furies' relentless plasma blasts—flailing desperately, clawing at the air to regain flight, but the beast was too broken, its strength bled out by Hiccup and Toothless fury.

Your eyes snapped to a smaller shadow—Hiccup and Toothless, falling directly in the Red Death's path, their forms spiraling through the smoke, too close to the beast's flaming jaws.

A scream ripped from your throat, "Hiccup!" raw and piercing, a blade of terror that cut through everyone as you all watched on.

You surged forward, your boots pounding the sand, but Gobber's arms seized around you, pulling you into a huddle with the others as you all braced for the cataclysm. The beast crashed—instantly breaking its neck under its own greedy weight, a shockwave of fire and force slammed into you all, the heat searing your skin like the breath of Muspelheim, the blast's weight nearly crushing your bones.

The world dimmed, your senses dulled by the impact, the heat and force pressing you into the sand as you clung to consciousness. You lay there, half-buried under Gobber's arm, his bulk shielding you, his breath ragged as he teetered on the edge of oblivion. The nest fell silent, an eerie void that smothered the screams and roars, leaving only the crackle of flames, ash and the groan of the beast dying form.

Your eyes fluttered open, your body aching, and you slipped from Gobber's slackened hold, his frame still dazed from the blast. Rising, you stood frozen, your face pale, your frame trembling as you stared at the fireball engulfing the beast, its massive body wreathed in flames that danced like the fires of Hel.

The beast scales smoked, its torn wings limp and bone, its maw silent but for the fading hiss of its final breath. Your mind screamed one truth: Hiccup and Toothless were beneath that beast's nose when it fell, their forms swallowed by the inferno. Your heart weakly skipping with dread, a war drum drowning all else, and your feet moved on their own, slow at first, then breaking into a sprint toward the blaze, uncaring of the heat that scorched your skin.

Gobber's shout echoed behind you, "Get back, damn it!" but he stumbled, falling forward as he reached for you, his peg leg sinking into the sand.

Stoick's bellow, Astrid's cry, Marta's plea—they all faded, drowned by the thunder of your pulse, the drums of your heart roaring in your skull. You leapt over a smoldering longship spar, its dragon-headed prow charred to ash, and dodged a Viking's corpse. The heat was a living thing, clawing at your face, but you pressed on, screaming Hiccup's name, each cry a jagged sob that tore your throat raw.

The flames began to subside, leaving the Red Death’s form smoldering in its own massive form—groaning in on itself before collapsing, lifeless, its busted body a mountain of scorched scales and oozing wounds. You didn't hesitate, scrambling over its shattered hide, the heat searing your hands as you climbed, your boots slipping on ichor-slick stone.

Stoick and Gobber caught up, their voices hoarse as they joined your desperate search, calling Hiccup's name into the smoke. The nest was a tomb, littered with the dead—a warrior's severed arm clutching a sword up high, another's skull crushed, brain matter smeared on the sand. Your eyes burned, tears carved paths through the grime caking your cheeks, as you searched the inferno's heart for your own, fear and hope warring within, praying to Odin that Hiccup and Toothless still lived.

The fires dwindled, their hungry tongues retreating into embers, leaving the dragons’ nest shrouded in an endless gray sky, a lifeless veil where no sun dared pierce. Soot drifted like mournful flakes, cloaking the shore in silence, soft and silent, blanketing the black sand in a spectral shroud, each flake a whisper of the Norns’ cruel judgment.

The dragon lay dead, its colossal frame a broken mountain, its scorched scales cracked, oozing green ichor that steamed in the cooling air, its maw frozen in a final, silent roar. The island was a tomb, littered with the wreckage of war—corpses strewn like offerings to Hel. A fallen Nadder’s corpse slumped nearby, its throat torn, blood seeping into the earth, its lifeless eyes staring at the soot-choked sky.

You searched frantically, your boots slipping on the slick sand, your voice hoarse from screaming Hiccup’s name, each cry a jagged wound in your throat. Minutes had bled into an eternity, and still, no sign of him or Toothless, the absence a dagger twisting deeper into your gut.

Your chest ached, a hollow void where hope had once burned, and the thought of Hiccup’s death clawed at your soul—if he was gone, what would become of you? The world without him was a page unwritten, a hearth gone cold, and the weight of it threatened to crush you.

Yet you searched, driven by a desperate need to find him, to defy the fates that mocked you with silence. Stoick and Gobber were close, their figures blurred by ash and tears, their own cries for Hiccup echoing yours. Stoick’s shouts, raw and thunderous, struck you like seaxes, each call for his son a plea to Odin that went unanswered.

“Hiccup! My boy!” he roared, his voice breaking, a chieftain reduced to a father’s anguish.

Gobber, exhausted, dragged his peg leg through the debris, his hook scraping against shattered longship timbers, his face streaked with tears he wiped away with a trembling hand. The air was heavy, thick with the reek of despair, and every step you took felt like wading through frozen rivers, your body screaming to stop but your heart refusing to yield.

Then, Stoick’s shouts ceased, a sudden silence that pierced the haze sharper than any blade. You turned, your breath catching, and saw him sprinting toward a shadowed form in the soot, his massive frame moving with a frantic hope that mirrored your own.

You ran after him, heart pounding, tears streaming down your face as Gobber stumbled behind, his grunts of effort mingling with the crunch of sand. There, amidst the wreckage, lay Toothless, his obsidian scales scorched, his wings limp, sprawled like a fallen warrior on the bloodied shore but unbroken.

You gasped, a sob tearing free, your tears cutting paths through the ash on your cheeks as you reached him. Stoick dropped to his knees beside the dragon, his eyes searching frantically, tearing at the broken saddle, the twisted gear, his fingers shaking as he sought his son.

But Hiccup was nowhere—gone, vanished into the same inferno that had claimed the Red Death. Stoick’s shoulders buckled, a titan crumbling, and he fell forward, his sobs wrenching, raw, as if the gods had carved out his heart.

“My son. . .” he choked, his voice a broken whisper, tears streaming into his bloodied beard.

You caught up, your eyes falling on the empty saddle, the shattered stirrups, the gear snapped like brittle bone. The sight struck you like a war hammer, and you grew cold, your blood turning to ice as the truth sank in—Hiccup was gone.

Your hands flew to your face, covering your mouth as a gasp of pain escaped, your body trembling with a grief too vast to contain. Slowly, you sank to your knees, the charred-soft sand yielding beneath you, your head bowing until it touched the ground, your body curling in on itself as sobs tore through you.

Each cry was a shard of glass, cutting deeper, soul screaming against a world without Hiccup, without the boy who’d been your anchor, your fire, your home. Gobber knelt beside you, his own disbelief a heavy shroud, his hand resting on your back, trembling with the weight of his own devastation.

“Not the lad. . .” he whispered, his voice cracking, tears spilling as he stared at the empty saddle, the Godson he’d raised now lost to the flames. The ash felt softer now, a silent elegy, blanketing you all in a grief that choked the air.

One by one, the others approached—Vikings, Marta, the gang—emerging from the haze like ghosts, their forms dented, their faces gaunt with battle’s toll. When they saw you and Stoick, hunched in mourning, Toothless’ still form a testament to loss, they stopped, their silence a collective dirge.

Astrid’s eyes glistened, her jaw tight, a tear cutting through the soot on her cheek. Marta clutched her axe, her braid singed, her lips trembling as she bowed her head. The Vikings stood solemn, their war cries silenced, their hands resting on sword hilts etched with runes, now useless against this sorrow.

The nest was a pyre, the beast corpse a lifeless monument, its wounds steaming in the gray light, but no victory could mend the void Hiccup’s absence carved. You remained on your knees, your sobs a quiet lament, your hands clutching the sand harshly as if it could anchor you to a world where he still lived.

Stoick’s cries softened, his massive frame shaking, and Gobber’s hand tightened on your back, a shared grief binding you in the ash’s mournful fall. The sky above was as lifeless as you felt. Gray and the sun taken away, and the weight of Hiccup’s loss pressed down harder and harder, a wound that bled with every breath, as you mourned the boy you came to love. . .The boy who had flown too close to the stars.

A low groan broke the silence, a faint stir from Toothless, his obsidian, soot covered scales shifting as his eyes fluttered open, glowing faintly in the charred dust-dim light. He watched Stoick closely, his gaze piercing, as if judging the man who’d chained him, who’d driven Hiccup into this inferno to begin with.

Stoick’s voice cracked, a whisper torn from a father’s shattered heart. “Oh, son. . .I did this.”

His words hung heavy, a confession to another he’d lost, laden with guilt that bowed his shoulders. Toothless held his stare, unblinking, until another tear traced Stoick’s weathered cheek, falling into his bloodied beard.

“Oh, son. . .I’m so sorry,” he choked, voice a plea for forgiveness to his boy he loved so dearly.

The dragon’s eyes softened, as if sensing the truth in Stoick’s sorrow, and with a slow, deliberate grace, Toothless unfurled his wings, their singed edges trembling. Beneath them lay Hiccup, unconscious but breathing, his auburn hair matted with ash, his chest rising faintly, cradled in the Night Fury’s embrace like a warrior shielded by Freya’s mercy. The sight was a miracle, a spark of light in the darkness of Hel’s grasp, and Stoick’s shout of Hiccups name shattered the silence, a cry of joy and disbelief that echoed through the air.

You heard nothing, the world muted by the weight of your grief, your silent sobs a relentless tide that drowned all sound. Gobber’s hands shook you, his voice distant, urging you to look, and you lifted your head, your eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Through the haze, you saw Stoick cradling Hiccup, pressing his son’s limp form to his chest, his face buried in Hiccup’s hair as tears streamed anew. You blinked, your mind refusing to believe, certain it was a cruel vision born of despair. Then Stoick’s voice broke through, a triumphant roar that shook the heavens.

“He’s alive! He’s alive! You brought him back alive!” he shouted, his glee a hymn, directed at Toothless, whose gummy smile flickered, weary but proud as he relaxed.

The words pierced your fog, and you sat up, your face a mask of grief, your spirit stuttering back to life by just a small hope as you questioned what you’d heard or if you misheard. Cheers erupted from the Vikings afar—Astrid’s glee, Marta’s sob, the twins' cheers and the Viking’ roars—confirming the impossible: Hiccup lived.

Your head throbbed, a million hammers pounding from within, a headache born of anguish and relief, but you forced yourself to stand, your legs trembling as you staggered toward Stoick and Gobber. Stoick was knelt beside Toothless, his hand resting gently on the dragon’s snout, his voice soft with gratitude.

“Thank you for saving my son,” he said, his touch reassuring the Night Fury that the rift between them was mended, that all would be well.

Gobber, wiping his eyes, managed a shaky grin. “Well, most of him,” he quipped, his voice thick with relief, a spark of his old humor breaking through the sorrow.

You reached Stoick’s side, your breath catching as you saw Hiccup for yourself—his chest rising, his face pale but alive, his gear battered but his spirit unbroken. A laugh, half-sob, burst from your lips, raw and unrestrained, and Stoick’s hand found your arm, a knowing gesture that anchored you in the moment.

You reached out, your fingers trembling as you brushed Hiccup’s hair from his eyes, the familiar strands soft beneath your touch, a lifeline to the boy who’d been your heart’s compass. Tears fell anew, cutting fresh paths through the soot on your face, but these were tears of joy, of a miracle wrested from the jaws of death. Stoick rose, lifting Hiccup gently, his massive arms cradling his son like a treasure reclaimed from the sea.

Toothless stirred resting his head, his wings folding as he watched Hiccup, his loyalty undying. You stood beside Stoick, your hand lingering near Hiccup’s, heart swelling with a love that had endured this crucible of a war. The ash settled, the gray sky softening, and though the cost of battle scarred the shore, a small streak of sunlight found its way through.

This is Chapter 11 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

#chapter 11 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom #rtte

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