#in the shallow grave ~ { ic } | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stevieschrodinger · 1 month

Text

TW for Eddie getting hurt (but he's okay). And Human Trafficking.

Link to Part One

Link to Part Three

“Again? Seriously?”

Eddie knows he should keep his mouth shut. He knows he should. He just...doesn’t seem to be able to.

It probably doesn’t help that Eddie is one hundred percent done with this. This isn’t a life. A gilded cage is still just a cage, and Eddie’s getting to the point where antagonizing the guards is a hobby.

“Wear it, or I’ll make you wear it,” the lackey snarls, shoving the flimsy white fabric against Eddie’s chest.

“You fucking wear it!”

And that’s it. The guys an Alpha, he’s like, literally twice the size of Eddie, and it all happens so fast Eddie’s winded by the floor before he knows what hit him. And then it comes, the whistling noise of the cane singing through the air. Eddie is intimately familiar with the noise.

And just like usual, Eddie can’t keep his noises in, he curses, he calls the guard every name under the sun, he screams and starts to cry but in the end is reduced to a compliant heap, the same as every other time.

They strip him naked and splash freezing water on his face, gets rid of the snot and tears and no doubt the flush he has on his cheeks. His feet are burning, throbbing, and Eddie wants to collapse back to the floor to take the pressure off.

He’s shoved into the white dress, “you so much as blink wrong out there and you won’t be standing for a fortnight.”

Eddie dips his head; he knows it’s true. They’ve done it before. So he gives in. They’re breaking him more and more easily. Eddie doesn’t want to give up; he just doesn’t feel like he has the energy any more.

He’s been here the longest, he’s the only one that’s never sold. It’s only a matter of time before his body ends up in a shallow grave out on the ranch somewhere.

He limps into the dining room, freshly sprayed with heavy duty scent blockers. Eddie’s vaguely aware they’re eating lunch, and if his feet weren’t fucking stinging the way they are, he has no doubt his stomach would growl at the smells.

Eddie doesn’t make it that far before he catches Hagan waving a hand at him, “get him out of here, he's bleeding on the rug.” Eddie does his best to oblige, but he can only move so fast with the injuries on his feet.

Hagan, out of everyone here, is not someone you want to piss off. Eddie learned that too, very early on.

"Him," someone says behind Eddie, "I want him."

Eddie turns back again, despite the fact that it can’t possibly be him the Alpha is referring too, there are other male omega here, after all. But no. The Alpha is standing now, and he’s looking right at Eddie.

Well, fuck.

Because as much as Eddie has dreamed of this day, of getting the fuck out of here...that Alpha could be worse. The possibility is always there. This could be a frying pan into fire type situation, and there’s fuck all Eddie can do about that.

Hagan makes a noise, scoffs, "Steve, come on, have a proper look. Don't pick that one. Get a pretty one."

The Alpha is irritatingly good looking at first glance, and he becomes even more so in Eddie’s eyes when he flashes a look of irritated disgust at Hagan, "no, he'll do."

Oh, Eddie ‘will do’ will he? Okay, maybe the Alpha isn’t that good looking, after all.

"Oh," Hagan laughs, "I get it, just gonna' wreck him anyway, right? That's fair, can always get another," and he's laughing again and suddenly Eddie is ice cold with fear. Hagan called this guy Steve; clearly they know each other. Is that the type of Alpha this Steve guy is?

Everyone else is shooed out of the room, and Eddie stands there on his throbbing feet, hearing, to the dollar, how much he’s worth.

More than he thought, if he’s being honest.

Alpha Steve doesn’t even flinch at the price.

Eddie’s certain Steve must be doing fifteen over the limit, which, honestly, he doesn’t care. It means Eddie’s traveling fifteen over the limit away from a place he never wants to see ever again, so it works for him.

"Look, uh, hey, you have a name?"

"Eddie," he answers, but only because he genuinely doesn't want to antagonize this guy right out of the gate.

"Right. Eddie. So. This is...well it's going to sound a bit wild but...I'm kind of here for the FBI. I mean. I don't work for them, or anything, but...I was...asked, I guess, to get evidence. So don't worry about everyone else, they're getting rescued later so. That's. A thing, I guess?"

Eddie just sort of sits there for a moment, feeling stupid. FBI. Rescue??? Maybe he hit his head or he's dreaming or something but...no, his feet are stinging like a bitch and he can very clearly remember how the whole day has gone so far. He’s awake, and this is real.

"Yea. Yeah, I guess that's a lot to take in. But we can talk about it...later? Do you have family? Like, shit, do you have somewhere to go? I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to actually like...buy, a person. Couldn't leave you there though."

The Alpha’s...rambling. Which, Eddie kind of figures now that this guy wasn’t joking when he said he doesn’t work for the FBI. He looks nervous, actually, white knuckling the steering wheel. In Eddie’s experience, if something seems to good to be true, then it almost definitely is. This guy is giving off no scent, and there's no scent in the car anyway. Either it's a rental or something, or this guy wears blockers most of the time. There's even one of those fancy scent diffuser things plugged into the dash. So other than being visibly unsettled Eddie’s got nothing to go off of.

But then, why would he lie? He’s bought Eddie fair and square, and like most Alphas, he’s probably carrying double Eddie’s body weight, plus he knows Eddie's already injured. Eddie could be going from one prison to a...worse prison. But...again, this guy has no reason to lie, right?

"I've...I've got an uncle. Haven't seen him for years. I don't...know,” it’s pretty true, without giving too much away. The possibility that this guy could be serious is...it feels to big of an idea to absorb. Eddie might be free? He'll maybe see uncle Wayne again? This guy is going to just...let Eddie go? Eddie's known, for literal years, that he had two ways out of the ranch, out front, bought and paid for, or out back, in a body bag. The sudden possibility of a third option is so out of left field Eddie doesn't know what to do with it.

"Right, right okay. We can talk to Hopper about it," Steve spots a drive through, "you hungry?"

Eddie has absolutely no fucking clue what a ‘Hopper’ is, but at the sight of the beautiful golden arches, his priorities shift drastically, "oh fuck me yes," Eddie says it with such vehemence that Steve laughs, he’s got a nice laugh, this Alpha. And unless he’s playing the long con...why the fuck would he even worry if Eddie’s hungry? "I haven't left the ranch for two years, and they never let us eat anything like that, it's bad for our skin. Plus, we have to stay thin and pretty."

Steve’s expression changes in an instant, he looks genuinely horrified by what Eddie’s just revealed, “you can have absolutely anything you want.”

Eddie takes him at his word and orders half the damn menu.

Well, Eddie figures, the FBI thing is true, and this is a Hopper, and man he looks like he’s had enough, "you were not supposed to buy a human being," he very clearly tells Steve. Eddie’s feet are stinging a little on the asphalt, but as long as he doesn’t move too much, it’s bearable. And even though he’s still wearing the fucking nightdress, like hell was he missing this conversation.

"I know but-" Steve starts to protest, which Eddie thinks is kind of brave, because if Steve is twice Eddie’s weight, Hopper is basically a giant. Hopper stops him dead with a glare, and Steve hands over his phone and strips off his suit jacket and hands that over too, leaving him in a pristine white shirt.

Hopper waves him off, "you did good."

Hopper does something to the back of Steve's phone, peeling something away from it, before giving it back and then turning his attention to Eddie, "somewhere I can take you kid? Any family?"

"I only have an uncle, but I don't...it's been years, I haven't seen him since I was little."

Hopper rubs is hand over his face, the rasp of stubble loud, before he lights another cigarette, "I'll have to find you a motel somewhere while we figure this out." And that sparks a twinge of...fear. Eddie has lived with a group of Omega for years, and the ranch was a lot of things but...they had meals provided, they didn't have to think about money, or clothes, or anything mundane like that. The prospect of suddenly being completely alone...completely alone and potentially vulnerable, is not in any way appealing.

"He can stay with me." Steve suggests out of fucking no where, "I've got...a lot of space," he trails off, looking kind of sheepish that he even suggested it. At some point, somewhere between the rescue, the McDonalds, and right this moment, Eddie kind of decides, tentatively, at least, that Alpha Steve might just be an alright guy.

Hopper raises an eyebrow at Eddie, Eddie shrugs, playing down his relief, "not like I've had any better offers lately."

Hopper snorts, but he hands over a business card to Steve, "this is highly unorthodox, but...I don't care. I've got bigger things to worry about. Text me any details the kid can give you on the uncle. I'll be in touch."

And then Hopper just...drives away. Steve fiddles with the card Hopper just gave him, and Eddie can see it says FBI and all that good stuff on it. This is feeling more and more real as time stretches on.

"So is there anything you...want? Need?" Steve asks him.

Eddie feels kind of bad about the sheer amount of money he’s already cost Steve today, "I mean, I don't have any cash, obviously, and I heard how much money you shelled out- I mean, do you think you can comp me from the FBI? Man, you didn't even get a receipt for me."

And that...makes Steve laugh, like really, makes him laugh. And Eddie joins in, not that he thinks he’s funny particularly, but because Steve is just so...well. Maybe it’s a relief too, that Eddie is finally out of that place, and the truth of that is finally sinking in. He’s free. Feels a little delirious with the possibility of freedom.

And there’s only one way to celebrate something like that, “can we get milkshakes?”

@stylelovechild @steddieonthen @marklee-blackmore @sticknpokelightningbolt @resident-gay-bitch @somegirlsomewhere @mugloversonly @cryptid-system @weekend-dreamer7

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #fbi agent jim hopper #long suffering hopper #jim hopper #alpha steve harrington #omega eddie munson #human trafficking #steve to the rescue

326 notes · View notes

cowboydisaster · 8 months

Note

reader dying in Simon's arms... med evac being too late... Simon in denial?

i like to cause pain 🫡

nonny... you are a little torturer, but I'm here for it. I actually wrote this a bit ago, but tweaked it b/c it was very similar to this prompt. Anyhow, enjoy you little angst-lover!

Fine Line

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader word count: 1.7k a/n: reader goes by callsign: Red. Also, this is like-- super angsty. I'm SORRY. I'll make it up to you later I promise. xx warnings: death, reader death, blood, gore? i think thats the word im looking for, denial, trauma, hurt/no comfort. masterlist

It doesn’t look good.

You hold your palm over your torso, pulling it away to look down at the ruby colored liquid that is coating your hands. It’s sort of beautiful, you think, oddly. Like rose petal after rose petal spilling out from your wounds, coating your being in its own life sustaining substance. It hurts, an unrelenting burn radiating throughout your body, causing you to tremor uncontrollably. You’ve seen death plenty. You’ve been the hand of it, and now you’re the victim. Funny how things come full circle like that.

Bodies lie around the room you occupy, already having suffered the same fate that you’re about to. You’d succeeded in clearing the room. Ah, but the closet. You’d missed it. A simple mistake, and it would cost you your life. You managed to take out the enemy, but not before he pressed his damning shotgun against your stomach, not before he’d pulled the trigger.

Your breathing is shallow, the puffs of air are visible in the cool air, and they shrink smaller as an overwhelming cold begins to creep around your lungs. Ice wraps around your frame like an old friend, like a lover.

“Red, how copy?”

You glance down at your radio, a bittersweet smile gracing your lips at the familiar voice. Simon. Oh, how you love him.

“Fuck, sergeant. How copy? I heard shots.” Simon says again, this time harsher. You’ll miss his voice, his touch, his eyes. You hope that in some way, after you’re gone, he’ll be with you.

His voice soothes you, your heart skipping a beat even as it slowly gives up, unable to carry the burden of keeping you alive for much longer. Blood trickles down your body like vines, wrapping around your arms and holding you heavy to the ground. You hope they’ll plant roses on your grave.

Slippery fingers press down on the comms button, trembling and soaked with crimson.

“I’m here, Ghost… I’m here.” You say into your comms. Your voice is barely a whisper, nothing more than a wisp. You used to be so bubbly, the loudest in the room. Your voice is foreign in your ears as the soft, comforting hands of death steal your air away from you, unwilling to compromise. Not this time.

“I'm coming, Red. Fuck, I’m on my way, love. I’ll be right there. Just hang on.” Simon pleads. You can hear his heavy breathing through the comms, swallowed by the panic in his voice. He sounds scared, terrified. It contrasts how you feel. Death has never been peaceful. Not when you watched teammates die on the field, not even when you killed. But this, being on the fine line of life and death? It’s peaceful. Death is quiet, it’s numb. Living. That’s the hard part. Fighting. Surviving.

Your eyes flicker to the door as Simon kicks it clean in. Your love enters the room quickly. You hate seeing him so worried, you’d take it away if you could. You’d carry the burden to ease the weight on his shoulders.

“Red!” Simon yells, running towards you and sliding to his knees on the ground beside you. His eyes scan over your wound, refusing to acknowledge the warm, red liquid that pools around you. He’s had a lot of blood on his hands, but never yours. Never.

Big hands push against your torso, attempting to stop the inevitable seeping of blood from your broken and battered body. It’s no use. Your time is up. The blood that Simon so desperately tries to stop from flowing has already been used to sign your life away.

“Price. I need a medevac, now!” Simon screams into his radio, the desperation is thick in his voice. His hands on your body hurt you, pushing against wounds that you know will never be sealed again. You groan uncomfortably as he attempts to force the life back into you.

“You’ll be just fine, baby. Just fine. Hang on for me, yeah? I’ll get you out of here.” Simon rambles.

“Simon, stop.” You whisper, hand weakly covering his. He shakes his head, unbelieving that this is happening. It can’t be. He’s lost everything. He can’t lose you too. Anything, anyone but you. He’s not strong enough. His skeleton gloves are painted red, like the rose petals, the blood, seeping from your mouth and your body. He pushes harder, noises of anguish escaping from his throat. A tear slips down your cheek, the liquid mixing in with the blood.

“Simon, stop.” You plead. He shakes his head.

“I won’t let you die out here.” He says, frantic, hands putting pressure on your wounds.

“It’s too late and you know it. Please. It hurts, Simon.” You whisper, head lolling back against the wall, “Just hold me… please.”

Simon hesitates. Everything in his being is screaming at him to fix you, to make a futile attempt to heal your wounds. But how can he deny you? He doesn’t move, but your hand squeezes his and he gives in to the weak gesture. His back slumps against the wall beside you, and he scoops you into his warm arms.

You were wrong. Death isn’t peace, his arms are. You smile weakly, curling into his chest as the life seeps out from your very pores.

“I can’t lose you, Red. Not you. Medevac’s almost here. You’ve got to hang on for just a bit, yeah?” Simon says, eyes darting around the room before they land on you again. There’s so much blood, too much blood. It covers you and him. He knows that no matter how hard he scrubs, it won’t ever come out. It’s etched into his very being, stained forever.

He’ll have to burn his clothes.

For his sake, you nod, though you know it’s a lie.

“They’ll get here in time. They will.” Simon nods to himself, attempting to convince himself that you’ll be okay.

He rocks you lightly, tears slipping down his cheeks and wetting his balaclava. His brown eyes are stained red from tears. The pain in your torso begins to dissipate, a searing burn turning to a dull ache. An overwhelming numbness begins to spread from the tips of your fingertips, spreading through you like clover. It covers you, a peaceful escape from the constant pain. You realize that time is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how much you try, it will continue to fall.

“I love you, Simon.” You whisper, voice barely a puff of air. You need him to hear it, just one last time. You don’t ever want him to forget. Simon shakes his head.

“You’re gonna be okay. Don’t– don’t say that. You’ll be just fine, love. You can tell me how much you love me when you’re safe at the base.” He stumbles over his words, begging to wake up from this nightmare and be in bed next to you.

“Say it back or you’ll regret it.” You whisper, knowing he’ll beat himself up for the rest of his life if he doesn’t repeat those familiar words to you just one last time.

“I’ll tell you when we get home. You’re not going to die out here.” His resolve is strong. Denial. A cold, bloody hand comes up to rest on his cheek, leaving a bloody handprint as you cup his masked face.

“I want to–” You gasp for breath, a wheeze that Simon won’t ever unhear for the rest of his life– “I want to hear it one last time.” You smile weakly, eyes locked onto his large brown irises. They are brimming with tears that you’ve never seen fall from his eyes.

“I love you.” He whispers, shakily. “Love you so much, my Red.”

“Thank you, Simon.” You whisper, “For everything.”

Your eyes are tired, and they slip shut to unburden themselves from staying open. Simon rocks you as his warm tears drip down onto your hair. A kiss is pressed to your hair, your forehead, your cheek. A sound of anguish, of raw pain shreds through the room. You can’t bring yourself to react.

It’s like falling asleep, lulled into a blissful slumber by the man you love. It’s peaceful. Simon’s warmth fades away from you, replaced by a cold that wraps around your heart and your lungs. The icy compression squeezes the last ounce of life from your being, and the rose petals stop falling.

–

Captain Price rushes into the room, Gaz and Soap on his six. His feet stop once he lays eyes on the scene in front of him. Ghost rocks you gently, eyes frantic, full of a pain and fear that Price has never seen in the stone-cold man’s eyes.

“Where’s the heli? You’ve got to help her!” Simon yells angrily at the three men. Soap backs up slightly, a few tears brimming in his eyes.

“Price!” Simon screams, his voice raw. He doesn't understand why no one is reacting, why no one is helping. He stands up from the floor, cradling you in his arms tightly. Your head is lulled back unnaturally, your hair cascading towards the floor.

"Simon…" Price whispers, taking a few steps towards you both.

"You've got to help her! Fucking hell, Price! Please!" Simon roars. His arms are trembling. His eyes are stained red with tears.

"Simon… she isn't breathing." Price whispers, his own tears coming to the surface as he looks over your lifeless body. You're unmoving, forever still and cold in Simon's arms.

“She’s alive–” Simon shakes his head, refusing to face the truth, “She’s alive, we just have to get her into the heli!”

“Simon…” Price whispers again, “She’s already gone.”

“You have to help her, Price. Fucking hell, please– Soap, Gaz, anybody please. Fuck!”

Death had already passed through, carried you away as red dripped down from the very being of your soul.

You're grateful to not be able to hear Simon's screams.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #cod mw x reader #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #cod #ghost call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2

356 notes · View notes

tojisun · 8 months

Text

our shallow graves — 02

recom miles quaritch x recom fem reader

!! smut (between fwb outside of main pair) - minors dni; heat (as theme); mean quaritch; power imbalance; reference to (made up) past; worldbuilding; fast slow-burn; switching povs; weapons; reader adopts a nickname (callsign) which gets used // 5.1k words

: luvv writing from a chara’s pov n not just the reader’s <33; my bff wanted a love triangle but noo there would never be, i swear; replaying lady gaga and thenbhd as i write this; i hope u guys would luv this!!

↦ hydra - recom machine gun (not the door gun in the samsons); y70 - bullpup rifle/skel bullpup

prev // m.list // next - tbp

camaraderie with the colonel seemed to deteriorate overnight. your only saving grace is that it seemed like no one understands why his slight recognition for your talents evaporated quickly, the team having been reduced to shooting you with concerned glances whenever quaritch continues to ice you out.

you wanted to believe that it didn’t bother you much, but the taste of failure sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. quaritch is your superior, someone you were willing to interact with at an arm’s length, but now, even that seems impossible.

“give him time,” walker says as you two enter the gun range, modified with an open ceiling to allow your na’vi bodies to breathe without the need for the respirator. “he’s probably still pissed because recon was delayed but c’mon now, we need extra time to take on the hellhole pandora’s about to be.”

you hum, your mind far away, as you begin to line up in one of the shooting stalls. you feel bare without your hydra but walker insisted on practicing with the Y70.

“for good time’s sake!” she said, laughing when you rolled your eyes at her, calling her out on the fact that she only preferred the rifle because it was what she was exceptional at.

your tail swishes behind you slowly before stilling, suspended in the air – a perfect imitation of your focus. you purge your mind of all thoughts, steadying your breath as you gaze at the moving targets. thrill runs down your spine at the first fire, the bullet going through the head of the target in a clean, single shot right at its temple. it is almost too natural how you were able to fire off the other bullets, muscle memory kicking in as your years of experience rush back to you, engulfing you with a single focus.

clean shot upon clean shot; head, heart, lungs – every vital organ and artery that you were aiming at were hit. it is like nothing existed in that moment, not your new life or your repeating nightmares of your death or even quaritch. it is just you and that rifle, against the world.

it was the first real taste of freedom you ever had from the moment you woke up in pandora, fifteen years after the war.

walker stalks towards you with a grin, her rifle slung on her shoulder, looking smug as she shows you her perfect tally. you grin at her, feeling your tail finally untense, swishing around in languid satisfaction.

“look at you with the perfect shots,” she says, dramatically whistling as though she wasn’t a better marksman than you are.

“i have a good teacher,” you reply, winking at her. she chuckles, shaking her head, and you wish she had her braids down just so you can see them bump against each other.

“and you are welcome.” walker places a hand on her chest before bowing theatrically, making you erupt in hearty giggles.

comfortable silence settles as you two walk back to your quarters, ears flicking at each sound that rumbles from the belly of the compound.

the sensitivity of your heightened senses brings you back to the night the colonel caught you sneaking out of mansk’s room, pure anger shimmering within his beautiful golden eyes and poison coating his hissed-out words. you do not know what set him off – you do not want to believe that it simply had been because you and mansk fooled around, not when quaritch has done worse.

(in your brief encounter with the human colonel quaritch, you have seen them together only once. the babe was swaddled in thick blankets, leaving only tufts of sandy hair visible to curious eyes.

you tried not to linger when you saw how the colonel walked around with the child in his arms, cradled gently, carefully, his usually-stern face melting into something kind. into something human.

the harbinger of destruction. a father.

you couldn’t wrap your head around the man. not even as you watched in silence, obscured from his line of sight, as he nuzzled his nose on the boy’s forehead, breathing him in.

pandora’s real first human, a boy blessed by eywa, and there he was, held in the hands of the man who would threaten her balance.)

“maria,” you call, slowing down your steps and turning to look at your friend.

walker hums, tilting her head to meet your gaze. “what’s up?”

“do you, uh, know what happened to the kid?” you didn’t need to specify who it is that you meant.

she stops walking, her brows furrowing in hesitant confusion. you lick your lips, wondering if you might’ve overstepped, after all, walker may be your friend, but her loyalties will always be with the colonel. even back in hell’s gate, she always separated her friendship with you from her duty – it felt like she constantly lived two different lives.

“it’s just that i can unwind with you,” she used to say, huffing when the clips she used to pin her bun got lost within the gelled strands of her hair. you would pull her to your bed, chuckling quietly, before taking over, gentle hands familiar with her hair like it was yours that you were grooming.

“why do you ask?” walker responds, twisting so she can fully face you.

you shrug. “i don’t know,” you say, a half-truth. “the memories are coming back to me slowly and one of them is him.”

walker remains quiet, studying you with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, before a sigh creeps out of her lips. you feel your heart lighten up, your body uncoiling from the tension, and you shoot her a small smile, grateful for her trust.

“i dunno, to be honest,” she says as you two begin walking again, your steps this time are more languid. you two don’t entertain the gawking humans who scurry out of the way as you and walker make your way back to your rooms, busy murmuring to each other.

“they probably sent him back to somewhere in terra where relatives could take care o’him.”

you grunt, nodding, choosing not to prod any more.

just before the two of you can part ways to enter your respective rooms, lopez comes running down the hallway, hollering your names.

“les’ go! colonel’s back from the meeting, and word is that we get our mission today!”

“thank fuck for that!” walker whoops. she meets your eyes. “rico, come on!”

you try to ignore the sudden swoop of paranoia that settles in your stomach, choosing instead to follow as walker and lopez run to meet with the others. you had hoped that you would’ve been able to fix whatever it was that happened between you and the colonel before the mission, but it seems like you don’t have that privilege anymore.

it seems like with quaritch, you don’t get mercy.

-------

just like what lopez said, the colonel returned with orders from the brass that you all would be sent out soon – the omatikaya stronghold changed upon the return of the humans, and now you are all tasked to draw jake sully out. you are all given a week to prepare for pandora’s beasts – you are aware that they meant the na’vi more than the actual animals roaming the lush jungle.

recon was cancelled, the new schedule no longer permitted such opportunity; the general had, instead, ordered your squad to move in and navigate the hard way. you tried not to shrink at the withering look that quaritch shot you as he mentioned that. mansk shifted close, as though to show that he stood with you even against the colonel’s seething glare, but it seemed like it was the wrong thing to do as quaritch only seemed to grow angrier.

you tried your best not to react, but your tail dropped, coiling around your thigh in the face of the colonel’s disapproval. you are too ashamed to look at the others, not wanting to see their own disappointment or even their pity so you kept your eyes on quaritch, using his authority to hide from the attention that your squad was giving you.

the meeting reaches its end, the colonel ordering wainfleet and zdinarsik to take over. mansk hovers, falling into step with you as you both move to leave the room together when the colonel’s voice stops you.

“rico, you stay. mansk, y’r dismissed.”

mansk shoots you a quick glance before nodding at the colonel and leaving with the rest. wainfleet had taken the lead as they all marched out with zdinarsik covering their back, the taller recom nodding at you upon meeting your gaze before closing the door behind her.

there is silence in the war room as you stand still, waiting for quaritch to make the first move. you rack your mind for another fuck up that he can berate you with, but nothing comes up, leaving you grasping at nothing but the bubbling anxiousness gnawing at you.

“i suggested to general ardmore that we bench you, rico.” he raises his hand at your visceral reaction – your jaw falling open as you flinch, protests about to slip from your lips, as a now-aborted step almost draws you close to him. “listen to me first, corporal.”

you blink at the realization that his voice doesn’t denote any malice, the rich baritone is painfully neutral, and you think, then, how hearing his indifference just stings a whole lot more.

you remain silent, watching with bated breath as quaritch pulls a chair out and motions for you to sit down. your legs feel like lead as you fall into it with no grace, your body going taut with tension when the colonel takes the one just in front of you.

the space between the two of you is decent – it is the normal distance – but you can’t help but feel the warmth emitting from his bigger figure, almost like your body is singing for him. you try to breathe through your mouth, afraid that you will get a whiff of his scent, reducing you into a puddle of uncertainty and need.

you blink your glassy eyes up at him, trying to focus, to listen, but it is like all those times that quaritch pushed you away had made you hypersensitive about him. he is all you can focus on; past the need to prove to him of your worth, he is all that fills you up. the way he smells, the way his eyes study you, the way his voice rips through the static – you want all of it.

heat builds up in the pit of your stomach.

fuck.

“you doin’ ok there?” the colonel asks, his indifference melting as worry bleeds into his tone.

“i, uhm,” you begin, your voice faltering. you try to reel in your mind, grinding your teeth to snap you from your trance.

“yeah.” you clear your throat, breathing in shakily. “i mean, yes sir.”

quaritch grunts, his eyes still pinned on you. “this is exactly why i wanted to leave you behind.”

that brings you out of the haze, your attention snapping back into a singularity. “permission to ask why, sir?”

quaritch sighs. “the science pukes mentioned how y’r still lagging behind. kid, i’m gonna be honest with you – i can’t afford a weak link.”

his words feel like knives carving into you. you’ve always thrived in your capabilities – you wouldn’t have gone far if you weren’t good, if not one of the best, and yet, in his eyes, your single fumble has cost so much.

“pandora is gonna eat you up and spit you out – well, it already did, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. and yet, general ardmore still insisted that we take you.”

you watch as the colonel leans over, eating up the miniscule distance between yourselves to peer at you. “tell me, rico. just why are you so important to her?”

you wish you have the answer; you wish you have anything to give to him, to make sense of your own purpose, but nothing comes up. it is like you’re constantly floating around, untethered, and yet severely burdened at the same time. they tell you how the general favours you, and yet she has yet to tell you that herself, leaving you alone in navigating your position amongst the other recoms.

the loneliness doesn’t stop eating at you.

“colonel, i really don’t know,” you finally utter, breaking eye contact to stare at the ground.

quaritch clicks his tongue. “no, there’s gotta be somethin’ i’m missin’. i read your files, you know that?” he grins meanly when your eyes snapped back to him. “oh yeah, i did. and imagine my goddamn disappointment when it showed me nothin’ noteworthy.”

he stands up, his voice gaining strength, and you realize that you can now see his fury in its entirety.

“yeah, you’ve got a way with flying, but that skill’s practically useless unless we can get our own banshees. and even then, they ain’t machines – your skill’s obsolete. y’ve got a way with guns, sure, but so do the rest of my squad; it ain’t just lyle who’s got a great shot, after all. and yeah y’r hand-to-hand combat is good, but it ain’t the best.”

you feel tears pooling in the corner of your eyes as quaritch continues his admonishment. you feel like everything that you are is suspended in the air, carelessly peeled off and overturned until you are nothing but your skin and bones.

“y’know what i saw?” the colonel asks in a barely-contained snarl.

you do not reply, but it doesn’t matter to him anyway.

“i saw how y’r just a goddamn nobody because if you were any better, i would’ve taken you in before. so tell me rico, just what the hell are you doin’ here?”

you do not know what urged you to do it, but next thing you know you are standing mere inches before the colonel, breaching his personal space to poke at his chest. “i don’t need to prove myself to you,” you hiss.

(it was a lie. after all, it was all you wanted to do. for him to acknowledge you. for him to – what do the na’vis call it? – see you.)

quaritch scoffs, pausing, before he lunges forward to grip your jaw, forcing your head to tilt up and making you look at him. you feel your breath leave your lungs, the blood rushing to your ears and deafening you. anything else seemed to stop, leaving you alone with your petering rage as you gaze up at him.

his breath tickles your lips and you gasp, soundless, feeling the desire exploding in your chest. you do not know what it is that he originally wanted to do because in the next heartbeat, just a slight stutter, all you feel is his lips meeting yours.

quaritch devours your hiccuped squeak, his searing lips moving against your own, pulling out more of the little desperate sounds from your throat only for them to be swallowed hungrily by him. the kiss is hot, messy, but you can’t help but be obsessed with it.

his scent fills you up, settling deep in your chest and making you throb with want. you grip his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to touch more of him. but at the feeling of your hands, quaritch rips his lips from yours and scurries to back away from you.

you stand there, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, feeling your lips tingle from his kiss. you watch as his face crumples at the realization of what he’s done before it reverts back into faux stoicism, as though he isn’t affected by the kiss. as though he doesn’t feel the same burning desire that engulfed you whole.

“colonel-”

“no fraternizing with a squad member,” quaritch utters before he lifts his hand up to rub at his lips with the back of his palm.

“oh, so now we’re following the golden rule?” you mutter, the words bubbling out before you can stop them.

you know that you crossed a line at the mention of what he’s done with socorro but you are too filled with a blazing storm of conflicting feelings, rendering you uninhibited as they clash in your chest and drain you of all your energy. you feel yourself shake at the intensity of your emotions – of your yearning – but the colonel continues to stand far away. far from your grasp.

he’s made his decision.

“get going, corporal. y’r dismissed.”

you run out of the room, not caring of the way the tears slip from the corners of your eyes to drench your cheeks, and pretending that you cannot smell the faint scent of the colonel sticking to you.

pretending that you do not feel something in you break.

-------

looking for mansk was the easy part. not using him to drown out the weight of your conflicting feelings, that was the hard part.

mansk has taken you in his arms, cradling you close as you wept on the crook of his neck. he was silent, like he already knew what it is that aches you, and you wonder how could he. you barely knew why you feel betrayal sit in the pit of your stomach; why you feel so drawn to quaritch – attuned to the sound of his voice and the staccato of his footsteps.

why do you ache for his touch?

if it is heat, if it is all biology, mansk does a good enough job in extinguishing the flames of painful need curling within your blood. and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from seeking out bigger and rougher hands and a gruffer voice, the southern accent looping around the vowels, making your stomach clench with desire.

quaritch is all that you’ve ever wanted ever since he first called your name, unknown familiarity sinking in your chest like a rock chucked to the ocean – the paradox is a metaphor of your feelings. funny, isn’t it?

“i don’t understand,” you murmur, sniffling as you pull your head from mansk’s shoulder. you wipe at your eyes, groaning at the futility of it when fresh tears fall and drench your cheeks anyway.

mansk remains silent, his hands have fallen from your back to grasp at your wrists, the warmth from his palms not doing anything to soothe your nerves.

“it’s like he needed that little blip in my performance to finally rationalize the hate he feels for me, and then it just didn’t stop,” you continue, breathing in shakily. “and i wish i could just ignore him but, fuck, i can’t.”

you shake yourself from mansk’s touch, standing up from his bed to pace around his room. the pads of your feet are quiet on the metal floors and you ignore the shot of coolness that comes with every step. your braids, chopped just below your jaw, frame your face with stray strands sticking on your damp cheeks despite your frantic moving.

“he’s there and he’s nowhere at the same time, devin. like, i try my best to avoid him but he’s always a consistent presence in my life. it doesn’t fucking matter if he’s ignoring me, not when he’s always in the same room, within the same space.” your voice raises, scratching your throat as anger and hurt bubble up, ever-so expanding until you are grasping at the remnants of your rationality.

“and i want him. i feel like dying when i’m not with him and he-” you pause, a choked sob getting punched out from your lungs. mansk startles, clambering from his bed to hover by your side, not really closing in but standing just near enough that you can see the downturn of his ears, his worry etched on his face.

“he doesn’t feel the same way, dev.”

you crumble, feeling lightheaded from the explosion of anguish burning at your seams, and mansk finally embraces you.

the first kiss was hesitant, chapped lips meeting bruised ones, and he doesn’t move until you are pawing at his shirt and tugging him close. mansk falls into his role easily, nipping your bottom lip as a distraction which you take eagerly.

quaritch’s snarl from many nights ago creep into your mind, his southern accent tearing through the sudden buzz of mansk’s touch, taunting you – “you reek.”

you think just how upsetting it is to feel your desire expand into fanned flames at the memory of quaritch. at the memory of his anger – the only thing of him that he’s given to you freely.

mansk rips his lips from yours, panting, his eyes dilated with desire. “rico, y’smell so good.”

your shirt is torn from your body, your cargos thrown over broad shoulders – not broad enough, not tall enough, not angry enough.

you try to forget, to stop thinking, as mansk fucks you; thin fingers sliding along your slit and sinking into your heat, curling to prepare you for his length. not even the way three of his fingers overwhelm you with the feeling of being stuffed can silence the thoughts – ‘not thick enough, not long enough, not rough enough’ – and you bury your face on his pillow, trying to smother the tears.

the slide of his cock should’ve rendered your mind into white static, but it seems like your veins are thrumming with a visceral need, one that you know only quaritch can quell.

“choke me,” you mumble, blinking wetly up at mansk, your chest heaving at the muted desire filling you up.

“what?” mansk asks, breathless, his body shaking from the crashing heat.

“choke me,” you repeat, this time clearer.

mansk hesitates, his wide eyes growing bigger, his scent curling into something darker. the wrap of his hand around your throat is sure, gentle despite your plea, before he squeezes. the pressure grounds you, feeding into your desperation. into your delusions.

(you think of quaritch. it seems like you never stop thinking about him.

he will take you the same way lava takes everything – devouring beyond flesh, nipping right into the core until all it leaves is the flames of a thousand suns. his desires will crush you, filling up the spaces between your blood vessels and your synapses with nothing but him.

and you will love it. you will let yourself be scorched because ever since you have met him, all you knew was fire and how they lick up into your chest, swallowing your heart, almost like they are branding his name directly in you.

like you have belonged to him even before.)

mansk wipes you with a towel, murmuring soft apologies when your body jolts in oversensitivity at the rough drag of the cloth. he passes you his shirt and then pulls you underneath the sheets, tucking you in for the night.

“thank you,” you say, weakly smiling at him.

mansk returns the smile, brushing your braids away from your face. “just like old times.”

your eyebrows furrow, confusion triumphing over exhaustion. “old times?”

“yeah,” he grunts, falling beside you. “you’ve always liked the colonel and granted we didn’t fuck then, but you always vented to me so, y’know?”

mansk’s words wash over you like a crashing tide, pulling you from the shore and submerging you into the depths of the unknown. you grasp at your memories, flitting from one to the other, trying to find pieces of your affection for the colonel only to fall short. surely, you would’ve remembered. surely, the feelings, with how intense they are, did not just go away; that you did not just lose a piece of yourself.

you think of the haunting, how the colonel and socorro appear in your memories in fragments, and feel a twinge in your heart. was it not indifference? that all this time when you remembered her, when you used her to learn more about quaritch, it was because you liked him too?

were you always a fool like this? searching for bits of quaritch in the hands of another, trying to claim the stray parts like they could be yours to begin with.

“rico?” mansk’s voice breaks through your reverie.

“i… i don’t remember.”

he turns to you in surprise. “what do you mean you don’t remember?”

“just that,” you say, your voice faint. “i don’t- i can’t remember.”

-------

the moment miles saw his reflection – blue and distinctly not human – he knew there was little of himself left in the hellhole that pandora had become. autonomy and freedom no longer meant much, not when he’s become a weapon.

he’s died once, they said. had he still been the commanding officer in the compound, he’d have the shrink do drills at the stupidity of pointing out his untimely and obvious demise.

no fucking shit he died. miles would’ve remembered turning into a goddamn na’vi if he didn’t.

but, at the end of the day, his anger didn’t matter. like a freak show, he’s back – not really as the same man, but similar enough that the old colonel’s ghost thrums with hymns of vengeance, carrying over to miles’ own person. because miles may not remember his death, but he remembers jake sully’s betrayal.

the boy had chosen his people and miles had chosen his, it is that simple.

the mission was straight-forward, but miles isn’t deluded enough to assume that it would be just as easy. he’s failed once already, after all. perhaps being a na’vi could switch the tides; perhaps being one wouldn’t matter – whatever it may be, miles is ready to carry the burden of killing jake sully.

with a single focus, miles lets the unfamiliarity of his new body roll off his skin like dew before forcing himself to learn and to adapt. painstakingly, he even tried to salvage the pieces of augustine’s research, hoping to find any scraps of information regarding the na’vi in her ramblings, but the compound has scrubbed themselves off the traitor’s books. don’t mind the fact that augustine’s the best goddamn na’vi expert, apparently, they rather bitch around under the pretence of unnecessary patriotism, instead of taking advantage of her research.

when he asked who he should talk to regarding their physio, he was told that augustine was replaced by cooper. unsurprisingly, cooper was unable to fill in the shoes that augustine left, but miles preferred him anyway. the man has lesser empathy, lesser curiosity about the wonders of pandora.

‘that’s good,” miles thought upon meeting cooper. ‘checkups will be clinical. none of that bitchin’ about morals.’

which was why it should’ve been easy transitioning into his recombinant body. it should’ve been.

then, you came along.

sweet, little, pretty thing that you are. you don’t even know what you do to him, walking around looking like you’re pulled straight from miles’ spank bank material. you look darling with your short braids, pulled back with little clips like those that he remembers walker using, as your smooth voice ripples against the heavy tension building in miles’ chest.

there’s always this sweet scent that follows you, and it reminds miles of something that he couldn’t really pin down. it’s faint, teasing his senses with the little bursts until he began to be addicted to it. to be addicted to you.

he had been content with only getting a whiff from every time the two of you crossed paths, your chin ducking down in respect, saluting so beautifully that it had miles pretending that he didn’t have the itch to pat your head in approval.

(you looked like the type to adore praises; the type to want to hear how you’re being such a good girl. all for him.)

he didn’t want to pursue more, remembering what happened when he last made that mistake, but it just felt so impossible to dismiss his interest in you as something that is only fleeting; something that is only physical, bound by the biological nature of his new body.

maybe if he just pushed back harder against the general, then maybe he could be rid of you. maybe there would be nothing thrumming underneath his skin – he refuses to call it desire, afraid that by doing so, he would chain himself to the ache that he feels – and maybe you would no longer be his growing problem.

then: a spike in the air churned the insides of miles’ head, bolting his legs onto the floor. there was a sort of static, a rumbling charge that pierced past metal walls and choked miles into madness.

he didn’t even realize what it was until he picked up the sound of your voice, pleasure curling against your words as you cried out a name. miles felt lightheaded, warmth crept up from his fingertips to the base of his neck.

(a shackle, one that spelt out your name.

again, do you know what you do to him? what you reduce him to?)

the scent of your euphoria sent him into a feverish state, molten lava replacing blood as he burned. his breaths came out in ragged rasps, and miles gulped down the air as though he could taste you from it. as though that would’ve been enough.

miles knew what danger looked like, he knew what it smelt like, but he never expected that it would take your shape, testing him past his capabilities. so he lied, spitting in anger and lashing out as he held your hand, ignoring the way his skin tingled when it met yours, and he watched as your eyes glimmered with hurt.

fine. that’s fine. miles repeated this mantra until he clambered into his room, almost tripping over his boots, and made his way to his bed.

there was a heavy pressure in miles’ ears as he tore off his belt, his teeth snapped together as he pulled his length out and fucked into his fist, breathing into the other one to chase the fading scent that you left.

he lost himself in his thoughts, imagining that it had been him who reduced you into a moaning mess. that it had been him who you came to for your heat; that it had been him who made you cry, your whimpers slipping past shut doors until everyone could hear your sweet cries.

miles has always been possessive, he doesn’t need the soul drive to know that.

his orgasm ripped through him in muted pleasure, not enough to stoke the heat rumbling deep in his belly.

“fuck!” he growled, frustration bubbling up into his mouth as he screwed his eyes shut, trying to forget the way you look; the way you walk, the way you shoot your hydra or the way you maneuver a bird as though you and the machine are one.

but it was futile. he’s ruined.

you’ve ruined him.

tagging (pls lmk if you wanna be added or removed!) - @hinataashoyos @babyduk213 @ilovebluedilfss

#suns.f #miles quaritch x reader #quaritch x reader #recom quaritch x reader #recom miles quaritch #miles quaritch #atwow quaritch #quaritch avatar #avatar the way of water #suns

178 notes · View notes

kckt88 · 22 days

Text

The Lost Dragon - Epilogue

Summary:

Twelve Years Later.

Warning(s): Character Death, Uncle/Niece Incest, Smut - Kissing, Oral Sex, P in V.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C -VAELYS TARGARYEN

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Word Count: 6772

A.N - If anyone wishes to talk about the kids or any of the other characters feel free to message me :-)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

“-Queen Vaelys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm-and her Consort King Aemond of House Targaryen”

In the grandeur of the throne room within the Red Keep, the air was filled with a sense of anticipation and solemnity. Vaelys stood tall and resolute, clad in regal attire befitting her coronation as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Beside her, Aemond stood, his presence a reassuring anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

As Vaelys stood in the throne room, she was suddenly overcome by a wave of memories from the past. In an instant, she was transported back to the day her mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had fallen ill.

She remembered the urgency in her father's summons, her mother was gravely ill and asking for her presence in King's Landing.

Vaelys had travelled to King's Landing with all the speed Vermithor could muster, her heart heavy with dread as she entered her mother's chambers. The Queen, once vibrant and strong, now lay deathly pale and frail upon her bed, her breaths shallow and laboured.

Rhaenyra's voice, once commanding and powerful, was now small and weak as she called out to her daughter. Vaelys rushed to her mother's side, her eyes filled with tears as she took in the sight of the woman who had been her guiding light throughout her life, now fading before her very eyes.

"Mother," Vaelys whispered, her voice choked with emotion as she grasped Rhaenyra's hand in her own. "I'm here, Mother. You're going to be alright."

But Rhaenyra shook her head weakly, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips. "My sweet girl-I'm sorry-for all of it-tell him-tell Aemond-I’m sorry”.

“It’s ok mother” whispered Vaelys.

“T-There is s-something else you must know-I should have told you many years ago-you may not understand but you must hear it-“ gasped Rhaenyra.

“What is it mother?”

“Our histories-they tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land ripe for the capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest-It was a dream”.

“A dream?” questioned Vaelys.

“-Just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. It will begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant North. Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds. Whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this great winter comes, Vaelys-all of Westeros must stand against it- if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne”.

“I don’t-“ muttered Vaelys

“A King or Queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream. The Song of Ice and Fire. This secret-it’s been passed from King to heir since Aegon’s time. Now you must promise to carry it-and protect it. Promise me this, Vaelys-“

“Mother I-“ stuttered Vaelys

“-Put the dagger in flames and you’ll see. Promise me-p-promise m-me,” wheezed Rhaenyra.

“I promise mother-“ replied Vaelys as she squeezed her mother's hand tightly, her tears falling freely now as she whispered words of love and comfort into Rhaenyra's ear. In that moment, surrounded by the ones she loved most, Rhaenyra closed her eyes for the final time, her spirit slipping quietly away.

As Vaelys and Aemond stood side by side in the throne room, their coronation ceremony nearing its conclusion, they made a decision that would set them apart from the rulers of the past. Instead of wearing the crowns of kings and queens who had come before them, they chose to have new crowns crafted, symbols of their own reign and the values they held dear.

The new crowns, crafted from gleaming silver and adorned with intricate dragon designs that reflected the unity and strength of their rule, were placed upon their heads with great care.

As Vaelys turned towards the Iron Throne, she couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation wash over her. The weight of history hung heavy in the air, each step she took towards the throne echoing with the footsteps of rulers long past.

But as she reached the top of the steps, her gaze fell upon Aemond, standing steadfast and proud at the foot of the steps. His silver crown gleamed in the torchlight, a symbol of his unwavering support and encouragement.

Their eyes met, and in that moment, Vaelys felt a surge of determination well up within her. With a silent nod from Aemond, a gesture of reassurance and confidence.

Taking a deep breath, Vaelys hesitated for just a moment, her hand hovering over the cold, unforgiving metal.

But then she remembered Aemond's nod, his unwavering belief in her abilities, and with a final glance back at him, she took her seat upon the throne. The weight of the crown upon her head felt heavy, but she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

After a few moment of looking across the throne room, Vaelys looked to her brothers and sisters, who lowered themselves to one knee.

Cregan who was standing with his wife and sons also lowered himself to one knee.

The other Lords and Ladies in attendance also bowing in respect of their new Queen and her King Consort.

With a steady voice, Vaelys was ready to announce her first decree as Queen.

"I declare that my eldest daughter, Sovia, shall be named heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone"

The room fell silent, the gravity of Vaelys' words sinking in as the ruling lords of the Seven Kingdoms exchanged glances. But then, one by one, they once again lowered to one knee, their heads bowed in respect.

"We pledge our loyalty to Princess Sovia, heir to the Iron Throne" they intoned in unison, their voices ringing out with solemnity and solemnity.

And there, standing tall and resolute beside her father, Sovia accepted the homage of the realm, her expression one of determination and strength.

"In addition," she declared, her voice carrying authority, "I announce that my daughter, Princess Sovia, shall be betrothed to her brother Prince Daevyn, to further strengthen the bonds of our house and ensure the unity of the Seven Kingdoms."

The announcement was met with nods of agreement and murmurs of approval from the assembled lords and ladies. It was a strategic move, one that would solidify the ties between their family members and reinforce their position of power.

Sovia and Daevyn exchanged glances, their eyes meeting with a shared understanding and acceptance. Daevyn stepped forward, his expression one of determination and commitment, as he took Sovia's hand in his own.

"In furtherance of our commitment to unity and alliance," Vaelys announced, her voice ringing out with authority, "I declare that my son, Prince Aemon Targaryen, shall be betrothed to Lady Laena Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark and future Lady of the Tides."

A ripple of approval spread through the throne room as the assembled nobles acknowledged the strategic significance of the betrothal. The marriage would strengthen the ties between House Targaryen and House Velaryon, two powerful families whose union would bolster their position in the realm.

Jace nodded in agreement as Vaelys' words echoed through the hall, his expression one of pride and satisfaction. It was a match that would benefit both houses, securing their alliance for generations to come.

Vaelys' gaze shifted towards Aemond, her husband and King Consort, as he stepped forward with a solemn expression. The anticipation in the room grew palpable as he cleared his throat, preparing to make his announcement.

"In addition to the betrothals already declared," Aemond began, his voice commanding the attention of all present, "I am pleased to announce a final betrothal that will further strengthen the bonds between our houses."

He paused for a moment, allowing the significance of his words to sink in before continuing.

"Our daughter, Princess Rekara, shall be betrothed to Rickon Stark, the heir to Winterfell. However, as Rekara is but twelve years of age, the marriage will not take place until she comes of age at sixteen."

A murmur of approval rippled through the room as the lords and ladies of the realm acknowledged the importance of this alliance. The marriage between House Targaryen and House Stark would bring together two great houses of the North and the South, uniting the realm in peace and prosperity.

Cregan nodded his head in approval and acknowledgement, the betrothals that had been announced had of course been arranged in the days prior.

No marriages would take place until both were of age, Sovia and Daevyn’s wedding would wait the year as he was currently fifteen, and the others would occur in the coming years.

Vaelys watched with pride as Aemond made the announcement, her heart swelling with gratitude for the love and support he had shown their family. This betrothal was a testament to their commitment to securing the future of their house and ensuring the stability of the realm for generations to come.

As the room erupted into applause, Vaelys felt a sense of hope and optimism wash over her. With these betrothals, she knew that they were paving the way for a brighter future for the Seven Kingdoms, one built on unity, strength, and the bonds of family.

With a sense of purpose and determination, Vaelys began to name her new council members, each chosen for their skill, loyalty, and dedication to the realm.

"As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," she declared, her voice strong and unwavering, "I hereby name my brother, Jacaerys Velaryon, as Master of Ships. His knowledge of the seas and naval strategy will serve us well in the years to come."

Jace bowed his head in acknowledgment, a sense of pride evident in his expression as he accepted the appointment.

"Lord Thaddeus Rowan," Vaelys continued, "Shall serve as Master of Laws. His commitment to justice and fairness will ensure that our laws are upheld and enforced throughout the realm."

Thaddeus Rowan nodded solemnly, accepting the responsibility that had been placed upon him.

“Isembard Arryn” Vaelys went on, "Shall be named Master of Coin. His expertise in finance and economics will help to ensure the prosperity of the kingdom."

"Prince Daeron Targaryen," Vaelys announced, "Shall take up the mantle of Lord Commander of the Queen's Guard. His unwavering dedication to duty make him the ideal candidate for this important position."

Daeron bowed deeply, his expression one of solemn determination as he accepted the honour bestowed upon him.

Aemond smiled at the expression on his younger brothers face, it had been his suggestion that had secured Daeron’s position as Lord Commander.

"As for the City Watch," Vaelys continued, "I name my brothers, Aegon and Viserys Targaryen, as joint Commanders. Their experience under the tutelage of our father Daemon will ensure that King's Landing remains safe and secure."

Aegon and Viserys nodded in agreement, ready to take on the responsibility of protecting the capital city.

With her new council assembled, Vaelys felt a sense of pride and determination wash over her. Together, they would work tirelessly to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm, guiding the Seven Kingdoms into a new era of peace and prosperity.

"Now," said Vaelys, her voice filled with warmth and joy, "Let us set aside our duties for a moment and enjoy the festivities. Tonight, we celebrate not only the strength and unity of our realm, but also the bonds of friendship and kinship that bind us together."

The room erupted into applause and cheers as the guests rose from their seats, eager to partake in the feast and revelry that awaited them. Musicians struck up a lively tune, filling the air with music and laughter as servants began to circulate with trays of food and drink.

Vaelys looked out over the gathered crowd, her heart filled with gratitude for the support and loyalty of those gathered before her. Despite the challenges that lay ahead, she knew that as long as they stood united, there was nothing they could not accomplish.

With a smile, she raised her goblet in a toast to the future, to prosperity and peace, and to the bonds of friendship and family that would carry them through whatever trials may come.

"Enjoy the feast, my friends," she declared, her voice ringing out with warmth and sincerity. "Tonight, we celebrate the dawn of a new era for the Seven Kingdoms!"

As the festivities carried on, Aemond approached Vaelys with a thoughtful expression, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Vaelys," he began gently, "I couldn't help but notice that you didn't name your Hand of the Queen during the council announcements. Is everything alright?"

Vaelys sighed softly, her gaze drifting away for a moment before returning to meet Aemond's eyes.

"I-I have struggled with the decision," she admitted quietly. "I know how crucial the role of Hand is, and I didn't want to risk appointing someone whose ambition or ideas could potentially bring our house to ruin."

Aemond nodded, understanding the weight of her words. He knew exactly what she was referring to — the legacy of his grandfather, Otto, whose actions had ultimately led to chaos and tragedy for House Targaryen.

"I understand," he said softly, placing a comforting hand on her arm. "It's a difficult decision to make, especially considering what happened. But we'll find the right person for the role, someone loyal and wise, who has the best interests of the realm at heart."

“-I did have someone in mind-“ said Vaelys her gaze drifting towards Alysanne Blackwood, Cregan's second wife, who stood across the hall. Aemond followed her gaze, his expression thoughtful as he considered her choice.

"Alysanne," he murmured, his brow furrowing slightly. "She's a capable woman, to be sure. But are you certain she's the right choice?"

Vaelys nodded, her confidence unwavering. "She was one of my mother’s allies. She's proven herself to be loyal, shrewd, and dedicated to the good of the realm. And given her marriage to Cregan, it would further ally us with the North”.

Aemond considered her words for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of appointing Alysanne as Hand of the Queen. Despite his past differences with Cregan, he couldn't deny the potential benefits of such an alliance, sitting alongside the betrothal of his youngest daughter to Starks heir.

"I trust your judgment, Vaelys," he said finally, his tone firm. "If you believe Alysanne is the right choice, then I'll support your decision. Together, we'll ensure that she has the resources and support she needs to succeed in her new role."

Vaelys smiled gratefully at Aemond's agreement, relieved to have his support in this important decision.

"Thank you, Aemond," she said, her voice filled with sincerity.

“Do you wish to make the announcement now?” asked Aemond.

“I believe I shall leave that honour to Issa dārys” whispered Vaelys (My King).

“ābrazȳrys” growled Aemond, hearing Vaelys call him that in their mother tongue made his blood run hot.

“Nyke gīmigon skoriot aōha mind emagon issare issa zaldrīzes, ao seek naejot fuck nykeā dāria bē zȳhon dēmalion-“ muttered Vaelys (I know where your mind has been my dragon, you seek to fuck a Queen upon her throne).

“Issa jorrāelagon-“ exclaimed Aemond (My Love).

“Be a good boy and make the announcement and I promise tonight I shall worship you like the King you are” whispered Vaelys as she leaned in and placed a kiss on Aemonds cheek.

Aemond nodded quickly, as he stood up from his seat beside Vaelys. The hall fell silent as all eyes turned to him, anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice strong and commanding, "I have an additional announcement to make on behalf of our queen."

A ripple of curiosity swept through the room as Aemond paused for effect, his gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles before settling on Alysanne Blackwood, who stood with a look of anticipation on her face.

"It is my honour to declare that we have chosen a new Hand of the Queen," Aemond continued, his voice ringing out with authority. "In recognition of her wisdom, loyalty, and dedication to the realm, Alysanne Blackwood has been appointed to this esteemed position."

A murmur of approval filled the hall as the assembled nobles reacted to the announcement, some nodding in agreement while others exchanged knowing glances. Alysanne's expression was one of gratitude and determination as she stepped forward to accept the honour bestowed upon her.

"As Hand of the Queen," Aemond concluded, his voice filled with confidence, "Alysanne will serve as a trusted advisor to our queen, working tirelessly to ensure the prosperity and stability of the realm. Please join me in congratulating her on this well-deserved appointment."

With a round of applause, the hall erupted into celebration, the tension of the moment dissipating as the guests cheered and toasted to Alysanne's success.

Vaelys approached her father Daemon's chambers with a heavy heart, knowing that he had chosen to remain secluded in his grief. She paused outside the door, taking a moment to collect herself before gently knocking.

"Father," she called softly, her voice carrying a note of concern. "It's Vaelys. May I come in?"

There was a moment of silence before the door creaked open, revealing Daemon's weathered face, his once fierce eyes now dulled with age and sorrow. He nodded wordlessly, stepping aside to allow Vaelys to enter.

The room was dimly lit, the air heavy with the weight of Daemon's grief. Vaelys took a hesitant step forward, her heart aching at the sight of her father in such pain.

"I-I wanted to see how you were doing," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know these past few days have been difficult for you."

Daemon offered her a weak smile, his gaze distant as he spoke. "Thank you, my dear. It's been hard, losing your mother... She was everything to me."

Vaelys moved closer, her heart breaking at the sight of her father's anguish. She reached out to take his hand, offering what little comfort she could.

"I miss her too, Father," she admitted quietly. "But she would want us to carry on, to honour her memory and continue to serve the realm."

Daemon nodded, his grip tightening around Vaelys' hand. "You're right”

As Vaelys sat with her father Daemon, she couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the thought of all the recent changes in their lives. Yet, she knew it was important to keep him informed of the decisions she had made for the realm and their family.

"Father," she began gently, "I wanted to speak to you about some matters concerning the kingdom and our family."

Daemon looked up, his weary eyes meeting hers with a sense of resignation. "Of course, What is it that troubles you?"

Taking a deep breath, Vaelys proceeded to inform him of the betrothals she had arranged for their children, as well as the members of her new council. She spoke of Sovia's betrothal to Daevyn, Aemon's betrothal to Laena, and Rekara's future marriage to Rickon Stark. She also detailed the appointments of Jace as Master of Ships, Lord Thaddeus Rowan as Master of Laws, and Isembard Arryn Master of Coin.

Daemon listened attentively as Vaelys spoke, his expression thoughtful as he considered her choices. When she had finished, he nodded approvingly, a hint of pride in his weary eyes.

"These are wise decisions, my dear," he said softly. "You have chosen well, both for the realm and for our family. I am proud of you."

Vaelys felt a swell of gratitude at her father's words, knowing that his approval meant a great deal to her.

“What of Aegon and Viserys?” asked Daemon.

"Aegon and Viserys have been appointed as joint commanders of the City Watch," she explained, her voice steady. "I believe their leadership and dedication will serve the realm well in this role."

Daemon's eyes softened with approval, a hint of pride shining through his weary demeanour. "A wise choice," he remarked. "They have always shown promise, and I have no doubt they will excel in their new responsibilities."

Vaelys nodded, grateful for her father's support. She knew that his approval meant a great deal, and she was relieved to see him taking an interest in the affairs of the realm despite his grief.

"And what of the Hand of the Queen?" Daemon inquired; his curiosity piqued. "Have you found someone suitable for the position?"

Vaelys hesitated for a moment before replying, knowing that her choice might surprise him. "Yes, Father," she said. "I have appointed Alysanne Blackwood as Hand of the Queen."

Daemon's brows furrowed in thought, but after a moment, he nodded in approval. "Alysanne Blackwood," he repeated. "An excellent choice. She is a woman of intelligence and integrity, and I have no doubt she will serve you well."

Relief washed over Vaelys as she watched her father's reaction, grateful that he approved of her decisions.

Daemon rose from his seat, his movements slow as he crossed the room.

"Vaelys," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "There is something I wish to give you."

Vaelys watched him with a mixture of surprise and apprehension, unsure of what her father was offering her. But as he reached for the sword at his side, she felt a sudden pang of unease.

"Father, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Daemon's hands trembled slightly as he drew the sword from its scabbard, revealing the gleaming blade of Valyrian steel. He held it out to her, the hilt offered in silent offering.

"Dark Sister," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Has been in our family for generations, passed down from one Targaryen to the next. And now, it belongs to you."

Vaelys recoiled slightly, her eyes widening in shock. "Father, I can't accept this," she protested.

But Daemon cut her off with a shake of his head, his gaze unwavering. "You must, Vaelys," he insisted. "Dark Sister belongs in the hands of a queen, and who better to wield it than you? You are strong, capable, worthy of its power. Take it, my dear, and let it be a symbol of the strength and courage that resides within you."

Vaelys hesitated for a moment, her heart torn between her desire to refuse the gift and her longing to honour her father's wishes. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw the depth of his conviction, the fierce determination that burned within him.

With a trembling hand, she reached out and accepted the sword, feeling its weight settle into her grasp. She could sense the power that thrummed through its ancient steel, the legacy of those who had wielded it before her.

"Thank you, Father," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

Daemon offered her a sad smile, his eyes shining with pride. "You are worthy of it, Vaelys," he said softly. "May it serve you well”.

As Vaelys entered her chambers, she found Aemond waiting for her, his eyes alight with curiosity. His gaze flickered to the sword in her hand, a question forming on his lips, but before he could speak, Vaelys pre-empted him.

"My father gave me Dark Sister," she explained, her voice tinged with emotion.

Aemond's expression softened as he took in her words, understanding the significance of the gift. He reached out to her, his hand brushing against her cheek in a gesture of comfort.

"It's a great honour, Vaelys," he said softly.

Vaelys nodded, a sense of gratitude flooding through her. She had never felt more connected to her father than she did in that moment, his faith in her abilities serving as a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded them.

"I will wield it with pride," she vowed, her voice steady. "And I will honour the legacy of those who came before me."

Aemond smiled, a warmth spreading through his features. "I have no doubt that you will," he said, his eyes shining with pride. "You are a true Queen, Vaelys, in every sense of the word."

“Speaking of honours-I have a gift for you” said Vaelys as she placed Dark Sister on the desk.

As Vaelys carefully opened the long box placed at the end of their bed, she couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation coursing through her veins. Inside lay Blackfyre, the legendary sword of House Targaryen, a symbol of power and prestige that had been passed down through generations.

She looked up at Aemond, her heart pounding in her chest, as she presented the sword to him. "Aemond," she said softly, her voice filled with reverence, "This belongs to you."

Aemond's eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld the gleaming blade before him. He reached out tentatively, as if afraid to touch it, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns etched into the steel.

"Vaelys, I-I cannot accept this," he stammered, his voice choked with emotion, remembering his father and Aegon once laying claim to this sword.

Vaelys shook her head, a determined glint in her eyes. "As Dark Sister rests in the hands of a Queen," she declared, "Blackfyre shall rest in the hands of a King. You are my equal, Aemond, my partner in every sense of the word. It is only fitting that you should wield such a weapon."

Aemond was speechless, his gaze locked with hers as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of her gesture. He had never expected such a gift, never imagined that he would hold the legendary sword of House Targaryen in his hands.

But as he looked into Vaelys' eyes, he saw the depth of her conviction, the unwavering belief she held in him. And in that moment, he knew that he could do no less than accept her offering, to honour her trust and her love.

With a sense of reverence, he grasped the hilt of Blackfyre, feeling its weight settle into his hand. It felt like destiny, like the culmination of a journey that had brought them to this moment.

"Thank you, Vaelys," he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude. "I will wield it with honour, and with pride, for as long as I draw breath."

Vaelys smiled coyly at Aemond, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Now that we're alone, Issa dārys" she said, her voice a soft whisper that sent shivers down his spine, "I do believe I have a promise to keep."

Aemond's heart quickened at the suggestive tone in her voice, his pulse pounding in his ears as he realized what she meant. He felt a surge of desire coursing through him, igniting a fire that burned hot and fierce.

Aemond slowly moved his hands down his wife’s body before roughly grasping her ass and hauling her up against the door.

Vaelys whimpers, gripping at Aemond’s shoulders as he slots himself between her legs, his tongue still invading her mouth.

Aemond presses himself against the apex of Vaelys’ thighs, and he growls like an animal when she reaches down and palms his hard cock over his breeches.

“Fuck-“ groans Aemond as he begins grinding his clothed cock against her.

“Someone’s eager” whispered Vaelys as she flicked her tongue against the corner of Aemond’s mouth.

“Oh, you have no idea” quipped Aemond as she spun her off the door and carried her to the bed.

Soon their clothes are abandoned in a haphazard heap on the floor and Aemond was laid between Vaelys’ open legs moving his fingers through her dripping folds as he expertly devoured her with his mouth, his nose bumping against her pearl as fucked her with his tongue.

Gods, she tasted delicious.

Aemond loved feasting on his wife’s cunny, he could spend the rest of his days between her thighs.

“Fuck,” squeaks Vaelys as she grasps at the back of Aemond’s head, her fingers digging into his hair, holding him in place.

“Are you going to come already?” asked Aemond smugly.

Aemond alternates between using his fingers and tongue to bring Vaelys to her peak.

Vaelys arches her back as she comes, Aemond gently sucks on her pearl as she rides out the euphoria of her peak.

“Is that you done baby, or do you want more?” asked Aemond playfully, his chin shining with her slick.

“M-More, please” gasps Vaelys as Aemond reaches forward and presses a singular kiss to her pearl before he quickly wipes his chin with his hand.

Aemond smirks as he removes his small clothes , his hard cock slapping up against his abdomen, hard and heavy, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

“Kostilus issa dārys” (Please my King).

Aemond takes himself in his hand and guides his hard cock to Vaelys’ entrance, pushing in slowly, teasing her.

His wife writhes against him, her eyes lost in a haze of desire.

“Ivestragon issa ao jorrāelagon issa” muttered Aemond (Tell me you love me).

“Avy jorrāelan, nyke jorrāelagon sīr olvie issa valzȳrys” gasped Vaelys (I love you; I love you so much my husband).

Aemond lets out a pleased grunt and slams into Vaelys hard, smiling as she lets out a yelp of surprise.

The pace he sets is brutal, his hips slapping against hers.

Vaelys moans desperately, as she moves her hips to meet his, attempting to allow his cock to reach deeper within her.

Aemond gets the hint, and quickly lifts Vaelys’ legs over his shoulders, using the new angle to drive his cock even deeper than before.

“Tell me how it feels” demands Aemond.

“It’s good, so good-yes-yes” exclaimed Vaelys.

Vaelys’ praises sets something off inside Aemond as he continues to pound into her, the wooden headboard banging against the wall from the force of his movements.

“Aemond, please, I’m close”.

Aemond moves a hand down to where the two of them are joined, and rubs Vaelys’ pearl in quick circles, dragging her closer the edge of the precipice.

“Gods this sweet cunny–fuck,” groans Aemond as he marks each of his words in tandem with a rough snap of his hips.

Vaelys comes with a loud, scream, her body shaking underneath Aemond’s as his thrusts grow sloppy.

“J-Just a little longer-fuck”

Then with a loud animalistic groan, Aemond stills, leaning over his wife, his cock pulsating as he spills his seed deep inside her.

After a few moments, Aemond gently moves Vaelys’ legs from his shoulders, his chest heaving with every breath he takes.

“I-I wasn’t too rough, was I?” asked Aemond.

“No. I-It was wonderful” exclaimed Vaelys, her body shaking slightly.

Aemond smirks as he slowly removes his softened cock from her slick cunt, and flops onto the mattress.

After a few minutes, Aemond takes Vaelys into his arms and runs his nose up and down her cheek, she giggles when his breath tickles her skin.

Vaelys then moved away from him and rose from their bed. With a tender smile, she reached out, and lifted Aemond's crown from where it rested on the bedside table, its silver gleaming in the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the window.

As she held the crown, Vaelys felt a swell of pride and admiration for her husband, for the man who stood by her side, her confidant, and her partner in all things. She traced her fingers along the intricate patterns adorning the crown, marvelling at its craftsmanship and the power it represented.

“Are you ready?” asked Vaelys as she placed Aemond’s crown upon his head.

“For what-“ mused Aemond curiously.

“I promised to worship you-as the King you are. That my dear husband was just the warmup” replied Vaelys as she climbed onto the bed and descended under the covers.

“Y-You don’t have to” muttered Aemond weakly.

“Are you sure about that?” asked Vaelys, her soft fingers running along Aemond’s muscled thigh.

“Vaelys what are you-oh” gasped Aemond as he felt his wife’s tongue gentle lick the tip of his cock.

“I can always stop?”

“N-No keep going” exclaimed Aemond as his wife’s hot wet mouth engulfed his half hard cock.

“When I make a promise, I fully intend on sticking to it. Do you understand?”

“Yes-I understand fully, please Vaeryna do not tease me” moaned Aemond.

“I don’t know, you don’t seem very convincing”.

“I promise-I will remember, just please-oh fuck” huffed Aemond as Vaeryna took his cock into her mouth once again.

Vaelys smirked deviously as she continued to tease her husband, she was determined to make him beg and plead for her mercy and only when he was on the brink would she grant it.

The night was still young, and she would have her husband as many times as he was able to rouse himself.

Aemond sat at the breakfast table, exhaustion evident in the lines etched upon his face and the heavy droop of his eyelid. Beside him, their children Sovia, Daevyn, Aemon, and Rekara chatted animatedly, their youthful energy a stark contrast to their father's weariness.

Across the table, Helaena, and her children Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor joined them, along with Daeron. Aemond tried to muster a smile as they exchanged pleasantries, but his mind was still heavy with the weight of the night before.

Sovia, ever perceptive, noticed her father's fatigued state and furrowed her brow in concern. "Father, why do you look so tired?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.

Aemond rubbed a hand over his weary eye, a tired chuckle escaping his lips. "Just had a long night, my dear," he replied, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

Beside him, Vaelys couldn't help but stifle a snigger into her drink, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she exchanged a knowing glance with her husband. She knew all too well the cause of his fatigue, and the memory of their very passionate night together brought a playful glint to her eye.

Aemond shot her a mock glare, but there was a hint of amusement in his tired eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for his mischievous wife, whose laughter never failed to brighten even the darkest of days.

Maelor stood up from his seat at the breakfast table, his young face filled with determination as he addressed his family. "Your Graces-" he began, his voice steady despite the hint of nervousness in his eyes, "-I would like to join the Queens guard”,

Aemond and Vaelys exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them as they considered the young boy's plea. Beside them, Helaena watched with a warm smile, her eyes filled with pride and affection for her son.

After a moment of contemplation, Aemond spoke, his voice steady and firm. "Maelor," he said, addressing the boy directly, "Joining the Queen's Guard is a serious commitment, one that requires courage and a lot of discipline, you know that I have insisted on training them myself-I am not one for favouritism.”

“I understand Uncle-I mean Your Grace. But I would like to try. I wish to serve you and my Queen a-and the realm”.

Vaelys smiled, her expression thoughtful yet supportive. "If this is truly what you desire, if you are willing to dedicate yourself to the service of the crown and the protection of the realm, then we will accept your request," she added, her voice gentle but resolute.

Maelor's face lit up with excitement and gratitude, his eyes shining with determination. "Thank you, Your Graces," he said earnestly, his voice filled with conviction. "I promise to serve with honour and distinction, to uphold the values of the Queen's Guard with every fibre of my being."

Aemond and Vaelys exchanged another glance, a silent affirmation passing between them. They knew that Maelor's journey would not be easy, but they also knew that he possessed the courage and determination to succeed.

With a nod of approval, Aemond reached out to clasp Maelor's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "Welcome to the Queen's Guard, Maelor," he said, his voice filled with pride. "May you serve with honour and valour, and may you always uphold the legacy of those who came before you and training begins on the morrow-I suggest you rest well”.

“Might I suggest you do the same Your Grace-and possibly abstain from such prolonged physical activities the night before” quipped Daeron smirking.

“I had a duty to my Queen-“

“-And we all know how seriously father takes his duties,” laughed Daevyn, his long silver hair swaying back and forth.

“Boy-you’re not too old for a good thrashing” snarked Aemond.

“You wouldn’t dare” quipped Daevyn.

“Oooo Father has that mad look in his eye,” laughed Aemon.

“Daevyn needs to start running” giggled Rekara dreamily.

“-I-What? Asked Daevyn as Aemond rose from the table.

“You heard your sister-you best start running boy” said Aemond.

“M-Mother” exclaimed Daevyn.

“Brought it on yourself son” replied Vaelys smiling.

“You must really want to be thrashed-you don’t seem to be moving very fast” mocked Aemond as he manoeuvred himself away from the table.

“Oh-fuck” gasped Daevyn as he turned on is heel and legged it out of the dining room.

“How long do you think it will be before he realises that I’m not chasing him?” asked Aemond as he sat back down and reached for a drink.

“He’ll probably spend the rest of the day hiding from you now” said Vaelys.

“Father-can we go flying today?” asked Aemon.

“Of course-let’s finish breakfast and we’ll go”.

“Maelach will be pleased-he’s been a little restless since we moved here” muttered Aemon.

“The pit takes some adjusting, he’ll be fine once he gets used to it, but how about we make time in your duties so that you can fly with him every day?” suggested Aemond.

“I would like that very much thank you father” exclaimed Aemon brightly.

“Kara-will you be joining us with Nova?”

“Yes please” giggled Rekara.

“Make sure you change into your riding gear first byka rūklon” said Aemond (Little flower).

“I will-“ replied Rekara softly as she looked towards Ceci who smiled and took her hand.

“I shall ensure the little Princess is properly changed Your Grace”.

“Thank you, Ceci,” replied Aemond.

“Can we come?” asked Jaehaerys and Jaehaera in enthusiastic unison.

“Of course the more the merrier” said Aemond brightly.

“Shall you be joining your father?” asked Vaelys as she looked over at Sovia.

“I was going to find Daevyn actually-we agreed to read to one another under the weirwood tree”.

“Hmmm” muttered Aemond, casting a curious glance at Vaelys who smiled.

“Just make sure to have your guard with you-“ warned Vaelys.

“I will mother-“ said Sovia as she rose from the table and left the room.

“-And no, you won’t manage to sneak off because Daeron will be there as well” said Aemond his loud voice carrying down the hallway.

Vaelys and Helaena stood side by side on the balcony, their eyes turned upwards to the vast expanse of sky stretched out before them. The crisp morning air stirred around them, carrying with it the distant sound of wings beating against the wind.

Above, the majestic forms of dragons soared gracefully through the clouds, their powerful wings slicing through the air. Vhagar, the oldest and largest of them all, led the way, her scales gleaming in the sunlight as she flew with regal authority.

Beside her, Maelach, Nova, Morghul, and Shrykos followed in her wake, their forms a symphony of movement and grace as they danced through the sky.

Vaelys and Helaena watched silently as the dragons disappeared into the distance, their silhouettes fading against the backdrop of the morning sky.

Helaena took Vaelys’ hand and squeezed it gently.

The Dance of Dragons had almost destroyed the Targaryen dynasty, but now they would flourish and live on for generations. A Targaryen was seated upon on the Iron Throne as they were always meant to be, and the dragons would rule the skies for generations to come.

A great dynasty would be born from the blood of Vaelys and Aemond.

No lion or stag would oppose them.

“-And from their blood, will come the Princess who was promised” whispered Helaena.

“Everything ok?” asked Vaelys cocking her head to the side.

“It will be” replied Helaena softly, she leaned her head on her good sister’s shoulder and closed her eyes for a moment and for the briefest of seconds, she saw her again.

A beautiful silver haired dragon, the silver crown of her great grandmother many times over upon her head as she sat the Iron Throne.

‘All hail her Grace-Queen Daenerys Targaryen’

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond x original female character #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond #aemond smut #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd smut

50 notes · View notes

sanctum-of-ramshackle · 3 months

Text

🦈Rocking The Boat🩸

[Synopsis]: Azul offered MC/Yuu to perform a gif at the Monstro Lounge and let them choose what kind of performance they would do. Except he didn’t console with them as the Octo-schemer learned too late.

[Gender Neutral Reader]

[WARNING]: Foul language in the song and best advise to lower your volume when listening to the song.

[A/N]: This is one of my favorite songs from Ice Nine Kills when I first listened to their album, “The Silver Scream.” I highly recommend to lower your volume settings since the song can be loud in some parts and wouldn’t want to damage your ears.

[Ice Nine Kills - Rocking The Boat (ft. Jeremy Schwartz)]

youtube

[Monstro Lounge]

MC/Yuu: Are you sure you want me to perform?

Azul: Of course! You must have songs from your world many never heard of until now. It should bring more customers in.

MC/Yuu: Alright, but fair warning: it can get loud. Best to give a disclaimer if there’s anyone who may be sensitive to hearing and flashing lights. We also need a heads-up to any Mer-shark people who are present during the show.

Azul: Why would you need to add that?

MC/Yuu: You’ll see.

[8:30 p.m.]

Jade: Evening everyone. Tonight will be a grand show starring The Prefect from the Ramshackle Dorm. Before we start the special night, there will be warnings of high volumes and flashy light effects. We may also warn Mer-Shark civilians of the show.

Mer-Shark People in the audience: Why would they warn us?

Jade: They informed me it is a song about a great white shark that kills people.

Mer-Shark People: Oooh yeah.

Jade: Now, let the show begin.

[The lights dimmed and smoke effects cover the stage. Then reveals MC/Yuu, with a microphone in hand and inhales…]

MC/Yuu:

SHARK!!!!

Coast guard, this is the Orca. Do you read me?

Four and a half miles due east of Amity Island

This is an official distress call, over

We all know a place

That appears so sublime

But if you dive a little deeper

You'll hit the real bottom line

The head of the town is out there flashing his teeth

A telltale sign about to surface

That there's a monster lurking underneath

They're thrashing around but found

They can't contain the leak

'Cause I've got a fish to fry

That's feeding on the weak

So cast a line for every life they took

It's time to set the-

Lilia, as the supporting lines: Hook!

We're all just floating in a shallow grave

Lilia: Buoyed by the blood of the masses

They'd rather sell out that instead of save

We're all so starving that we've taken the bait

Lilia: You think we would've learned from the past

That the predator will soon become-

Lilia: The prey!

We all know a place

Where the calm flees at night (night, night)

And safe is just a shadow

So we swim towards the light

If this voyage of valor

Put us on deck for death

We'll compare scars with each other

Until our very last breath

Lilia: Yeah!

They're thrashing around but found

They can't contain the leak

'Cause I've got a fish to fry

That's feeding on the weak

So reel it in with every trick in the book

It's time to set the-

Lilia: Hook!

We're all just floating in a shallow grave

Lilia: Buoyed by the blood of the masses

They'd rather sell out that instead of save

We're all so starving that we've taken the bait

Lilia: You think we would've learned from the past

That the predator will soon become-

Lilia: The prey!

Coastguard, this is the Orca again

We need you out here now

The boat is under attack, it's a great white, over

Roger that, ETA fifteen minutes, over

In fifteen minutes we'll be fucking shark bait

Last chance to make amends

Lilia: So try to stay afloat

With sharks like you among us

Lilia: We'll need a bigger boat

Sold us down the river

Lilia: So the rich could stay rich

But now you've been caught

Lilia: So smile…

You son of a bitch

Sinking with the burning embers

Should be any sign of doubt

That this tale will be remembered

And the tide will forever flush them out

We're all just floating in a shallow grave

Lilia: Buoyed by the blood of the masses

They'd rather sell out that instead of save

We're all so starving that we've taken the bait

Lilia: You think we would've learned from the past

That the predator will soon become-

Lilia: The prey!

[After the song was finished, the audience applauded and whistled.]

[After the show]

Azul: Prefect, that was…

Floyd: AWESOME! Shrimpy surprised everyone tonight.

MC/Yuu: Thanks, but you can compliment Lilia for his vocals.. It wasn't easy screaming the parts and had to practice. It woke the Ghosts up because they thought a Banshee came by.

Azul: The song came from your world and based on a killer shark.

MC/Yuu: Yeah, from Steven Spielberg's movie "Jaws". I still get excited to watch parts where Bruce gets his victims in the water.

Azul: You scare me sometimes, Prefect. You really do.

✨[Reblogs helps creators and creates for more content]💫

58 notes · View notes

evilminji · 3 months

Note

Idea since you keep tagging me with DP X Naruto

Danny decides to summon a teacher to help him learn how to fight. He gets either Hiruzen (3rd Hokage) or Jiriya (Sanin), or somebody else if they tickler your fancy

Oh Jiriya would fuckin DIE die. Like... it's a toss up, who kills him first? Maddie or Sam.

Hiruzen though? Now THAT is interesting? Cause he's a complicated dude. Complicit in atrocities yet? You can argue that he very much was a product of his environment, shaped by decades of loss and trauma. Danzo was, regrettably, CORRECT in saying? He was weak.

He could not COMMIT.

A wishy-washy scholar that became a military leader instead, his heart wished to teach, to grow and be kind... but that was not the position he HELD. He could not gather the strength to be decisive. To inspire loyalty.

He was strong. He lived long.

But in the end?

He was a PROFESSOR.

And Konoha did not need teaching. It needed Leadership. Charisma and unification. Hope. A clear and decisive void of Danzos. It needed a shallow grave out back for traitors and certain sorts of trouble makers, and peace upon it's streets.

So in a way? It DOES make sense? That he would not rest. COULD NOT rest. Not after what he knew he had done. How he had failed his Mentor's final task of him. He tried. He would like to say he did his best.

But he knows he did not.

He does not feel he DESERVES the Pure Lands. Does not feel he has EARNED his right to rest. Or... perhaps, if he is honest, he will admit he is afraid.

That they will forgive him. That they will not.

That his sins will be waiting there, for answers he knows his answers aren't good enough for.

There is... relief. In the strangeness. The incomprehensible bizarre. Green skies and floating islands. Metal people and great bear like healers in frozen lands. Sparring with the warriors under the Great Commander Pandora. Comparing tips and tricks. (Though his lack of extra arms will likely limit the usefulness of a few of those.)

Only? To then be called upon to teach again?

As though his LAST official set of students didn't end... poorly. The young man doesn't even HAVE Chakra. No one here does. In fact, HE doesn't either. Which rather renders moot most of his studies. Still... the boy's form IS terrible...

It's like watching a inuzuka pup fight. Not a child, mind you. One of the untrained puppies. The children bite. So there's at least that. He won't have to hammer in "you don't know where that's been" to an obstinate youth.

.......he wonders if the lad has forgotten he can create ice.

Ah. *watchs Danny get thrown throw a building* It appears he has.

@babbling-babull @hdgnj @hypewinter @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @lolottes

#dpxnaruto #hiruzen sarutobi #naruto

60 notes · View notes

ineylesian · 1 year

Text

MY FRIEND IN MISERY

─ PHILLIP GRAVES X FEM! READER

AO3 | MASTERLIST | CODENAME: FANGS MASTERLIST

WORD COUNT | 7k+

SUMMARY | there are times when you draw the line, glorifying the cracks that sever right and wrong.

upon realization that you’d been trapped under ice, you had watched graves freeze over, hardening against the cruel world before him… until he cracked.

WARNINGS | smut, angst, brief descriptions of torture, finger fucking, unprotected p in v, slight oral asphyxiation, biting, hair pulling, switch! graves, semi clothed sex, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, slightly shell shocked graves, blood kink (kinda), graves is a masochist

AUTHOR’S NOTE | AYYY i finally got around to writing for my babygirl graves,, we’re pushing along in the cobra series!! also, some parts of this are a lil sloppy, my bad, i’m tired.

THIS WORK IS MEANT TO BE WRITTEN IN AN ADULT READER’S POINT OF VIEW. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

AUGUST 13TH, 2020.

AL MAZRAH, SYRIA.

“SHEPHERD, we need to send in backup, now!”

“Negative, Shadow-2. You will use what. You. Have.”

Ragged breaths fought against faint waves of radio static, dying out with the start of a exasperated sigh. Your teeth grit furiously against one another at the sudden intrusion of Shepherd on your mens’ safety, digging one of your boots into the ground in a feeble attempt to contain your anger. He knew your entire squadron would die out there without help, and it was clear as the rising smoke in the ruins that he would make anyone else pay for his mistakes than himself.

It was good riddance and salvage, now. Avoid casualties, save the fortunate, and find Graves.

Your head turned at the rising sound of footsteps, sinking into the shallow channel at the sudden flash of light in your direction. Noisy sloshes rippled frigid water against your arms as two Russian soldiers approached, their proximity leading your hand to slide into the water, slowly pulling your pistol off of your waist.

A wave of murky water splashed against your face as you lunged forward, jabbing one solider in the knees with your elbow, swiftly putting a bullet in the other before his flashlight could piece your existence together. Screams of agony bubbled foam waves at the mercy of your knee, holding the less fortunate soldier under the surface while you unsheathed your knife. A messy slash reigned you safe, lifting yourself out of the water as droplets of muted red dripped off of your forearms.

“182, so you copy?”

Silence.

“Shadow-1, evac went dark.”

The soft buzz of grasshoppers answered your call, leading you to switch your comms off with a low string of curses. Fireflies danced along the wafting embers spreading to the arid valley around you, each spark followed by a distance chorus of explosions.

You shook your head, subconsciously raising a hand back to your shoulder before stepping off of the dead body beneath you, knees bending to tug at the zipper of the jacket.

“SC, this is Shadow-2 actual. Going dark.”

Cool water slithered over your chest as you lifted one of the Russian’s jackets over your own, feeling the soaked material sink into your skin. The helmet was next, followed by a pair of night vision goggles, and a scarcely damp ski mask pulled from one of the pockets. You bit back a cough at the scent filling your nostrils, traveling down to rest on the surface of your tongue, each breath leaving the faux residue of sand along your throat.

Each drag of your feet through the polar depths caused your teeth to dig further into the side flesh of your cheek, overpowering the taste of minced soil with blood with every numbing step. Upon reaching solid ground, your knees buckled, forcing you to grab onto a nearby column of debris, gloved fingers digging into the slight char to keep yourself standing. Stray winds of warmth flowed against the icy mass that consumed you, the first flush against your face so sickening you had no choice but to pull down your mask and retch.

Vile, warm, and filled to the brim with remorse on behalf of your dead soldiers.

You stood straight, wiping any signs of struggle off of your face. The last to go was your M16, American branding kicked deep into the mounds of sand below. Left with nothing but your own sopping facade, you stepped out into the main road, squinting down the stretch of rural ground. Not even a klick ahead sat a mass of hungry flames, igniting the winds billowing around you unsettlingly hot.

It was then that you felt the heat creeping along every dampened crevice of your — the Russian’s jacket, aggressive tendrils of changing temperature making your skin crawl. To make matters worse, you were approaching an entire field of aggravated hostiles. One mistake, and you would join the polluted sea of dead Shadows, marked up as one more KIA on Shepherd’s plate.

And just as much as you wanted him to suffer, you were not dying here. Not like this.

You were pulled from grasping thoughts of your general at the brief flicker of shells hitting a half crumbled wall not far off, followed by a ricochet of amused laughter. Dropping down, you cautiously approached the recoil pattern spread out across brick, sucking in a breath at the sound of footsteps just around the corner. The shuffles moved on, and you trailed, slipping a pistol from your waistline at the rise of a Russian voice.

Smiling, conceited teeth poking out from the faint dance of a cigar. The smoke wafted up in one last coil before plummeting down at the crude pluck of fingers, stopping to rest just below a quiet mass of black on the ground.

The cigarette fell gently to the ground beside him, resting trim against the bleeding hole in his collar. You pocketed your pistol, moving to stand above the two bodies and push the corpse to the side. Amidst the dust and blood, your eyes trailed to the embroidered patch on his shoulder. Shadow Company. Your mask was pulled down at the sight of widened eyes, shaking his shoulder lightly to ensure the dead’s gaze hadn’t mistaken you.

“Lieutenant..?”

He didn’t sound good, but bad was better alive. You swiftly nodded, pulling half a roll of gauze from your pocket.

“Listen, soldier.” Firm, yet coaxing words followed the tight pull of a bandage. “I need you to do something very important for me, can you do that?”

A curbed nod answered. Your radio was pulled from under the Russian’s jacket, placed in his slowly outstretching hand.

“You run, you don’t look back, and you get somewhere safe.” You waited for his nod, sighing once it was delivered. “When you’re safe, you flip to channel 11, get in contact with Task Force 141, and tell them we need a CASEVAC, ASAP.”

Anything would do at this point, but it didn’t hurt to be specific.

You pulled the solider up to his feet, sending him off with a harsh pat on the back and a reinforcing smile. Once he had disappeared from the outstretch of smog curtaining the area, you pulled your mask back up, turning for the main road. A quiet rip followed graveled footsteps, flipping a small patch in between your fingers, and curling them against your palm.

Two Russian soldiers, a mere 50 meters away. Your breath hitched at the sudden turn of one, hesitantly stopping to eye you whilst whispering to his comrade.

“HEY, THE HELL ARE YOU DOING STANDING THERE LIKE THAT?”

It was a good thing the military prepared you well concerning foreign encounters. Countless missions in Russia had taught you plenty, but the problem didn’t lie there. It was the cruel reminder that you’d been ambushed in Syria that tied your tongue, biting back the spiting hatred coating your saliva at the sight of the Ultranationalist patches on their — your chest.

“GOT DISTRACTED, IT WAS WORTH IT!”

The soldiers turned their heads in curiosity as you approached, a self proclaimed smile falling to your lips at the unveiling of your hand.

“A real trophy, no?”

Shadow Company’s insignia, laced with thin lines of gold. A small strip on the bottom displayed a “L” in italics, bearing the title of second in commandment to whoever wore it. Silent prayers through fraught eyelashes held the hope that you’d get the chance to wear it again, that is, if you made it out of this alive.

Seeing the stretch of one’s arm out, you placed the insignia in his hand, watching as he lifted it just inches away from his face. The other joined his mindless ogling, sharing sneers of scorn towards the Shadow Company whilst laughing about how stupid their Lieutenant must have been.

If only they knew who was standing right in front of them.

“It’s not every day you get one of these, eh, drook?”

His arm hooked around your shoulder, pulling you between them as they began to walk.

“Seen any stragglers?”

The smoke logged in your throat was enough to neutralize any identifiable feminine vocals. While you did sound a bit strange, no questions were asked.

“Nah, wouldn’t be surprised if we killed them all!”

Nervous laughter joined in with the choruses beside you. The hood over your head provided enough cover for your eyebrows to knit coldly together, swallowing the rising tides of guilt that sloshed in your stomach.

Nearly 300 men had been sent on this exchange mission.

“The Commander.” The rise of your voice was sudden, barely concealing the panic within. “Is he alive?”

“Of course, boss wanted the American to have a little taste of Russian prison torture before we killed him.”

Prison torture. Russian prison torture.

You were blankly shoved into the transport car, left only to yourself for a moment before a hand wrapped itself around your neck once more. Your eyes were shaking in their sockets, blood beneath your hands buzzing with frenzied nerves as you looked over. Upon seeing your expression, the soldier laughed, jerking you to the side.

“You okay, comrade?”

A shake of your head upward and a small smile followed. Forced, almost painful.

“Fine.”

ONE WEEK LATER.

A PRISON IN AL MAZRAH.

“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!”

A sea of encouraging cheers rose throughout the courtyard, booming in excited waves at every splatter of blood painted across concrete. You ran a hand over your face before stepping amidst the mass of men, firing a shot of your Saiga just centimeters away from their feet. The crowd went silent at this, shuffling to the side to reveal two prisoners lying next to one another, battered and bloody.

“You know what happens when you disrespect orders, no?” Your tone was chipper, coldly sliding a pair of handcuffs onto the first prisoner. “The chamber is waiting for you.”

“Wait, no .. no- PLEASE! DON’T SEND ME THER-“

Ragged breathing were silenced by the wrap of a cloth over his mouth, double knotted around his neck to keep him still. Another officer took the man beside you, dragging him up to his feet before sending a nod your way.

Sand crunched against boots and bare feet, rousing muffles of pain from the man in your grasp. His eyes widened in fear at the tug of your hand over his collar, discreetly pulling his ear next to your mouth.

“Tell you what. Make a scene, and I’ll make sure you get out of here alive.”

A desperate nod answered your whispers, leading your grip on his handcuffs to loosen. Your gaze hardened, watching as he lunged for your weapon, only receiving a crude stomp on the hand, slamming his skin into the blistering sand.

“Got quite the disrespect for authority, huh?” The guard beside you nodded, smiling down at the writhing disobedience underneath you. “Take him to sector 2.”

“Hear that? Today’s your lucky day.”

The words molded falsely aggressive, allowing you to breath a sigh of relief once the guard had started heading off.

“Once I drop you off, ask to use the bathroom.”

You straightened up, pulling him to walk steady at the loss of prying eyes. Words were no longer exchanged between the both of you, as nearing the compound ahead had captivated your attention plenty. A lone building amidst the desert’s barren landscape, appearing as nothing but a mirage to wanderers.

You’d seen Graves hauled this way countless times the past week, growing to serve as a searing case of déjà vu following the third day. Nerves found haven along your spine at the recollection of the change, the way he was stripped of resilience, snapping and snarling morphed to willful silence. In a matter of days, he had went from fighting guards to trailing lifelessly behind them, not sparing a look anywhere else but the sand that carried him as he was taken away, again and again.

For a man with such tough resolve, you feared for him.

Two heavily armored guards stood posted at the entrance of the building, waving their greetings to you at the clearance of whirling dust. You roughly pushed the prisoner forward, watching as he stumbled into the grasp of the man before you, crinkling eyes of amusement giving way to an invisible smile under the mask.

“Here again, durak?” The guard sneered, holding the slouched neck of the prisoner up. “Not gonna piss yourself this time, are you?”

Ironic.

“Maybe you should take me to the bathroom, first.”

His plead was answered by a malicious string of laughter, tugged forward to round the building in silent acknowledgment. The other guard followed suit, completely unaware of the extra spurts of sand being kicked up behind him.

Shoved up against the wall, the prisoner flicked a finger in your direction.

A quiet pattern of shuffles rang out from beside him as you grabbed the first guard, callously gliding a knife against the bare spot on his neck. The other turned to you, fumbling for his gun whilst wide eyes watched you pull a pistol from your chest holster. His movements fell stale at the addition of a bullet hole to fearful features, right between the eyes.

You stepped back, the corpse wrapped around your forearm slumping to the ground at its retraction.

“Get out of here, before I change my mind.”

His eyes shot open at the sudden change in language, frantically grabbing one of the guard’s guns before scurrying off. Deciding not to take your chances, you dragged the bodies beside a mound of sand behind the building, rutting your boots into the ground to cover the trail of blood that followed.

You didn’t know what your expected from a Russian torture hideout, but you definitely anticipated something less.. normal. The creak of your hand on the door roused at least 5 pairs of visible eyes, all reflected dimly off a large pane of glass.

“Another one. Man, boss really has it out for the American, huh?”

A harsh pat fell to the broad of your back before pulling you forward, eyes shifting to gaze past the glass.

There he was. Phillip Graves, slumped over in a small wooden chair. Dim light filtered over crimson streaks and purple bruises alike, his hair decently tussled and damp with blood.

“Come on, let’s see if you can get anything out of him before dinner.”

“Of course.”

The words mindlessly slipped past your lips, eyes glued to the ground with every step you took. Upon the sharp groan of metal scraping against concrete, his head raised all but a fraction, taking your presence in with complete stillness.

A small table sat in the corner of the room, every inch adorned with familiar and foreign weapons alike. Feeling the eyes of the guards hounding you from behind the glass, you stepped in front of the small armory, spinning a silver knife to your grasp.

Dirtied hair was taken in a harsh tug of fingers, lifting his head high enough to level with your own. The burning urge to reveal yourself to him ate at your every movement, yet the thought of his reaction was too big a risk to take.

“How many times have you been tortured today, American?”

The heavy accent of Russia washed over your English, making a convincing argument to the slight use of broken nouns and slurred speech. His leer reflected glassy, clouded with boredom at your feeble attempt to scare him.

Graves had always been a pretty expressionate man, but all you saw now was the frozen over exterior of a wronged commander who had lost everything, including his dignity.

Your next breath was heavy, blinking at the thought of what you were about to do. As much as you didn’t want to, you had to present yourself. You had to make him talk.

Luckily, you were the only one in this country that knew what made Graves tick.

Gloved fingers slowly rose to grasp his chin, lifting the knife to dance along the mute lights hanging above. The tip of the blade shimmered against drifting particles of dust, moving to rest flat against the base of his right cheek.

“How about a token to remember this moment?”

The edge jutted upward, sliding into his skin at an agonizingly slow pace. You watched as his eyes began to part, teeth gritting in the slightest, just as you knew they would.

You remembered it, clear as day. The time he let it slip. He’d spent weeks obsessing over a nick on his forehead, threatening to shoot anyone who brought it up. A lack of clarification sat in the reason, but you knew it for sure.

Graves was horrified of scarring his face.

“Shadow Company.” The words came out dangerously nerved, eyes never leaving the blade dragging across his skin. “We were delivering missiles.”

You stopped in the middle, delving a little deeper. A shuddered breath responded, the flesh vibrating under your touch silently begging for you to stop.

“Who were the missiles for?”

Oh, he’d hate you for this. There wasn’t much doubt that he’d kill you, the chances only increasing with each droplet of blood streaking against his cheek.

“The Middle East.. the URA.”

Physically unable to continue, you stopped near the bottom of his eye, taking a step back before tossing the knife onto the table. The door creaked once more at your exit, welcoming you to a series of praise and cheers alike. Your stare was blank, fixed on the three soldiers surrounding you.

Cries of joy washed over grim at the first snap, followed briskly by your own blade to the nearest visible weak spot. Blood dampened your gloves, staining the noir fabric you grasped, pulling a guard in front of you to shield oncoming gunfire. Hearing the click of a dry mag, you ducked under the but of a gun, hurling your last knife across the room. In succession, the blade found its way nestled into the chest of the gunman, leaving you with two more close by.

You dodged the swipe of one’s arm, locking his wrist in your hand before stomping on his foot. The stagger sent him tumbling into the other, who had just finished loading his clip. Your eyes narrowed at the sight of his finger curling for the trigger, grasping the gun’s stock, and turning it away from you.

What you didn’t notice was the small canister of gasoline sitting against the crates of ammunition you had pointed the gun at. Eyes wide, you watched as the spark of flying bullets singed wood, horizontal recoil moving straight for the friction hungry fuel. You only cursed yourself for watching, as the guard had taken your extended hand before you could move, twisting your shoulder in perfect syngery with the knife in his hand. In a last ditch effort, you pried his hand off of the knife’s handle, pushing him toward the bullet just centimeters away from impending disaster.

You could only lift one foot before you were sent flying through the observation window, subconsciously crying out at the deafening explosion hammering into your ears. A dizzying hum erupted in your skull as you rolled against the concrete, welcoming your face to a scorching patch of fallen debris at rest. Your teeth clenched impossibly close together at the rising pain in your shoulder, only managing to scoot up against what was left of the wall, head hanging in an attempt to level yourself.

The ashes fell slowly, mixing your bloodied hands to a coat of muted grey. Flames licked at your back, illuminating the ravaged space before you, and pushing back against your shoulder in smoldering waves.

You raised a hand to the knife’s handle, curling it firmly against your fingers before tugging. A sharp hiss slipped through gritted teeth following the thick splat of blood amidst the darkness, your eyes fluttering in surprise at the sheer amount you were losing. You pressed a hand against the dampened patch of heat on your shoulder whilst the other moved up to your neck, clicking the flashlight nestled against your collar on.

Amongst the billows of smoke, you could see the chair Graves had been in. Only problem was, he was missing.

A shallow breath pushed its way from the depths of your smoke infested throat, wheezing out in protest at the grasp of your hands along a column of debris. Pulling yourself up, you stumbled forward, head spinning in acclimation to the blood-loss.

It wasn’t physically possible for you to hate the Russians more than you did now. This land had been a breeding ground for misery, leaving you just as defenseless as you had been the last time you were stranded here. Part of you wished you’d just been dumped into the fires back on that road, accepting a somewhat honorable death instead of.. this.

Rocks crumbled in unstable patterns, shaking the world around you in hefty crashes. You stepped past the metal table, now across the room, kicking weapons to the side in an attempt to preserve your boots. The black of night became visible as you emerged from the building, swirled alongside thick tendrils of smoke, allowing you only a moment to observe the sky before you were tackled to the ground.

Your hand mindlessly reached out, seizing the mystery weapon heading straight for your throat, and directing it to the sand beside you. Blinking against the rising swells of dust, you saw a familiar silhouette through the grit, prompting you to pull your mask down before it was too late.

The whisper of currents accounted for the silence, leaving you to watch as Graves backed away, eyes quivering in shock.

“…Fangs?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, taking in the flash of disbelief across his pupils. “It’s me”

You lay in strained wait, eyes scrolling over the discarded weapon just inches from your head. Certainly he’d kill you right here for what you did. It wasn’t like you could fight back, anyway, with his knee holding you against the ground.

The sight bestowed upon you resembled something much worse than death. His eyes were hung low, sunken further by the dark pools of sleepless nights settled beneath. You never thought he could look so.. lifeless, the stark, blank stare of his pupils making you squirm against the sand.

And then, he breathed. Low, quiet, scared.

He ran a hand over your hood, tugging it off to reveal the last of you. A swallow followed the full sight of your face, a look of contemplation dancing across his irises. You tensed, following the drift of his eyes to the weapon, and back to you.

“You.. forget it, shit.”

Unable to retaliate, you were pulled to your feet, left to reclaim your balance as his arms retracted, almost reacting as if your skin had burned him.

“Don’t..” His breathing slowed, a sigh following the ever so faint soften of his gaze upon straying over yours. “Don’t do that, ever again.“

“Graves, you’re not making any sense.”

You took a step back as he stumbled forward, holding back a hiss at the sudden grip of his hand on your forearm. Panicked breathing filled your ears at his notion, growing closer with every waking moment you stood there, eyes fixed on him with an inability to look away.

“I’m, I- fuck.. I don’t even know what I’m saying.” Solid words melted to a fevered string of mumbles, strengthening the hold on your wrists to keep himself standing. “I just know that I need you, Fangs.”

He was steadily shaking at this point, using the last of his energy to lean forward before his knees gave out. You staggered back at the mass entrusted to your hold, slowly setting him against a nearby crate before diving a hand into one of the pockets on your utility belt. Working past the clouds of confusion that dampened your mind, you flicked the cover off of an adrenaline shot, lifting one of his arms up to jab it against a non tense mass on the underside. The smaller supply was self dosed, finally giving you enough energy to think properly.

“We need to get out of here.” Your tone was low, quiet in the way hurried words slipped through a taut jaw. “Once we clear the area, we can call for.. shit.”

The adrenaline came too late to work effectively. In a matter of seconds, he had slumped over completely, heartbeat barely present against the slip of your hand under his shirt.

You swore, throwing the empty cartridges of stimulant to the side. Mustering all of what little strength you had, you pulled Graves up to rest against your back, stopping to pull a compass from your belt.

Settlements would be over the dunes, half a klick north. You just hoped your own adrenaline shot would last.

TWELVE HOURS LATER.

AN ABANDONED BUILDING SOMEWHERE ALONG THE OUTSKIRTS OF AL MAZRAH.

Click, click, click.

“Price? This is Cobra actual, come in.”

Static.

Your hand clenched against tepid air, unplugging the radio before shoving its port back into the socket. Dim rays of sunlight filtered against the table you sat at, bringing life to tiny particles of dust floating to rest against your gear. The Russian’s coat had long been dumped into the garbage, leaving you in a worn, dirty shell of your PMC, or what was left of it.

A faint spark from the radio pulled you back to reality, hovering your thumb over the PTS.

“This is Price, send traffic.”

You sighed in relief, pressing down on the button.

“I say again, this is Cobra. Immediate backup requested, Northeast Al Mazrah.”

A laugh followed.

“The Hell you doin’ in Syria?”

“I’ll tell you later, out here.”

The rise of footsteps captivated your attention, leading you to turn in your chair and set the radio down. From around the corner, you saw Graves peak his head into the room, blinking at the sight of you, as if he’d been looking for some time.

“Hey.”

You patted the side of the chair as you stood, reaching over the table to grab your utility belt. To your ease, over 10 hours of sleep had done him well. He looked much better, able to walk and move normally despite the lack of medical care given.

“How do you feel?”

Graves settled down into the chair, sending a reassuring smile your way, fading into the ghost of his lips curved upwards at the sight of you, still decently battered yourself. The stab wound on your shoulder had been sloppily bandaged, joined with the smudges of dirt and char along what skin he could see.

“I’ll live.”

What would’ve been a question to your own health was caught in his throat, pushed back down in a thick gulp at the sudden rise of your frame. Your face stopped a mere 5 inches away from his own, a hand covered in cloth steadily reaching out to close the distance. Blood caked eyelashes fluttered at the sensation of warm water, dragging down to smear days of torture down his cheek. Upon reaching the right side of his face, you stopped, frozen in abrupt fear at the sight — the thin line of your stigmata sitting firm along his cheekbone.

“Your face...” You blinked, mouth drawing into a thin line the more you looked at it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

A hand crept along your forearm, stopping to clasp around your covered fingers.

“Don’t.” The cloth was guided down to press against the opening, rousing a light hiss from him. “You did what you had to.”

Hand lightly trembling, you watched blood trickle out of the stressed legion. He moved you down, soaking up the last of the grime on his face before letting you go.

Shifting back, Graves lifted his chin, allowing you to pop the top two buttons of his shirt off. Beneath the dark blue sat a nasty gash of contrast, glowing in agitation against pale skin. Your mouth parted in surprise, taking in the next, and the one after that, pulling his shirt down to expose a sea of heavy damage spread across his collarbone.

“Wait ‘til you see what’s below that.”

“Christ, Graves.” You muttered, fumbling for the disinfectant. “I should’ve been faster.”

Although the last words pushed off of your lips were practically silent, he heard you just fine. Before you could address his wounds any further, he grasped your chin, forcing your eyes to level with his.

“Listen, Fangs. I owe you my life, and then some.” His thumb dragged along your jaw, stopping just below your ear. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about things you had no control over.”

Your breath hitched at the sudden change in his demeanor, mouth drooping to the side in anticipation of what you’d do next.

On second thought, maybe he was just being stupid. You were just trying to clean his damn wounds, and he was letting himself get way too flustered over your proximity.

“You need me.”

Oh?

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

A lopsided smile joined raised eyebrows, completely aware that you had meant that as an inquiry. Your eyes narrowed at the rise of arrogance in his tone.

“Don’t fuck with me, Graves.”

The low bark in your throat gave away that you were on edge, and he was entirely the reason why. You never had liked when he teased you, but that wasn’t it, not this time. There was no room for that, anyway, as the subconscious press of your hand against his bruised chest was getting him more worked up than he liked to admit.

“I needed you then, and I need you now.” His head tilted, leaning up to sever most of the distance between you. “I want you, Fangs.”

The need — the want for you wasn’t new. For the past week, his thoughts had drifted to you countlessly, wondering if you were still out there, if you were as angry as he was concerning Shepherd. Guessing by the way you ruthlessly slaughtered those men for him, you were just as furious, maybe worse. After all, Shadow Company was yours just as much as it was his.

Whatever it was; between the both of you, something needed to alleviate, fast.

It was quick, his lips finding solace against your own. You sighed at the feeling, pooling warm air over his skin. He almost felt ashamed at how worked up you’d gotten him from doing almost nothing at all, latching onto your wrists to hold you against him.

Maybe the shame was partially from the guilt; he should be mourning right now, thinking of some way to get back at Shepherd for his fault in the massive loss at Al Mazrah.

He knew you were thinking the same, forcefully grasping at his hair to silence the internal war you were having with yourself. It was all solemn, mid thought, each stroke of his tongue against your teeth, sucking in every possible taste of you.

Maybe it wasn’t so wrong, then. Disaster had always loved your company, and now you had a someone to share that burden with.

Your friend in misery, perhaps.

You kissed until you could no longer feel the steady inflation of your lungs, breaking away from his face only when his fingers dug into your forearms. One of your hands was pulled up to run along the expanse of his right cheek, lathering now stale blood along your fingers as he pressed them against the laceration. Graves let out a soft groan at the sting, bringing your fingers to his mouth to lick at the mess of him sticking to your skin.

The metallic taste of blood coated your tongue as he let go of your arm, lowering his hands to circle around your waist. You were blindly set onto the edge of the couch in the living room, left devoid of prying teeth as he lifted himself off of you.

Graves’ eyes wandered down from your coat, falling to watch your hands circle around the hem of your jeans, popping the button free before tugging the zipper down. The very sight was mesmerizing, forcing him to push your hands up before he got too carried away.

“The things you do to me..”

You sighed at the feeling of his hands on your bare skin, hastily tugging your jeans off with one hand, and using the other to slide your underwear down with it. Slender fingers crawled up your thigh, stopping to rest on the inner curve.

“May I?”

Always a gentleman.

“Yes.” You whispered, thighs clenching around his arm. “Hurry.”

A soft laugh slipped from his lips at your desperation, wasting no time in dipping his fingers where you so desperately wanted them to go. You bit the inside of your cheek at the invasion of him against your folds, eagerly lathering up your arousal before prodding at your hole. Graves couldn’t help but groan himself as he pushed two fingers inside of you, now plenty aware of the painful strain of his erection against his pants.

What a great way to pay someone back.

“Taking me so well, darl’.”

Your eyes closed at the thickening of his accent on the last word, threatening to leak all over him right then and there. Graves was too busy to notice, thankfully, as his eyes yet pulled away from the sight of his fingers slipping in and out of you, canines clamping down against his lips as his skin grew more drenched with each thrust.

“Mmph, Graves.” You drawled out, pathetically moaning at the presence of him pressed knuckle deep inside you. “Gonna… cum.”

“Atta girl.” His fingers abruptly curled, rolling your eyes backward in shock. “Cum for me, Fangs.”

A low whistle pooled from his lips as you soaked his hand, glancing up to look up at you, smiling lightly at the feverish look on your face. Before you could even think of settling down from your high, Graves slinked a hand down to your thigh, softly groping the flesh as he spread you out.

You audibly gasped at the sudden glide of his tongue over your pussy, mulling over your glistening folds in needy apprehension of tasting you further. A hum vibrated against your skin as you coated his tastebuds, perfectly sweet, yet too short lived.

Without warning, his tongue snaked into your hole, greedily slithering along the shallow of your walls. One of your thighs was released of his grip as his fingers traveled up, stopping to rub harsh circles against your bud.

You’d never taken Graves as a man to shamelessly eat someone out like this. Yet here he was, licking you up like you were the last thing he’d ever taste.

His eyes drifted up at the ragged shift in your moans, growing hoarse with every ministration of his tongue against your pussy. Seeing the coats of sweat beginning to shine along your face, he winked, stuffing himself further against your walls, effectively making you cry out.

Cocky bastard.

Graves increased his pace almost knowingly, eyes drifting back down to focus on his fingers, furiously rubbing at your folds. You felt your second orgasm wash over you in blistering ripples, feeling his tongue slide out of you. He rested at your folds, lapping any of your juices that missed his mouth.

When he was satisfied, he stood from your legs, wiping the back of his hand over the tip of his nose, moving down to his mouth next. Sitting up, you pulled him to sit beside you, lashes fluttering at the pure look of haze returned. Sighing, you slowly pushed him against the arm of the couch, watching his eyes flick upward, never leaving your apprehending grasp.

A soft hiss followed the graze of your hand along his clothed erection, moving to tug at his zipper in your own anticipation. Your mouth parted in the slightest at the drag of his boxers downward, frankly taken aback at the size of him.

“Fangs..” Graves mumbled, feebly pulling one of your shoulders forward. “Need to be inside you now, honey.”

The low whine in his tone forced you to swallow a line of drool back, grasping his dick whilst sliding closer to him. You sank down onto him agonizingly slow, slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle the moan biting its way from your lips. Impossibly full was the only way to describe it, his dick stretching your walls wider than you envisioned possible.

“That’s it, baby. Taking me so well.”

Graves pulled you forward, cursing at the pained bliss working up in his shoulders. Each stretch of his wounds elicited a sweet moan from his lips, falling into a rasped symphony with your cries at his erratic pace. Your neck lowered to nip at his jaw, lightly twisting his skin between your teeth as you worked your way up. Upon reaching his lips, your teeth retracted, eagerly swallowing the pitiful vibrations pooling into your throat.

The lack of oxygen was nearly calming, pulling you away from the raging fires of blame in your head. Deep inside, you knew the shame and remorse of what happened would never go away. You’d have to learn to accept it, but accepting wasn’t always the easiest choice.

It meant going after Shepherd; sticking a deadly target on your back that would never disappear. Ending the possibility of you and Graves before you even got a real taste of it.

It was selfish, really. But who were you without that need?

Nothing. Such a simple word being the catalyst of the scorch in your chest, the fresh scar on Graves’ cheek, the raging forest fire of agony melted into desire.

Your lack of hesitation when it came to Graves wasn’t due to the stress, however. Each drag of his tongue along your skin proved you’d been pulled into the undertow long ago, as had he.

After all, it was common knowledge that you do crazy things for the people you love. And, maybe you could learn to love Graves in time.

Tears pricked against the corners of your eyes, washing salty streams of heated frustration down your face. Graves continued to devour every inch of your mouth, sucking the low song of sorrow into his own being as you cried. His own vexations fell to the ruthless piston of his cock in and out of your overspent walls, sparking a match to the kerosene coil in your abdomen once again. You spasmed against his dick, nails curling against the rough material of his shirt in a weak attempt to stay grounded.

Sensing your struggle, Graves dropped his hands down to your waist, dipping under your coat to roughly squeeze at the scalding flesh underneath. The coarse sensation of his hands on you sent your body into overdrive, crying out against his neck as you came over his dick. He was quick to follow, messily rutting into you a handful of times before pulling out, swiftly lifting your coat up to come on your stomach.

The two of you sat still, quietly panting amidst the cool dawn air. Minutes of stiff silence held you in place, breaking reluctantly at the shift of Graves against you, slowly peeling your coat off the prevent it from dirtying any further. Slightly trembling legs fell to gentle hands, setting you down where he had been as he stood, tucking himself together before leaving the room.

You stared up at the ceiling, listening to the hushed click of shoes on wood as Graves moved about. Upon his return, a damp cloth was pressed against your abdomen, wiping his mess up before folding it in half, lightly patting cool water against your face.

“What are we gonna do about Shepherd?”

The burning question, one that he had been mulling over for some time himself. Yet, despite how much he tried to craft a solution, he was left empty handed, and utterly helpless.

The couch dipped, you lifted you legs momentarily so he could sit beside you.

“I don’t know, Fangs.” He muttered, following your gaze up to the barren ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Accept it, we’re utterly screwed.

Right?

“Do you regret what we just did?”

Your eyes dropped, his followed suite. His pupils were still slightly wide, hair sticking up in unruly strands, shirt wrinkled beyond repair. He almost looked normal — you almost felt normal.

“Do you really take me for that kind of man?”

You shrugged, watching with a fleeting glint of amusement passing your eyes as he rolled his own. Silently, you beckoned him forward, allowing him to flip you over while his back took the couch’s surface. Your hands drifted up to his neck, resting in a loop around it.

The faint thrum of his heart fell intimately privy to your ears, effortlessly draping the serenity of much needed sleep over your eyes, welcoming you to the darkness as they finally shut. Seeing this, Graves slid one of his hands above your chest, stopping to brush a strand of hair out of your face before draping it around your shoulder.

“I didn’t regret it, Fangs. Not a single second.”

4 HOURS LATER.

Click, click.

“Cobra, this is Price, over. What’s your 20?”

Your eyes squinted against the fresh light of dawn, raising a hand to rub over your face. As quietly as you could, you pried yourself from Graves’ hold, pulling your clothes on before heading for the radio.

“This is Cobra. Ready to deploy a flare on your word.”

“Ready when you are.”

You tugged your utility belt forward, pulling a small red stick out of one of the pockets.

“Roger that.”

Low tides of dust greeted your skin as you stepped outdoors, popping the cap off of the pyrotechnic. A sharp scrape of the surface and the flare sparked, enveloping the area around you in a violent sea of red as it was dropped to the ground. You stepped away from the signal, watching the clouds nearly two klicks off shift, welcoming you to the sight of helicopter blades.

A quiet shuffle roused your attention away from the sky, looking back to see Graves leaning against the doorframe. Your utility belt was handed over at his approach, leading his arms to cross, eyes never leaving the approaching aircraft.

“You sure you trust these guys, Fangs?”

You nodded, waving up to the shadowed figures now visible amongst the sky. Upon touchdown, you beckoned for Graves to follow, stopping at the foot of the helicopter at the sight of Price, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the man beside you.

“I’m supposing he’s with you?”

“Yeah.” You reached up, grasping his outstretched hand. “American Special Forces mission went to shit, thanks for the help.”

Your blatant lie passed without question as Price nodded, leading you to share a look of relief with Graves before pulling him into the aircraft. A brief handshake was shared between the supposed ASF and TSF captain before he sat down beside you, biting back a laugh at the prying scroll of Price’s eyes over your injuries. Before you could spit out any excuses, he sat across from the two of you, nodding questioningly to the patch of red under your shoulder.

“So, got a story to share?”

#arqhms #arqhmsthirst #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw22 #phillip graves x you #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves #phillip graves smut #graves x reader #phillip graves mw2

898 notes · View notes

salmonight · 9 months

Text

Free Title Ideas Pt. 1

I am always looking for new title ideas trying to find the perfect match for my meager amount of fics actually published ( I got a ton of wips mind you) so I have this little file full with title ideas I got from here and there and I thought I share them! Feel free to use them and all! I only actually used a few of them myself so theyre up for the take! Enjoy!

( I suck at categorizing mind u so take it however u want)

Low Mood:

Paint Splattered Teardrops

A Mournful Radio Song

The Quite Ivories

20 Minute Too Long… Too Late-

No Third Round Up

My Heart's An Artifice, A Decoy Soul

If These Walls Could Talk

Like Drying Paint on the Walls

Withering Memories

Bury Our Secrets Shallow

Isn't It Tragic How Far You Came?

The Best of the Worsts

Your Wings Are Failing, Icarus

Let Your Wings Carry You Away From Here

Cry For Reflection

The Scream of Winter

Much Madness in Divinest Sense

Family Doesn't End in Blood

In This Castle Of Glass

All the Same (Once a Liar, Always a Liar)

Crack:

Law is Where You Buy It

Miles from Normal

Stop Screaming - It's Me

Between Two Liars…

Lost My Soul and All I Got Was this T-Shirt

Dude, Where's My Soul?

When Life Hands You Demons Make Demonade

Demon-Blend Straigh From Hell

Nothing to See Here Officer, Just a Bunch of Blobs

Hey Kid, Wanna Buy a Blob Ghost?

Gingers Have No Souls

This Little Blob of Mine

Feral Goose Hunting: A Beginner's Guide (Just Don't)

10 Ways to Connect with Your Feral Goose by Robin

A Guide on Ruining Your Life

It IS and Idea (Just NOT the Brightest)

I Am totally NOT the One to Blame for THIS

Dead Men Won't Shut Up

Encryptid

Cryptid Crash Course

Shakespeare Has Nothing on Me!

[insert name]'s Observation Diary of the Weirdest Boss(es)

The Devil’s Eyes and His Voice of Reason

Romance:

Makeshift Chemistry

Stargazing, Coffee and the Mystery of You..

Play Love Like Killers (We All Fall)

Good Vibes:

Sunshine Riptide

Come on Baby, the Laugh Is on Me

Fair With Some Rain

Star Light, Star Bright, First Arrow I See Tonight

Bitter (?):

Ah, Lay Waste to it, then Laugh at it

Believe, We Were Never Gonna Lose Control

Die, but too Blind to See

Too Latte for Smiling (yes thats a pun there no miss typing)

And as the Scribe Said, Mark Me Up With Words

Vodka Shots in the Dark

What Lingers, What Waits

Dr.Sunshine is Dead

Action:

Swing 'em Sword, Comin' in Swarms

Droppin' Guns all on the Floor 'till it look like River Styx

Black on Black at Night

Rifles, and they're Useless in this House

Dropp the Dagger

Watch Us BURN

Death:

Leave Your Body and Soul at the Door

Dead Man's Party

'Till the Reaper Call

'cause the Hangman's Waiting

A Night in the Ice Box

Stars Fall Underground

Can't Reach the Stars from the Underworld

Dance on Your Grave in All Whites

I Will See You Down Below

A Toast to the Passing Lights

I am a Ghost, but Only If You Remember

A Forray into Thanatology

Do You Want to Build a Snow-ghost?

In the In Between

Deceased When Last Seen

They Only Murdered Him Once

Colder Than These Bones

A Ghostly Collection of Stories once Untold

Dearly Departed

Hopeful:

City of Last Hopes

Bright Foggy Skies

This Bird Has Flown

A Bard's Tale, so Bittersweet

In the Winter, the Van Keeps Rolling

Oh Raven (Sing Me a Happy Song)

A Light to Call Home

Lost and Found

Towards the Sun

Khmm I have quite a few ghost/death and Dc related ones cuz I mostly wrote DC and DP fics so I looked for tittles for those. Those who know, know those who don't can ignore them.

Pt 2 |

#writing #writing resources #free to use #free title ideas #title ideas #book title ideas #fanfic title ideas #crack title ideas #angst title ideas #title list #title suggestions #titles #story titles #fanfic titles #fic titles #crack titles #angst titles

120 notes · View notes

underforeversgrace · 11 months

Text

shattered saviors

DannyMay2023 Day 21: Shatter

title: shattered saviors

words: 2475

Complete

Summary: Danny gets a horrifying glimpse into the intense negative reaction of Amity Park, and especially his parents, when Dani is accidentally revealed to be half ghost and is taken into GIW custody. (Courtesy of @danphanwritingprompts post here.)

AU: None/pre season 3

Warnings: Minor Character Death

Beta: @probably-dead

~~~~~~

“In other news today, the Guys in White have released a statement on the hybrid they recently discovered, dubbed Danielle Phantom for her striking similarity to our own Danny Phantom.” The image of the reporter faded, instead showing a picture of a document against a blue screen, various sentences digitally highlighted in yellow as she read them. “Today, the experiment known as Danielle Phantom was successfully Faded. We were able to confirm the hybridism found in ‘Danielle’ was unique and unable to be replicated, there is no fear of other hybrids at this time. We thank the people of Amity Park who have supported us despite the small group of teenage protestors. We hope peace can return to the city, now that the creature has been disposed of. Its connection to Danny Phantom is still unclear, but we will continue to study the remains in hopes of discovering it.”

The image of the reporter reappeared, easily sliding into the next topic - something about the upcoming holidays - but ice began to creep up the screen.

“Danny?” Tucker asked at his side, shivering at the chill coming from his best friend.

The halfa turned to Tucker and he tried to rein in his ice. Tucker was only human, after all. Before Danny could say anything his phone rang and he fished it out of his pocket, not even checking the caller ID before answering it. He knew who it was.

“I didn’t get her in time.” Vlad said, regret and guilt in his voice.

“She’s gone? She’s really gone?” Danny asked, too numb to even cry.

“I was able to confirm that via my connections, yes. They got me in to see her too late.”

“Okay.” Danny said, ending the call.

His entire being felt disconnected from reality. Danielle was dead. Caught in a trap meant for him. They’d been holding protests for two weeks, trying to insist she was human enough to be released, to not be tortured. Almost all of the youth of Amity had stood behind her, even Wes, who had stopped trying to expose Danny as soon as he heard what happened to Ellie.

But the adults were louder, more able. And they insisted that Ellie was dangerous and needed to be contained. A ghost who could pretend to be human? What havoc could they cause and then fly completely under the radar? The negative influence on the youth of Amity, who were already too pro-ghost to begin with?

Even Vlad had tried to save her - though Danny still was unsure if it was because he genuinely was afraid for her or just that the GIW had a halfa in their custody.

Danny couldn't remember the rest of the night. He just existed, too numb to hurt or think or do anything.

Days passed in that fog. He went to school. He pretended to learn. He stopped ghost attacks. He tried to sleep. Every night, he just faced the same nightmares. Danielle, experimentally tortured until she died screaming, alone and in pain, wondering where her brother/cousin was, maybe even wondering where her father was.

It should have been him. The trap was meant for him. He should be the one dead.

Vlad somehow got Ellie’s body. She had left behind a human corpse, not a pile of destabilized goo. Vlad had tried to check her, to see if maybe she had somehow survived, maybe this was some sort of protective hibernation state. But Vlad looked and he found her still heart, found her shattered core. He and Danny buried her body in the back of Vlad’s mayoral mansion. They didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t human. She couldn’t get a headstone or a human grave. So instead of being mourned properly, she was placed into a shallow grave, only the other halfas present. No one else had ever met her.

Well, no one else had ever met her who loved her.

No one who had ever met her who hadn’t hurt her, a sin even Vlad and Danny were guilty of.

Still, Danny went to school. Pretended to learn. Fought ghosts. Slept only for nightmares to haunt him.

The other students had looked bad for the first few days. It was hard not to, everyone had seen Danielle’s human side, seen a terrified twelve year old girl who’d fallen two stories after being shot by a power nullification weapon only to be held at gunpoint by government agents while she cried. Eventually, though, even the high schoolers returned to normal.

It should’ve been Danny. Danny should be the one rotting in the ground. Not Danielle.

Not Danielle.

Danny didn’t listen to his parents in the month following Danielle’s death. They wished they had gotten the chance to study her themselves, see how hybridism was even possible. Run their own battery of tests, torture her themselves. The parents didn’t understand why he and Jazz were pulling away from them.

The numbness didn’t let up until six weeks later. A weekend patrol and he’d stumbled across an animal ghost attacking a human on the edge of town, the person hiding under a personal ghost shield of Fenton creation on their wrist.

Danny didn’t even have to fight the animal, it was low level enough he could just trap it immediately in the Thermos. He was about to fly away when the human stopped him.

“Oh thank God, Phantom!” He said, turning off the shield.

Hmph. They didn’t even feel the need for a shield around him, a full ghost for all they knew, yet had damned Ellie to hell under a scalpel. Danny wasn’t going to even respond, just leave, until he recognized the man’s face.

“I know you.” Danny said, the numb mask he’d hidden behind starting to fracture.

“You’ve saved me a few times!” The man said, a relaxed grin on his face.

“You were an organizer for the pro-GIW protests.” Danny responded, ice beginning to form on the ground far beneath his feet, his words cold and devoid of any happy emotion.

The man paled slightly, taking a step back. “Uh… she was dangerous!” He tried to excuse pitifully.

“And I’m not?” Danny asked, drifting closer to the man, less than six inches from his face as Danny’s mask of numbness shattered under the force of his anger, not even blinking. “I’m not?”

“You’re not…” the man gulped anxiously. “Your obsession is protecting us. You wouldn’t hurt us.”

“Obsessions. Aren’t. Real.” He hissed, grabbing the man’s wrist and squeezing until the man screamed. Danny didn’t even know the man’s name, just that he’d been a very public organizer in the campaign to keep Danielle in the government’s hands.

“Stop! Please!”

“Do you think my sister begged?” Danny growled. “For them to please stop as they tortured her, murdered her?”

“Sister?” The man repeated weakly.

“Sister.” Danny confirmed, danger in his voice. Danny had been numb for over a month and a half at this point and now his anger had cracked through the numbness and he found himself understanding Dan a little bit better.

“You’re a hybrid too?” The man realized, visibly shaking in panic, desperately trying to pull his wrist from Danny’s ironclad grip.

Danny felt the grin creep onto his face. He felt like he should probably care that he was delighting in this terror, in what he was about to do. “I am. But I can’t risk the Guys in White learning that, can I?” He finally answered. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he squeezed harder on the man’s wrist, shattering both his bone and the personal shield he wore.

The man screamed in agony, collapsing to his knees as soon as Danny released him. Danny had never enjoyed hurting anything and had never hurt a human before, but this was downright elating. “I’m sorry!” The man yelled, looking up at Danny’s angry, unblinking, glowing green eyes.

“I’m not.” Danny answered, uncapping the Thermos and releasing the ghostly animal. The man tried to scramble backwards but Danny summoned a shield, trapping the three of them within it. The animal looked to Danny, submitting to the more powerful ghost, before glancing at the trembling human, whose hand was rapidly turning purple, though the animal did sit, deferring to Danny once more.

Danny hadn’t really looked at the creature before trapping it so he took a moment to study it, the man beginning to sob. Maybe a coyote or wolf? It looked too big to be a dog - not that it really mattered, he supposed, considering Cujo. It didn’t help that the animal hadn’t held its form very well, its edges too wispy and curvy for any real animal. Wolf, he decided.

His study of the wolf done, he returned to the man, staring directly into his eyes. The man flinched at the anger, the rage he saw. “Please…” the man tried to beg, crying. “I have a family.”

“So did she.” Danny said, turning to the animal. “Sic ‘em.” He ordered.

The wolf, despite being unable to truly understand Danny’s words, understood his intent and read his aura. It stood, growling as it slowly approached the human.

Danny had always thought the screams of someone being hurt would rip into his very being, a failure for his self-appointed job of protecting Amity.

But he didn’t feel bad. Human blood had already been spilt here and it hadn’t been by a ghost.

If the humans didn’t even care… why should he? Why should he give a damn about human life?

For the first time in two years, a human had died to a ghost. And Danny didn’t care. They were lucky he bothered to catch the wolf at the end of it, petting its cold head as it licked blood from its muzzle.

The next day was when Danny learned the man’s name. Edward Canton, leaving behind a widow and two young children. Still, Danny didn’t care, even as he heard snippets of conversation at school.

“I can’t believe someone actually died.” An underclassman whispered.

“I didn’t think any of the ghosts would ever actually hurt us.” Another said in hushed tones.

“Are we in danger?” Someone else wondered.

The thing he heard the most, the repeated question.

“Where was Phantom?”

“How could Phantom let this happen?”

“Doesn’t Phantom always protect us?”

The questions were echoed in the news, by the adults, even by his parents, wondering if this death would finally destroy Phantom from his ‘failure’ to save the human, ‘failure’ to sustain his Obsession.

For a city who had let a child be tortured to death for being only part ghost, they were awfully reliant on a suspected full-ghost.

“Are you… the death, are you alright?” Sam asked.

“I can’t always save everyone.” Danny said, feigning sadness.

“How are you holding up?” Tucker asked later.

“I’ll be fine. I can’t be everywhere at once.” He’d answered, still pretending to be sad.

He couldn’t tell Sam or Tucker. They’d never understand his decision to let the man - the man who didn’t even deserve a name, as far as Danny was concerned - be killed. To watch and do nothing. To take pleasure in the screams. They’d worry he was becoming Dan. He wasn’t, though.

Danny tried to put his mask back on after, to be engulfed in the comfort of numbness, but the mask was gone and left only anger behind. He could no longer access the fog that allowed him to drift through life.

More weeks passed, now nearly three months since the announcement of Danielle’s death. Danny had at least found a routine… though it wasn’t his old one. He still went to school and pretended to learn. Still struggled to sleep and battled nightmares of Ellie’s screams. But the ghost fights?

Well… the ones who deserved to be saved, he still saved. Children and teens, people who’d joined the protests, who were too young to protest. But no adult had joined to try to save her. No adult was innocent. Whether through action or inaction, all were guilty of her death.

So he would watch the joy and relief on their faces when they saw Phantom come to save them, only to turn to terror and panic when he trapped them, when he simply stared at them and watched them die. When he grinned at their screams, when he asked them if they thought Ellie begged for her life the way they were begging for theirs.

When they realized their savior was not bound to protecting them and they had pushed him too far.

“Aren’t you going to save them?” Vlad Masters asked, watching people run from the opposite direction, a commotion they couldn’t yet see from the restaurant the two sat at. They’d begun to bond after Danielle’s death, Vlad’s guilt finally soothing out some of his more evil edges and Danny growing more tolerant of what was still there.

“I save innocents.” Danny answered, shrugging, poking at the food in front of him. His appetite still had not returned.

“So the rumors from the Realms are true. You’ve stopped saving people.” Vlad stated, taking a sip of his nearly boiling tea. Heat didn’t hurt him like ice didn’t hurt Danny.

“If they aren’t innocent, yes.”

“Who’s innocent?”

“The ones who tried to save Danielle and anyone who was too young to help.”

“So, what? All the adults of Amity are guilty?” Vlad asked, a smirk sliding onto his face.

“Of either encouraging the GIW outright or of the same thing I am.” Danny confirmed.

“Which is?”

“Watching and doing nothing because it isn’t my problem.”

Vlad chuckled. “You’re becoming more and more like me, little badger.”

Danny paused as he realized Vlad was right. He was making decisions based on who he felt had slighted him or Danielle, decisions with potentially fatal consequences. Again, he sought a feeling of guilt.

Again, he found none. “If they wanted a ghostly hero, they shouldn’t have been so obvious in their ghost hatred.”

“How are your friends and sister taking that?”

“They think I’m ashamed. That I care about and mourn everyone I don’t save. Maybe the town will earn their hero back. Until then?” Danny paused, pointing across the street where an adult woman was cornered, cowering under the glare of two humanoid ghosts Danny couldn’t place a name to. She screamed as their claws dug into her. “Until then, it isn’t my problem.”

“How would they earn you back?”

Danny shrugged. “That’s their problem to figure out. An apology to begin with would be nice. But they’ll never do that, will they?”

And the topic moved to more bland conversations even as the woman’s dying screams echoed around them.

But it was fine. Danny wasn’t actively killing anyone, so he wasn’t becoming Dan, and that was all he’d promised.

#danny phantom #grace writes #dannymay2023 #Day 21 #Shatter #danny fenton

111 notes · View notes

jaskwritesthings · 3 months

Text

ghost stories

Rating: Teen

Summary:

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Pairing/s: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast

Tag/s: post-canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Aeor, Established Relationship, Major Character Injury, Blood and Injury, Temporary Character Death, Resurrection, Angst with a Happy Ending, Affection, aeor date goes wrong

Author Note: title from the narcissist cookbook - ghost stories

AO3

Caleb grabbed Essek around the waist as he skidded across the ice, yanking him in beside him, flat against the floor behind the meagre cover of a short thick slab of dirty ice and crumbling stonework. Essek stifled a grunt of pain as he curled into Caleb’s chest, trying desperately to make himself as small as possible as they huddled together on the cold frostbitten stone slabs.

His breathing was too laboured to his own twitching ears. Loud and wet like the thump of a heartbeat high in his throat, echoing out into the cavern like a beacon. Essek tried to control the rough panting as his hand awkwardly attempted to stem the steady flow of blood at his side. The wound was shallow, thankfully, but stung sharply, nerve endings set alight by the jagged rough slash across his side. Between that and the bruises, Essek felt as though he’d gone a few rounds with their beloved monk.

Caleb hadn’t fared any better, a cut over his brow had streaked half his face crimson, the blood clotting in his beard turning the copper Essek so favoured almost black as coal in the fading light. His ankle listed at an odd angle resting against the slabs, broken perhaps? But Caleb had been running on it so maybe just twisted badly. Essek hoped it was just that, hoped it would hold long enough for them to escape.

They’d begun the trek back to the surface the day before, realising that their supplies were dangerously low and remembering the threats of violence the Nein and Veth, especially, had made if they broke their promise to be careful among the ruins.

It was just bad luck really. They’d turned a corner into a nest of Absorber’s, a mated pair, violently protective of one another. They had been difficult to put down, the noise of the fight had alerted other beasts nearby and Caleb and Essek’s careful jaunt back to the surface had become a desperate run for safety.

Essek had used the Sending stone he’d been gifted with by Dagen and the rangers to alert them to their predicament and had been assured that the crotchety explorer and his newly gained minions would meet them at their chosen exit point to assist them.

They simply had to reach it, which was turning out to be more difficult than anticipated.

He watched as Caleb peeked shakily over the edge of their small cover, immediately dropping back down with a quiet Zemnian curse.

Essek was about to ask about their situation when a low familiar growling echoed through the cavern. He covered his mouth to stifle the sound of his own breathing that suddenly felt as though it could wake the long frozen bones scattered around the edges of the fallen buildings. He lent into Caleb’s chest, seeking some form of safety and comfort even though there really wasn’t any to be had, regardless Caleb curled closer around him grimacing in pain as he did.

He didn’t know the extent of Caleb’s injuries but the scream of agony as they’d been inflicted would echo in Essek’s memory for lifetimes. He’d already checked his wrist pocket twice for potions or a healer’s kit, hell even one of Caduceus’ salves. Nothing. They were completely out. He fought the urge to search again as though something would have magically appear in the time between.

“How far?” Caleb whispered into the skin of Essek’s brow, his lips stayed like a phantom kiss against the sweaty skin.

Essek peeked out of Caleb’s tight hold, glancing over the field of ice and ruin before them, an expanse that seemed to stretch and elongate the longer he looked at it. In the distance, partially concealed by shadows and sharp jutting ice shelfs was the compact cave entrance that Essek knew would lead them to the surface and hopefully Dagen’s waiting guard. “Two hundred feet, perhaps more.”

Caleb cursed again, “Three of them, we will not make it.”

Two hundred feet, three hulking Reverser’s, limited spells and injuries too boot. Even if they somehow succeeded in reaching the cave entrance there was no guarantee that the monsters would halt their pursuit. There had been no sign of the Aeorian creatures beyond the fallen city but that could be due to a number of factors, not necessarily some ward to keep them contained. The beasts had already chased them this far, and a properly motivated a predator could go far beyond their territory when the prey was enticing enough.

“Teleport?” Essek suggested, a risk but one they had no other choice but to take.

Caleb nodded in agreement, “Ritual cast, I do not have power remaining.”

“Nor do I, you cast, you do not need to rely on your book,” Essek pointed out.

Caleb gently bumped his forehead to Essek’s, deliberately locking eyes with him. There was a well of determination visable in his gaze. He knew that look, it was a familiar determination to survive, one he’d seen enough in his own eyes reflected back in the mirror. But there was more too, a certain fiery glow that was newer but not unwelcome. It left a pleasent buzz under Essek's skin that made him shiver. Survival was not the only they both wanted anymore. There was the promise of more, more to live, more to do, just...more, “Watch my back?”

“Always,” Essek promised, the weight of the single word carrying the promise of forever within. Caleb’s forehead pushed against his own, almost painfully so, as though he was trying to meld them into one form. His chapped dry lips replaced the push of bone against bone, though the kiss was still hard against his brow. A desire to leave a mark that not even the Raven's of the Matron could erase. Essek pressed against Caleb just as hard, there so much potential held between them, waiting to burst forth, so much that weighed heavy in the air that always seemed to remain unsaid between them that Essek desperatly wanted to shout and yell now. Once again, it wasn't the time for it.

Caleb fished a crumbling piece of chalk from his pouch and scratched it against the floor beneath them. He threw his head back as he tried to contain the sudden burst of frustration as it left no mark against the thin sheen of ice.

“We must move,” he mumbled, practically head-butting Essek as he brought their foreheads together again.

Essek nodded and took a moment to peer over their cover. Prowling in the distance was one beast. The other two were worryingly absent. He turned back to face the exit, wide swathes of open flat ground were temptingly within reach, all without an ounce of cover.

“How long do you need?”

“One minute, ten feet of space.”

Essek bit hard on his bottom lip. A minute seemed so short a time but in the face of three enemies it might as well be the lifespan of an elf, “I can still cast Gravity Sinkhole, it will buy us time.”

“The outpost?”

“Best chance of avoiding any major complications and Uraya should still be there.”

They’d need them, no doubt the teleport would only exasperate their injuries. If they managed to make it that far that is.

“Ready?” Caleb asked and Essek fought the urge to shake his head. The odds were against them, they were probably about to die horribly and Essek didn’t want to run headfirst towards the Matron’s embrace just yet. But they had no choice and the longer they waited the worse their injuries got, the weaker they would become and the higher the chance of being found by the predators seeking them.

Still he hesitated and swallowed thickly, their relationship was still new, still tentative as they carefully felt out the borders of their love for one another in slow sweeps of affection. Though he wanted to kiss him, to taste Caleb for perhaps the last time, to pull him close until they were one form, he couldn’t. Even now his lingering anxiety kept him from acting. Instead Essek hesitantly tapped his brow against Caleb’s for once, the familiar gesture usually his partners move, a small comfort that fell short of what he truly wished but he hoped it conveyed enough of his true emotion to steel them both for what was to come. Caleb’s gloved hand cupped his cheek, holding him close as he took a deliberate breath in as though he was committing everything about Essek to his impeccable memory.

“Ready,” Essek whispered, not really remotely ready at all himself.

“Now,” Caleb muttered and they moved as one, the synchronisation hard won over the course of many excursions within the dead city.

Caleb skidded across the ice, using the slick surface to his advantage as slid to an open area of stone and began to scratch the sigils and circle in quick confident moves. Essek followed pulling himself upright and turning to face the already advancing monsters.

The black marble was warm as he rolled it between his fingers, it took just a moment before the spell threads caught, snapping into a familiar weave of magic like the string of a bow pulled back with intent and the marble glowed with a dark shadowy power. The fissure cracked across reality just behind the three beasts, there was no shadow, no void, it bent the light pulling and twisting the very air inwards, circling like a drain and the beasts claws dug into the stonework as they were pulled backwards and away from Essek, and more importantly Caleb.

Essek allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction as the spell captured all three of the beasts with ease. It didn’t last of course but the precious seconds were worth their weight in diamonds and at least two of the already injured beasts failed to move again.

With two incapacitated, Essek quickly turned his attention to the advancing third. With quick practiced moves he cast Magnify Gravity, throwing the obsidian dust at the ape like monstrosity. Like metal filings drawn to a magnet, the cloud of shimmering darkness latched onto the skin of the Reverser like a cloak slowing the creature and crushing it down into the stonework much to its frustration.

“Caleb!” Essek yelled, feeling the seconds tick by so slowly, too slowly.

“Einen Moment Liebe!” Caleb yelled in response.

Essek threw three quick firebolts in succession, cursing as only one of them found their mark. It did little but darken the thick hide of the Reverser and piss it off even more.

“Now!” Caleb shouted and Essek felt the tell-tale buzz in the air as the teleport circle activated.

Essek cast mage hand with the intention of using it to throw the creature back further and buying them just a few more precious seconds. He turned to see Caleb squatting beside the glowing circle…

And a fourth Reverser lumbering up just behind Caleb without his notice. Essek felt his heart seize in his chest, the cold that had been but a distant thought during their run was now stealing his breath and seeping into every limb like curling frost on a window, growing and stabbing through the muscles and bone.

Essek didn’t hesitate, didn’t need to think it through, the summoned ghostly hand was moved with lightening precision to push Caleb into the circle just before the two beasts descended on their singular remaining prey.

“Nein!” Caleb yelled sounding more anguished than Essek had ever heard him before as he was yanked away from the city.

It was quickly drowned out by his own screams though, as claws ripped through him with the ease of scissors through thin cloth, the force of the attack launching him far from the fading circle.

Essek’s vision darkened, it felt like the blink of an eye but he knew time enough had passed in the interim. He found himself on his side far from where he started as the two beasts snapped and swiped at one another fighting over their kill. Every muscle, every bone, screamed in agony and a worrying puddle of dark blood grew warm and deep beneath him, spreading out against the ice like a tide. He tried to breathe deeply, too steady himself, and the darkness swam around the edges of his vision once more. His stomach revolted violently as the world tilted and spun on a new axis. It reminded him, vaguely, of the first time he and Verin had got drunk on some of their mother’s prized collection of wines.

Essek was going to die. He knew that with absolute certainty. There was nothing else he could do, no spell to give his weakening power too, no strength to move or run. It was done.

He was done.

Oddly it didn’t seem as bad as he’d imagined his final moments would feel. Caleb was safe, far from danger and though he would no doubt mourn, he was safe.

In the end Essek realised that was all that mattered.

There was an unexpected peace in that, a gentle acceptance that he hadn’t anticipated as his world grew darker and darker...

“Thelyss!” someone screamed though it sounded so far away and Essek could do nothing but blink sluggishly as the world blurred in front of him, fading and fading into a mix of shadows and shapes.

He was somewhat aware of blasts of cold and heat and two figures sliding in between him and the monsters but it hardly seemed of concern to him now.

“Oh no you don’t, idiot!” Dagen’s gruff voice was comforting even as his action proved less comforting. Gloved firm and thick hands yanked him up into Dagen’s lap and his head flopped uncomfortably back over the arm of his chair. There was the echo of pain at the movement but it barely registered to Essek, a part of him knew that to be bad thing but it got quieter and quieter just like the voices around him, like the ebb and flow of a tide, it all faded away…

“Let’s move out, how far out is Uraya?”

“They’ll meet us half way, will he last-“

“Less questions more moving fools!”

Dagen’s hands was heavy against the gaping wound in his stomach, it felt like the only thing keeping him from floating away. Essek idly wondered if his levitation cantrip was acting up. He felt so… weightless, so empty, so…

Essek, Liebe, we’re coming, hold on, just hold on! Dagen is coming to you. bitte, bitte, Götter, nicht schon wieder, ich kann nicht, ich kann -

“Caleb…m’sorry,” Essek mumbled in reply, he felt more words tumble past his lips but he didn’t know what they were or if they made sense as darkness finally fell upon him like a warm blanket and everything ceased beyond the odd flap of wings.

He swore he could hear Caleb screaming for him as everything finally, blessedly slipped away.

“Bitte, bitte, bitte,” Caleb’s voice was the first thing he heard, it was so quiet that Essek almost feared he was slipping away again but the pain was gone leaving behind a dull ache that was familiar after an intense healing. The phantom reminder of wounds that had almost…almost killed him. Essek took a shaky, shallow breath in, taking a moment to enjoy the way his lungs felt without blood filling them, clear and strong once more.

At first he thought it was raining, but the warmth and inconsistent drip of small droplets against his skin soon solidified as tears in his mind and Essek forced his heavy eyelids open, to seek out their owner.

Caleb’s face was a blur, though not at the fault of his recovery but because he was face to face with Essek, his bare hands shook as they clumsily grasped Essek’s face between them. The push his face against Essek’s was too hard to be comfortable but was still comforting the way he clung and pressed so close to Essek they shared the warmth of his breath.

“Caleb Widogast,” Essek greeted weakly, he barely recognised his own voice, small and thready as it was. Caleb laughed sharp and slightly hysterical in response, the sound so close to a sob that it tore at Essek’s heart.

There was a sharp sudden sting as someone slapped his arm, “Fool.” Uraya muttered fondly as Essek winced.

“Apologies friends, I did not mean to worry you all so,” Essek offered, unable to even sit up as his body adjusted to life once more. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the faint glimmer of diamond shards scattering into the glitter of snow and felt more afraid than when he realised he was dying. He weakly pawed at Caleb’s coat until he managed to snag a lasting hold on it, gratified that Caleb hadn’t yet moved away from him. He needed the assurance that Caleb’s solid presence provided. The closeness of his own demise was suddenly hitting him in a way he would have expected in the moments before it, not in the aftermath of a successful revival.

“Bunch of fool magic folk,” Dagen grumbled before he turned his chair away from them to command the small force hovering around them to set up camp.

Caleb remained deep in his space, his desperate clutching turned into gentle petting as his thumb rubbed away his own tears from Essek’s cheek.

“I am here,” Essek assured him and himself at the same time. He was alive, he was breathing and he was here in Caleb’s arms, by far the safest place he could ever imagine.

“You were not for a moment,” Caleb reminded him, his voice thick with tears and grief that had only been given a moment to exist before it was undone but it still lingered. Essek suspected it would linger for them both for some time.

“Only a moment,” Essek pointed out, finding the strength to reach up and cup Caleb’s face softly. “Only a moment.”

“A moment too long, do not do that again,” Caleb demanded, something of the hidden darkness within him peeking through the words. Perhaps he should be scared of it but instead it settled something in Essek, gentling the fear in a way nothing else could. Caleb would come for him, Matron be damned and Essek found some comfort in that violence even though he knew how dangerous it was.

“I no longer make empty promises Caleb Widogast,” Essek said because neither of them could make that vow. Death was a constant and their lives were hardly without trouble.

Caleb sighed, the fight growing and ebbing away with the drop of his shoulders, “What fools we are,” he muttered fondly before sealing the distance and ever so softly capturing Essek’s lips with a delicately chaste kiss.

#critical role #shadowgast #critical role fanfiction #shadowgast fanfiction

25 notes · View notes

heimdallsram · 1 year

Text

━━━━ masterlist. soundtrack. archive of our own. taglist.

title: perennial

pairing: heimdall x female! goddess! reader

"You were a goddess of oaths and vows. It was only fitting that Odin would

bind you to his service in only the most ironic way that he knew how: marriage."

this fanfiction contains the following: domestic violence, blood, gore, choking, violent sexual content, bad BDSM etiquette, non-consensual somnophilia, blood drinking, unhealthy relationships, and much more content that may be sensitive to some readers. reader discretion is advised.

*for inquiries about the taglist, please dm me and i will add you to it.

Odin was a terrifying man. While he appeared the genteel, kindly older god with an inquisitive twinkle in his only good eye, he was anything but—to most, or all outside of Asgard, he was a monster who did not deserve his place. He was a manipulative man, a smart and narcissistic one that had driven the best of them into their early, shallow little graves before they were brought back again to serve as his Einherjar. He had exiled his wife, after all, sealed her existence to Midgard and corrupted the Valkyries that were loyal to her—twisted her own son’s heart to her, though she had a hand in that as well, cursing him with immortality and invulnerability as she did. Freya—Frigg, as she was known in Asgard—could not be blamed for wanting to protect her child. But not giving the same regard to Odin… she had sealed her fate more quickly that way, and for the good of all others, Odin had never succeeded in that particular spell.

You supposed that was why he kept you around, at first. A goddess of oaths and agreements was detrimental to him if left unchecked. You held all of his hidden secrets, his deals, his vows with magics, his pacts, his promises, his wishes, in the palm of your hands each time he made one, sifting through the forbidden knowledge with a careful eye. Each time a marriage vow, or any other form of a promise, was created, you would know, and it would be made known to you the promises and agreements made in their specified vows; just like now, like today, as you bore witness to the violent, almost… bloody fight between man and wife.

An insipid dalliance with a lover had stolen his wife’s heart from him, you recalled. The words shuttled through your mind painfully and quickly, like daggers of ice. With each vow broken—love, eternity, fidelity, faithfulness—you felt the bindings of their fates rapidly unwind like a loose spool of silken thread. Spin, spin, spin, and it was all falling apart before your eyes, through a magic window framed with wood and lit with warm candles.

The woman cried as the man curled his fists into her hair and pulled. Her pleas did not reach his heart, for he had shielded it against her—against everything she stood for. You could not pity her for what she had done. Instead, even as she was brought to her knees and a leather belt lashed across her face, you felt fiercely proud of her for taking control of her happiness despite the pain it was now bringing her. Her husband, while feeling the betrayal keenly, was not faithful nor was he in any position to feel wronged, for he had committed the same crime and found himself innocent.

When the breaking of the vows had made themselves known to you, you had risen from your bed in Odin’s grand hall, bundled yourself in warm furs and silks, and braved the chill night as it rose over you in an ill tide. Your leaving had not gone unnoticed; there had been several eyes upon you as you had made your way down the frozen, muddy path and to the home sequestered among many others. Munin, loyal creature that he was, had flown and followed and remained at your side upon the bench you now sat on, watching the events unfold as you knew they would.

It was another version of foresight that the All-Father found… pleasing to have in his employ. It was the only way you could explain the way his mouth had twisted into that friendly, yet not so kind, smile when you had spoken to him of his broken fatherly vows to Thor—the ones he had unwittingly made after bringing a child into the world. Love, warmth, care; Thor had been denied them all. It had not even taken a teenage goddess, newly minted and born from the previous, to point that out.

You could not do as Heimdall could and read thoughts and intent. You were not as the Norns were, able to pick through decisions and fate and weave together a predictable future. You did not even have the sooth saying abilities that the Giants had, long gone as they were. The vows and oaths spoke to you and you would obey; that was all that Odin knew. All he would ever know, for now; he had no need of the knowledge that you were both judge and executioner.

“It’s kind of a cold night to be witnessing vows, isn’t it?” Odin was never obvious in his appearances with you. He was always quiet, always contemplative, desiring the upper hand always. Much like yourself, he had abandoned his thinner robes for more thickly lined ones; even his eye patch was lined with fur, perhaps to keep the aching loss of his eye safe from the cold. Perched on his shoulder was Huginn, tilting his head to and fro, not quite looking at you but through you. “When I was told you had left, I almost didn’t believe it.”

It was a lie, of course, in lieu of acknowledging the way the woman’s husband had abandoned his wife on the floor to take a swig of bitter ale.

Your answering smile was small. “Much as we are all slaves to fate, so am I to the oaths made between those slaves. They call and I must answer, you understand. Even in the cold of night.”

“Sometimes your disrespect is refreshing,” Odin sighed lightly. To you, it almost sounded tired; as if speaking had simply exhausted him. “Not like Thor’s or Sif’s or… Hel, Frigg’s.”

You kept painfully quiet at the mention of the former Queen’s name. Instead, your eyes remained trained on the window where you could see the husband come into view once more, ale on his lips and beard and his shirt abandoned. There was nothing you could do to hide the grimace as the man hit his wife so hard that she rolled on to her back, slammed her nose into the baseboard of their bed, and coughed blood. Beside you, Odin did not flinch.

“Well, don’t take too long,” he said, finally, with a tone of amiability. He patted you on your shoulder like an old man might as if speaking to a good friend, Munin leaping into his arm and melding with his flesh. “Big things to do in the morning, little time to do it, you know.”

You did not look away from the woman as she rose to her feet, fists raised and trembling. “Of course, All-Father.”

He vanished into a flurry of black birds with golden eyes. You paid it no heed. You continued to watch as the woman began to fight back, little by little, inch by painstaking inch, until both she and her husband were bleeding, laughing lightly at each other, stroking each other’s bloodied hair and bruised cheeks.

Only then did you rise to your feet, your cloak dragging in the mud and soiling the white fur as you approached the door to the warm, violence blessed home. You knocked on the door only once, knuckles white against the wood. You tucked your hands carefully against your stomach, folded neatly, and schooled your expression into something… other. Something placid and stern and knowing. Something only your powers could give you.

Your feelings did not matter when it came to this. Could never matter, in the end.

When the door opened, your stomach curled unpleasantly. They had made haphazard attempts to clean themselves up: streaked, wet blood here and there, hair pulled back tightly. The husband had thrown on a shirt; the wife had tied an apron around her neck to hide the belt lashes across her chest and ribs. A deep sigh threatened to escape your lungs. All slights had been made right between them, their smiles dimmed with confusion as they took you in: a stranger in the night, dressed in rich silks and fine furs, your hair pulled back into a severe tail at the nape of your neck.

“I apologize for the lateness,” you began, your voice monotone and lifeless as you edged past the husband, past the door frame and into the home within. Blood stained the floor at your feet, mingled with ale and spit and other indiscernible bodily fluids. A stool sat in front of the hearth, an abandoned knitting lying helpless as it smoldered under the heat. In the corner, sleeping pitifully, was a baby, cocooned in warmth and shielded by a newly woven basket. You took in all of this with one sweep of your gaze, your heart pounding in your chest in a crude drum beat. “But you have broken your vows, and they called to me. I must obey.”

It was always a little heart breaking to see the way their faces dropped when they realized who—what—you were. You never forgot how their eyebrows would sink low over their eyes, their mouths fall open and slack for just a moment before words and pleas bubbled from their lips, the way a wife might freeze or a husband may raise his sword to you. It was always the same variation of reactions, one never quite the same as another but similar in all respects, and you had come to expect them all at some point, when your guilt had failed to override the sense of duty you now held to yourself.

Neither noticed as a breeze, sweet smelling and of sage and lavender, quietly closed the open door and flashed pale lilac. It would not open until dawn, just as the sun peered over the horizon, and the floorboards and fur rugs of the home had been soaked in more blood than had been shed by both husband and wife. In the corner, cooing innocently with a bundled sprig of mint and holly in its little fist, the baby awoke to brilliant, sparkling rubies dripping from the roof like mother’s milk.

You would not be there when the surrounding inhabitants woke for their day and slowly noticed their neighbors were not outside as per usual with their child in tow. You would not be there as a comely old woman made her way into the house and gasped at the grisly sight before her. You would not be there as the child was scooped up and brought to safety, even though the threat was already over. You would not be there as the local carpenter tried, and failed, to scrape the rune burned over the headboard in shining lilac light off, not to disturb another family who may occupy the space.

You were never there.

Instead, you would shed your clothes upon your return, as nude as the day you had been born from the flesh of the former Var, and sit in the morning sun on your stool, unblinking and unseeing. You would bathe yourself and cleanse your skin of the blood you had shed, bundle your clothing for washing, and carefully weave your hair into something presentable. You would present yourself as if you had never claimed two souls in the night, as if you had nothing to do with the events at all—Odin would see to it if fate did not.

You would drink, smile, and remain placid. Your place was secure. Odin needed you and you would keep going as you were, Freya’s parting words to you echoing in your mind like a plaintive wail.

Never trust him.

And you knew she had been right when your morning was interrupted by a servant carrying a letter, Sif right behind her, dressed in her immaculate blue gown and her hair like spun gold. She appeared apprehensive, not at your nudity as you accepted the letter but at your potential reaction. You could already feel the loom of oaths and vows spinning as the golden haired goddess shut the door behind her, parting the wax seal with your thumb and exposing the contents within.

‘[Name],

It pains me to do this, but you leave me with no choice. You are to be bethrothed to Heimdall, in all ways that matter. I cannot trust you as you are now, you understand.’

It was not signed, but it did not have to be. Your disrespect to Odin had gone on long enough, it seemed, and he could not tolerate it any longer. It was both a punishment and a leash, one shorter than he gave most. Thor had a longer leash than this, and his was studded with proverbial spikes and metaphorical shame. You had been expecting something like this to occur, but… Heimdall.

You burned the letter over a candle at your bedside, watching the edges flicker and turn pitch. Odin might think he was clever, subjecting you to his most loyal dog and binding you to him in the way you thought worst, but you always had a plan, a card up your sleeve should you ever end up in one of his schemes as your Queen had done.

Heimdall was an itch you could not scratch. A mystery you could not unravel. His only oaths were to Odin, his only promises to Odin; his loyalty was unmatched. But just like any dog, there would come a day where it would bite the hand that feeds it, and you would make sure it would come to pass one way or another.

You made an oath that morning as the sun rose to its apex in the sky. And when it descended, heralding the arrival of Odin’s beloved hound and a night of festivities for the equinox, your mind was a shield and your mouth a blade.

The moment Heimdall laid eyes on you, eyes shining and fuchsia and a burning shade of Bifrost as he tried and failed to read you, sitting quietly in a corner and entertaining the woeful drunken stupor of Baldur’s widow with your doubloon gold gaze and a tiny, sly smile on your face, you knew you had won.

But that victory, you would soon come to find, would not come without a price.

| next.

#heimdall #heimdall x reader #gow heimdall x reader #gow heimdall x female reader #gow x reader #gow x female reader #atreus x angrboda #heimdall is a major prick in this one #i couldn't bring myself to make him nice and kind without some sort of slow burn first

126 notes · View notes