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dilemmaontwolegs · 2 years

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Midnight Blades

Aemond Targaryen x princess!reader (Dark!themes) Summary: Your father's kingdom had always been enemies with the Targaryen's and so you were trained from childhood to be prepared to defend yourself. This skill is needed when the second born son of King Viserys comes to assassinate you one night. This is a Dark!fic with slightish dub con to some sexual acts. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, dagger fighting, violence, blood play, rough sex, anal. WC: 2587

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten || Part Eleven || Part Twelve || Part Thirteen || Part Fourteen || Part Fifteen || Part Sixteen || Part Seventeen || Part Eighteen || Part Nineteen || Part Twenty ||

The room was dim, not a single candle burning on the autumn night. It was only the soft moonlight through the open window that allowed Aemond to weave his way silently through the furniture to where you slept. Not a sound was made from his careful steps nor did a cricket chirp, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

Cold Valyrian steel pressed to your throat and your lips twitched at the touch of the sharp blade. One clean slice and your life was forfeit, one prick in the right spot and your sheets would soak up your life blood as it spurted from your throat. It would bring the Targaryen prince infamy to kill the princess of his family’s enemy.

“Unless you wish to lose your manhood, you should sheath your blade, Aemond One-Eye,” you said as you opened your eyes to see his silhouette above you.

“You are in no position to give orders, princess.”

“Is that so, prince?” You pressed the blade that you never slept without up from your hip, the sharp tip piercing the sheets and the leather trousers at the juncture of his thighs.

The moon broke the clouds and his hair caught the light enough that you could see his features, and the hint of amusement on them.

“Even if I die, I can promise you that your life would certainly lack the finer pleasures in it.”

His lips curled up in a dark smile before he traced his blade down the valley of your breasts, taking the cover of your sheets down with it. “What does a protected, innocent little princess know of such things?”

Your back arched into the kiss of metal and your nipples were bared to the night air, quickly pebbling at the loss of warmth. “I’m not as protected as you might think, nor am I innocent. It is just as easy for me to evade the guards leaving as you did coming here. So, there are a great many pleasures I know, none of which I have found within these walls.”

“That is quite the secret to tell your enemy,” Aemond murmured as his eye traced the shape of your lips before drifting back to your breasts. “You should really keep such things to yourself.”

You chuckled and dragged the flat edge of your blade over the hard length tightening his trousers, watching his lips part with a sharp intake of breath. “You can shout it to the world, tell everyone you meet how I thoroughly enjoy mounting a man and riding his cock until the sun breaks the horizon. Tell them all how I love to see their teeth marks left on my skin and feel the ache in my cunt for days when they are finished fucking me.”

Even in the dim light you could see his pupil explode with dark desire and his blade drew a thin line of blood above your heart with a trembling hand, as if it was taking all his strength to fight the urge to carve it from your chest. He bared his teeth at the sight of the red welling on your skin and growled into your ear, “No one would believe the word of your enemy.”

“I know,” you said with a smirk that taunted him more than your dirty words. Your warm blood rolled over your skin to drip on the white sheets and you ran a lazy finger through the thin cut, hissing at the sweet sting it elicited. “You stained my sheets.”

Aemond scoffed and threw your blankets from your body to see the thin blade that had threatened him. “I have stained many ladies’ sheets.”

“Of that I have no doubt, but I do owe you now.” You leapt from the bed and he was quick to react, but not quick enough. Your bare feet met the cold, stone floor at the same time you struck. The blade was more like an extension of your arm than a separate weapon for all the years you had trained with it and like most men, Aemond underestimated you.

The prince laughed as you stepped back and licked your blade, tasting the dragon blood on your tongue as more of it seeped into his black tunic. The scar would match yours perfectly and you grinned as he tore the ruined clothing from his body to bare the wound to you. “Now we are even.”

His eye trailed over your body, leaving flames in its wake as he finally seemed to notice your lack of dress extended past your breasts. That intense stare lingered at the juncture of your thighs where you stood with your legs parted hoping to cool the needy throb in your core. Finally he managed to drag his eye back to your face, the promise of violence in that blue orb. “There is no even, someone must always win.”

You twirled your dagger and let the familiar weight of the handle fill your palm again. “Oh, I intend to.”

Your feet were swift and silent as the dance began, your partner prepared this time and ready to prove his adept skills as he parried your attack. To and fro, you made ground and ceded it. His offensive attack was as strong as his defence and you had to hand it to whoever trained the prince, they did a damn good job.

“Give it up, princess, this is a battle you won’t win,” Aemond goaded you as he dropped his dagger to his side.

“I have the finest history tutors in the land,” you purred as you lowered your own knife and circled him, small knicks bleeding from both of your bodies. “You are awfully confident for a man who himself has not yet seen a battle.”

His eye followed your graceful steps until you were in the blind spot left by the carved sapphire set between a thick scar. Self preservation had him turning to follow you, the eyebrow above his deep blue gem cocking up as he spoke, “You studied me.”

“Don’t feel special, I research all of my enemies.”

His steps mirrored yours and the tension built as the heavy silence seemed to vibrate the charged air. This time Aemond attacked first, closing the distance with one step of his long legs and feigned a stab at your shoulder only to drop to his knees as you lifted your arm to parry. He had the opening he needed.

The pain was instant, a burn that flashed up your inner thigh and told you that it was not a deep wound. You didn’t even bother to check it as you felt rivulets of blood rolling down your leg, adding to the droplets that already littered the stone floor.

“What did your research surmise?” Aemond asked as he fingered his blade, playing with your blood and smearing it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You are arrogant.”

“I am a prince, it is our prerogative.”

“And stubborn,” you added, pointing your dagger at his scarred eye. “You have a chip on your shoulder for the scar you wear but even if you were to carve your nephew’s eye out and eat it, the rage will never be sated. Unforgiving Aemond, that is what they should call you, for you never forget a wrong against you, no matter how slight. Tell me, when was the last time you ate a juicy roast pig?”

His sapphire eye caught the moonlight and reflected in the many facets of the gem as his teeth ground together. The cold fury evaporated in an instant and a carefree smile once again spread across his lips. “I must commend you and your spies for the thorough research, princess. But, you forgot to mention how handsome I am, scar and all.”

You smirked and rolled your eyes. “I knew there was one starting with H, of course, it couldn’t be humble.”

A roar of laughter filled the room and before you could think better, you dropped your dagger and closed the distance to press your hands to his lips. The clatter of metal on stone rang out and you froze against his body, an ear tilted towards the door as you listened out for the guards.

A moment passed, then two. All was silent in the palace, no alarms were raised.

Aemond made no effort to move, not even taking the opportunity to end your life while you were unarmed. It was only when the fear of the guards arriving wore off that you realised your entire body was pressed against his, his bare chest warm against your and his cock hard beneath his pants.

You slowly lowered your hands from his lips and let them fall to his blood smeared chest before dragging your nails across the defined muscles and down his navel. His chest rose with a deep breath as your hand dipped under his waistband and palmed his erection, a soft groan teasing your ear and sending a throb straight to your core.

“You will still be my enemy in the morning,” you murmured as his teeth grazed over your racing pulse and his own dagger fell to the floor.

“You are still my enemy now,” he replied as his fingers dipped between your legs and felt the slick arousal at your entrance.

You shoved him back towards your bed, instantly missing the touch of his fingers but in need of something far larger. Patience was not a strength of yours as you tried and failed to quickly unlace the cords that kept the leather trousers between you and your release. Reaching under your pillow, you grabbed the spare knife hidden there and cut the ties from him.

You shoved the short blade back where it belonged under the watchful eye of Aemond before dropping the trousers beside his ruined tunic. Every muscle was honed to perfection and scars littered his pale skin, adding to the image you already had of the warrior swordsman. You traced the larger scars on his chest with your tongue and nipped at another across his nipple until he hissed and his cock twitched where it rested against your stomach.

With a growl, he turned and threw you onto your bed, pinning you beneath his body and shoving your legs wide open with his knees. Two digits curled into your dripping cunt and your head tipped back with a silent cry as he roughly fucked you with his fingers, palming your clit with each roll of his wrist until you came hard enough to bite through your lip to keep quiet.

“Fuck, I need more, I need you to fuck me,” you begged as he kept his fast paced fingers riding through your pulsing walls.

The wet sounds filled your room and you felt your cum leaking down your slit and to the bed.

“I’ll fuck you, princess.” He chuckled darkly and your core clenched in anticipation. “Consider this my first battle won.”

Before you could question him, you felt his thick head pressing against your ass and gasped as it stretched you open. White hot pain flashed before the sudden fullness drew a heady moan and his fingers began to move in time to his thrusts. Your breath came in fast grunts as his long strokes felt like they could reach your lungs and knock the air right from them, each one louder than the last.

“Shhhh, don’t want to get caught now…” he whispered before he withdrew his fingers from you and pushed them into your mouth to silence you.

The taste of your arousal on his fingers had your eyes fluttering shut and you swirled your tongue around each finger, cleaning it until he gave a satisfied growl of approval.

“So. Fucking. Filthy.” Each word was defined with a hard thrust that rocked your bed against the wall and left your legs shaking around his narrow waist. “On your knees.”

You felt incredibly empty without him and quickly obeyed, needing him buried deep inside once again. There was nothing gentle about Aemond and gentle was not what you wanted. You wanted rough, you wanted hard, and you wanted pain.

A sharp slap sent flames across your ass and the moan that was about to erupt was silenced when Aemond shoved your face into the sheets and slammed his cock back in your ass. The air was thin through the sheets but it only added to the experience of feeling high with the room spinning around you.

“If only the King knew what a whore he had for a daughter,” Aemond growled in your ear as he pulled your back flush against his chest and curled his long fingers around your throat. “Taking a Targaryen cock in your pretty ass. I might just conquer your kingdom and keep you as my personal fuckhole.”

Your lips parted with a wordless cry and your body trembled as his words stoked the fire warming your belly, the muscles tensing as another orgasm spread like a wave from your core. It grew and grew, cresting with each harsh thrust that you pushed your hips back to meet until it crashed. His fingers tightened as his pace faltered and he shuddered his release, his cock pulsing inside you and filling you with warmth before letting you gasp for air.

He pushed you back to the bed as he withdrew himself leaving you empty and your limbs weak and heavy from the release. With a feline smile you rolled to your back and stretched to feel the sweet tenderness in your muscles before curling up to watch him dress.

“Is that all you Targaryen men have got?” You propped up on your elbow and rested your chin on your hand as he swiped his dagger from the floor, tucking it into the sheath at his hip. “The men in my realm can fuck all night before they are spent. But, I guess that is why we battle like we fuck - outlasting the House of the Dragon and such.”

Aemond stalked across the floor and grabbed your chin in his hands as he bent at the waist. “Still that tongue before you find yourself without it.”

“I think you would rather like what my tongue can do,” you purred as you laid back on your pillow and blinked up innocently at the prince. “Maybe another night when you have bathed and rested.”

“There will be no other nights,” he sneered but his eye betrayed him as he drank in the sight of your body sticky with blood and his cum leaking from your abused hole.

He turned away and you caught his wrist before he was beyond your reach. “One last thing before you go, Unforgiving Aemond.” You drew the short knife from under your pillow and slashed through the leather covering his thigh. “I owed you one.”

The prince hissed at the shallow cut to match the one gave you before he smiled and gave a small regal bow out of your reach. “Well played, princess. I’ll remember that when our paths cross again.”

You closed your eyes with a yawn and patted around blindly for your blanket as the adrenaline faded and sleep called. “I’ll be ready.”

A breeze danced over your body a moment before your blanket drifted over your skin but when you opened your eyes to catch him, the prince was already gone. The scent of sex and drying blood the only sign he was ever there at all.

Click here for part two.

#aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you #dark!aemond #dark!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic

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grapejuicestyless · 7 months

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hi, hope you're well! i was wondering if you could write something for conrad based on the song my love mine all mine by mitski? i've been obsessed with it lately and it reminds me off him 💖

My Love, Mine All Mine.

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

summery: Y/n has always gave too much. She always loved, believed too easily. She can’t control what others will do with that, but she can control how she loves.

Sorting through the shiny papers, the corners cut into my skin with each photo I crumpled up, tossing it into the shadows. Each memory ingrained forever on a film that would only taunt me with the past.

I hate the way the sun shined through the leaves in each one. How the sand looked so soft under our feet, the ocean bluer than any summer sky could every paint it now. I am reminded of how vibrant the world became with him in my life, when he was mine.

I say that he was mine loosely. I am unsure if I even have the ability to own something so pretty, so precious. If I ever even did. I remember the way my hands would run through his salty curls after a beach day. How he would hold me extra tight, we’d only bring one towel to share. His lap was soft, shorts scrunched up and dripping still.

I think of his lips on mine. How perfectly they fit on mine. I remember how desperate each kiss was. Not once had he ever made it seem like if it were to go no further we would cease to exist, but he was feverish enough with each lick into my mouth where I knew no matter what, he would never be satisfied. He always wanted more, more, more. How foolish of me to believe it was because he could simply not get enough of me, not because I was not enough.

He was kind, showing me affection in ways he swore would only ever be for me. He decorated his walls with love letters and Polaroids of us, of me. He had stacks of our adventures in an old shoebox under his bed for when I was away and he was missing me. He reminded me everyday how much he adored me. Counting down the seconds until he could hold me in his arms. He promised me it was a feeling that nobody else could ever give him. A heart rush that only ever came over him when my name was involved.

So why does he look at her that way? Why must his eyes carry the same shimmer of lust in them that he once held for me? I see the way his hands grip at her hips, her thighs. It’s animalistic in a way, primal. He wants her, needs her. He’s hers.

I remember the night I discovered their secret. My lover and my sister hand in hand one late June night. I stood still on the grass watching over them. My tears came out dry. I couldn’t even try and sob, let myself break. With his leaving just months ago, I’d already rung myself dry of any tears I had left.

It’s funny how something that once made you feel special can make you feel so sick so suddenly. What once gave me a reason for my living killed me so suddenly.

I knew I was always destined to die, to burn out and disappear. I never imagined how it would’ve happened at the hands of the two I trusted the most in my life. Looking up at the moon that night, I prayed to forget, to heal so suddenly. Rid me of the ache in my heart and replace it with a cold emptiness.

He holds her while she sits in my spot on the couch. She laughs at the jokes I told him that now spew from his lips. Her hands find home in his hair and the towel we once shared as become theirs. It’s all reused, it’s the same. He makes her feel special, wanted, lusted after. He’s a damn good actor, he fools the whole damn world with his cruel games.

Now I know better than anyone that when calling him mine, I must use it loosely. At some time, he might have been. The photos I tear up in my room are only proof of our years spent together. Two summers spent doting on each other. He was with me, but could I call him mine? If he left so easily, did he ever even need me? Want me?

I hold the final photo in my hands, the moon shines down on us. We’re only young in the photograph. His cheek is pressed to mine, our smiles touch. We look so free, so happy. I feel guilty if I were to rip it up when it still feels so happy.

Grabbing a pin from the bedside table, I poke it into the wall beside my mountains of other places and people I’ve seen. It sticks out, like it’s been highlighted in bright red. It stings to look at, but it reminds me of a better time, a time when I believed I had the ability to have good things.

Now I know, nothing in this world belongs to me. Not my baby, not my sister’s loyalty. Not my mother, not my brother. I have no control over anything. Yet, each time I allow myself to believe that I do. That I mean something. I pay a price for the immaturity of my heart. I act a fool over the smallest affections, the most discrete love. And I watch as each time it is taken away, leaving me with a heavy chest and a heart far too full for my body. Nothing in this world is mine for free. Nothing in this world belongs to me but my love, mine all mine.

#tsitp conrad #conrad x reader #conrad fisher angst #conrad fisher #conrad x you #conrad fisher x reader #team conrad #conrad fisher fluff #conrad fisher x you #conrad fisher x y/n #belly x conrad #conrad

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kurt-nightcrawler · 1 year

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Baby Blonde

Paul x Reader

Summary: Paul is a sensitive guy

Warnings: tiny bit of angst, mentions of periods and related period things, implied smut but no actual smut

Word Count: 1.5k

Paul wasn’t one to cry. He was cool. He was sexy. And he spent too much time trying to be goofy or space out to cry.

Or that’s at least what everyone thought.

He was a good, sweet, and somewhat clingy boyfriend. Always wanting a hand on you– a hand in your back pocket or in your hand were the most common– getting you food whenever you wanted it and making sure you were never sad. He was a giant golden ball of sunshine, who killed people and was great with his tongue.

However, Paul was a sensitive little bitch. Deep, deep, deep down. How he got you more stuffed animals than Laddie or gave you posters when they came with his vinyls instead of plastering them all over the cave walls. Or when he got high and ate Marko’s butter statue in the fridge– he felt bad for months– and when he accidentally scratched David’s The Cure album with his claws. The guilt was mostly cause David chewed him out, but that was beside the point.

What could he say? Paul was a man with many layers. But sometimes those layers were so deep they did not mean to see the surface.

–

You were lying down on the old couch in the cave, trying to snuggle under one of the numerous blankets the boys had accumulated over the years. Groaning in discomfort, you turned to the other side, trying to ease your pain.

Water bottles, snacks, and any kind of painkiller imaginable were scattered on the floor around you.

Your period was three days early. Not like it was ever consistent, but it was still miserable. You were burning up, sore all over, covered in three new zits, and anytime you went to the bathroom it looked like a murder scene afterward. You hated it. And while your blood-sucking boyfriend loved it, he tried to sympathize best he could– to treat you like a little baby bird and not like a meal.

But sometimes, sometimes, his blood lust got the better of him.

–

Paul strutted down into the cave, totally not paying attention to his surroundings, until he saw a big lump of blankets on the couch.

“Baby?” he called out.

You grunted in response.

“You okay?” Paul asked, momentarily clueless as to what was going on with you.

And then it hit him.

Your period.

His gaze got slightly hazy, and he immediately pounced onto the couch, wanting to pepper you in kisses, feed you chocolate, and eat you out until you passed out in a blissful slumber.

“Baby I want–”

“Grrrrr…” You shoved him off the couch and curled up into a tighter fetal position than you were already in. “Don’t touch me… not now…” You whined. You were hit with cramps soon as Paul entered the cave, and your pain meds were proving to be useless.

“Oh…” Paul’s cold dead heart was resuscitated momentarily by seeing you, only to be stomped on and shattered by your harsh rejection, bringing it back to death.

“Okay… If you need anything I’ll be in my room…”

Paul walked away into the depths of the cave slowly. Any pep in his step or excitement was sucked out of him. He just wanted to help! Make you feel better– maybe give you a massage, or help cool you down by holding you in his arms while he buried his face into your neck.

Paul knew you were the one. He didn’t miss the daytime because he had you, the sun to his moon– bright and cheerful to compliment his bright and cheerful. Except where he was cold and dead, you were warm and alive. He loved showering with you, sniffing all your fancy soaps, and asking if he could take a bite. He tried to pull a romcom classic and cook for you, which almost burnt your kitchen down… But his big, sad, blue puppy dog eyes got the best of you. He could never thank you enough when you did daytime-esk errands for him, like buying him snacks from stores that closed before sundown or letting him do laundry at your place. Or standing your ground and helping him get some touchy valley girl off his back.

But Paul was still Paul, and he had trouble with being told no by someone other than the boys. He also worried you would eventually get sick of him. Sick of his loud voice, and weed-ridden musk. Sick of how he was sometimes really forgetful, or too spaced out and lost focus easily. He was scared you wouldn’t find him sexy or funny and see he didn’t really have much else going for himself. He had been working on it, trying to be more confident deep down and not cry like a baby when you didn’t want to hang out 24/7, but sometimes it slipped his mind that humans needed personal space and alone time.

You mumbled a groan as you slightly shifted under the covers, attempting to fall asleep.

—

You had awoken, after sleeping for what felt like an eternity. You were sweaty, groggy, and had no sense of what time it was.

“Good morning Sleeping Beauty,” someone teased.

You groaned and shifted from your spot on the couch, rubbing your eyes as you stared at the person who woke you.

“Marko, hey. How long was I asleep?”

“Too long, according to Paul.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes. “He would say that. Where is he anyways? Is he getting food?”

“…”

“Marko…”

Marko bit his thumb and avoided your gaze as he picked up the trash surrounding the couch.

“Marko...”

“He got really upset after you told him to fuck off.”

“What? When did I do that?”

“Um, he said when he came home,” Marko shook a pill bottle, seeing if it was empty. “You were curled up into a ball on the couch and then you pushed him away and told him to leave you alone.”

Your boyfriend was such a drama queen. “I’m on my period.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, well,” You and Marko walked into the kitchen area, trash, snacks, and medicines in hand. “My painkillers didn’t kick in on time. I thought I was dying for a hot second. I didn’t want Paul making it worse.”

Marko smiled, closing the chip bag, “He probably would have taken a bite out of you if you let him.”

You rolled your eyes, “Maybe later.”

One of the pigeons flew towards you both. Staring Marko in the eyes.

“No, I’m not giving you potato chips,” he jokingly scolded his pet. “No, these aren’t for you.”

“I’m gonna see what he’s up to.”

“Okay.”

Marko was still focused on his pigeon. “Yeah, she’s gonna see Paul. She’s gonna see Paulie. You know what they’re gonna do Jasper—“

“Shut up,” You scoffed.

—

You knocked on the “door”— an old surfboard covering the hole in the wall to his little stoner rock cave— of Paul’s room.

“Paul…”

You heard a sniffle from the other side, but nothing else.

“Paul, I know you’re in there…” another moment of silence.

“Or is it Laddie?” You joked.

“It’s me,” Paul quietly replied.

“Can I come in, baby?”

“Sure.”

You pushed the door to the side and stepped inside his room. “Hi, baby.”

He was laying under several blankets in the nest you’d both made together, only his head and lion's mane worth of hair sticking out.

“Hello…” All the usual fun and excitement was sucked out of his voice, leaving it hollow and empty.

“Oh no, I don’t like hello. What’s going on?”

“You… You wouldn’t cuddle with me…”

You slowly sat down next to him, pushing aside a few mixtapes and some dirty clothes, “Baby… baby you know I’m on my period.”

“Yeah, you smell nice— like nicer than usual. And I just, I love you so much—

“I know—“

“And I wanna cuddle”

“—I know—“

“—and eat you out so hard you see stars.”

“My meds just didn’t kick in.”

“Yeah, you were mean.” Paul sniffled. “I didn’t like it.”

“Oh baby come here,” You joined him under the covers, attempting to scoop him into your arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It was not fine.

“Paul… you don’t have to lie to me.”

He shifted his head onto your shoulder, “You just… you scared me.”

You gently scratched his head. “I didn’t mean to, I just needed to be alone.”

“I’m worried I messed up and you don’t wanna be with me anymore… I’ve messed up a lot and I tend to pretend I don’t care if I fuck up, but I do.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you know that. Even if I tried, David would Professor X my memory.”

Paul laughed a little.

“I just didn’t want you pouncing on me like an animal–”

“–But I am an animal.”

You frowned, “Not the point here.”

“Right, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are we good?”

“Yeah… Just… just don’t– if you– uh, if you need some space don’t act like me when I need blood and I wig out, okay?”

“Will do.”

Paul sat up a little, so he could snuggle into you.“Mmmm… Thank you.”

“Of course baby. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #paul the lost boys #tlb #tlb 1987 #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys imagine #my fic #my writing #lost boys paul #paul lost boys #paul the lost boys x reader #the lost boys paul x reader #the lost boys movie #the lost boys movie 1987 #vampire fic

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sofasoap · 10 months

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Sofasoap's Call of Duty Fic Rec

Always wanted to make a list of my very subjective CoD fic rec list, and also I promised my good buddy @groguspicklejar ( famous author of Beloved series) a list of fic recs, let me list some of my beautiful mutual's and some amazing writers and artists so they can go binge read.

Edit : I'll keep adding artist/writers on as I go. When my brain cells is functioning.

@saltofmercury -Let's start off with the mother of my Mini MacTavish. The one who made me fell in love and hit the nail in the coffin for CoD fandom.

If you are into König, her " Break-in" series is a must read. check out her Soap fics too :) Masterlist

@floral-force - My bestie! delicious Simon/Ghost fics.

American Hospitality is my favourite. Or honeypot is guarantee making you crave for more :)

Check out their Mando fics too :)

@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world - You want slow burn? check out lovely Bear's "The Roommate Series". Wonderful progression of relationship between Simon and his room mate. Your Friendly Neighbor Soap and Shy reader, OH SO CUTE.

@deadbranch - Spy and Cold war style fics? You are in the right place. The killing moon and Dying sun series. Gut wrenching.

or check out the light hearted None Taken ( personal favourite!), threesome fics? Goth style Reader? Check out their MASTERLIST for full list of goodies.

@brewed-pangolin The president of "Soap Squad" club.

Fireside Whiskey - personal favourite. Soft and thoughtful Soap is just heaven. Kati's page is full of wonderful Soap deliciousness. check it out if you want some Soap fun.

@writeforfandoms - Jen jen jen jen jen. Multifandom talent. AU Prodigy. But let's focus on the CoD here, Puppy Love - Price and puppy? can't go wrong with that. Born for Greatness and Howlin' For You Shifter!AU is my latest obsession here.

@random-thot-generator - Kris, The princess of Thotland and Thotlandia. Their latest work: A Patient Man - had me all hot and bothered. Sweet sweet Rudy. OH how can you be so sexy.

@jynxmirage, Jynx!!!! the one I blame for falling into Top Gun fandom. but that's not the point :P

Communication is Key - my current obsession :) Soft caring Price, oh give me this Captain price any day...

@as-is-above-so-below - Oh Gezez, Simon X OC ( Freya ) fic The Captain is utterly brilliant. Angst, suspension, Thirst, smut... you name it, you get it.

@roosterr - my Fellow Nikolai fanatic, check out her "guardian angel"

series, action action action and of course, love story :)

@siilvan - another one of my fellow Nikolai fanatic, Aqua Regia

series , Nikolai the flirt, sexy flirt , complete with smut * smirk *

@homicidal-slvt - How can I forget the spark to my Lastochka series?

and one of my biggest supporter.

Check out their creative CoD Headcanons and full list of CoD works that will guarantee satisfaction.

@nrdmssgs - to round off my Nikolai fanatic club , and also brilliant artist, A heart full of pity series is one of my latest obsession featuring good old Nikolai.

@captainpriceslover - my crack fic inspo buddy ( miss you a lot!!!). the one gifted me ideas of Soap dispensers lol.

aiaigasa (相合傘) - featuring our TF141 sweet boy, Gaz, had my heart melting.

@starstruckmiraclekitty - You want H/C and scenarios? * falling out of the bag * here is the place to go. :)

@random0lover - you want soft fluffy Soap? Hot Chocolate & Hoodies, you want angsty type of story? Open Wounds and War Paint

you get all with Kat!!!

@lethalchiralium , how can I forget Keri! ( I knew I forgot someone.. argh )

@namedlunagoddess - another 3Drender goddess. OH CHECK OUT HER Sowa Team fic if you are into Gromsko, its HOT SMUTTY DELICIOUS FIC.

The Happiness series, don’t let the title fool ya (well it does bring you happiness reading such talented writing) this story is like washing machine, throws your emotions all over the place, let you grip onto your chair, wanting more.

@mistydeyes so many awesome stories to choose from! My current favourite is "choose your flowers, carefully" Good old Gaz x reader story, and one of my favourite trope - childhood to lovers 🥺 please go check it out!

Now , Some brilliant artists:

@shkretart - This utterly utterly talented person, Price and Nikolai and Simon, will have your nose bleeding within 0.1 seconds.

@ave661 - out of this world 3Drenders always have my eyes popping out of the socket.

@nrdmssgs - mentioned once, should mention again, beautiful art :)

@wombywoo - TF141 boys in their dress uniform? YES PLEASE.

@loneghostwolf oh, another wonderful 3D render artist that bless us with wonderful food of the CoD boys

@hffhifjou - You want rugby boys? You get rugby boys :) and football. and all sort of deliciousness :)

@lululandd - FROGGY CoD boys!!!!!!!! and wonderful fics too, please check THEM OUT MASTERLIST

I am sorry If I miss out anyone. after 13+ hours at work I am exhausted.

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gauloiseblue · 13 days

Text

For though I am a sinner / You call me to your table.

(König × Reader)

[May contain: heavy religious imagery, obsessive behavior, murder]

Credit to @rainlovesyou12

When he was six, he witnessed the rite of communion for the first time. As his brother approached the altar, the priest announced, “Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.”

His brother whispered a few words he couldn't catch, before he stepped forward to receive bread and wine.

He didn't understand what the ritual was, or what the purpose of it was. But he looked up and saw that his parents smiled, almost too proudly.

At eight, the church adversely taught him about it.

He was crying, screaming, as his parents dragged him to the altar. The priest's eyes were cold, as he spoke the same verse his brother received. When he resisted, his mother yanked him by his arm and forced him to look into her eyes. She was angry, and it's a loose word for what she exhibited that day.

When he stood in front of the table, tear-streaked, and trembling, the priest took a piece of the bread, and offered it to him. With his hands clasped, he muttered, "Lord I am not worthy"

That morning, he retched up the blood and the body of Christ.

He wiped off his mouth, as he lifted his head from the toilet bowl. The sour taste of the wine still lingered in the back of his tongue, and he bent down to wash his mouth with running water.

He didn't understand the joy of union with God through communion. It was dreadful to think that, by consuming a part of Christ, one could lead a salvation. But why would you take a part of someone else when all your life you never knew him?

His mother loved Him, and she loved Him more than her own son. She visited the church day and night, recited her praises in front of the wooden cross, where the statue of Christ watched upon her, cold and motionless. His father was a stern man, and he'd remind him of all-seeing God, who'd always watch him from above every time he misbehaved. They believed in salvation, and they believed in sins. For the only people who's versed in God's orders were them.

Rejecting a body of Christ might’ve put a curse on him, as he's blind to the doctrines his parents taught. Turning your gaze from your mother when she talked was a sin, but looking away when the priest took a young boy into a room wasn't a sin. Yet his brother understood it, and he had no choice but to obey.

And he tried, he tried to be good. But it's never enough in his parents' eyes.

It wasn't until he's old enough, that he had the courage to leave the house. Carrying all of his belongings, and all of his sins.

He rejected God as he rejected His salvation, but then again, he had rejected Him the moment he spat out the bread and wine. Without the eye of God upon him, he's freed from the sanctions. No more Hail Mary or Our Father prayers, just him and his conscience.

He relished in his freedom, venturing outside the tiny box he once called home. It's easier to live without the fear of God. In his line of work, he couldn't afford to worry, even just for a second. His parents might be horrified to find out that their son had abandoned the way to heaven, but he's content, content with the way he lived.

Yet it only lasted for long, before he saw Him in every face.

When he stood in the war, with his hands bloodied and bodies by his feet, he often mused on the possibility that they were once a child of God. Did they swallow His flesh, when the priest placed a part of Him on their tongue? Did they feel at peace, after knowing that the blood of Him would lead them to salvation? And would he, as an apostate, burn in endless fire after killing many of His lambs?

Sometimes he stared at his ceiling, wondering if the omniscient one was looking at him through the pale light.

They said God is present in every lights

In every ray of the sun,

In every glow of the moon,

Yet the darkness still creeps

From the long shadow

The light creates

He received a new contract the next morning that required him to fly across the ocean. He accepted it, without knowing what was in store for him.

Between the light and the dark

There's a boundary where

The dark would collide

With the whiteness of the light

Leaving a gray line

Where two forces

Dance in eternal war

Right after the touchdown, the chopper came to a sudden halt. He snapped out of his thoughts, as he looked out the window and saw the base from afar.

When he stepped out of the aircraft, he was greeted by a blinding light, before it all died down once he winced. As his vision adjusted, he noticed two figures approached him. One's stone-cold face, and the other one wore a striking white uniform, that he almost mistook them as something else.

The new commander was a stern man, the common kind that one could find everywhere in the military. But his eyes wandered to a rare sight beside him.

You greeted him with a smile, something that he's not quite used to. You held a clipboard in your hand, and he could tell that your job was closely tied to the item. The commander noticed his attention and cleared his throat.

"This is (Name), she'll help you move to your room. Meet me at the office when you're done."

And so, he followed after you.

You were warm, and polite. You made small talk with him without prying too much, and he found himself relaxed in your presence.

When he had stored his things away, you took him to the office, where the commander had waited for him.

The briefing was short, since he had read the files on the way here. But one thing that struck him was the silence from the man when he brought up the secretary.

Once, he was told that anything outside the contract is none of his business, but he couldn't help but be curious. Why the lack of response? What was it about you, that he was reluctant to share?

It didn't take long before he found the nature of your relationship with him.

Alas, the sun has to set

And the dark would triumph

As the shadows march

Towards the horizon

Till this day, he can't find the reason why someone like you would hand your life to a man as cold as him. Even when the answers are already splayed out on the table. It's not hard to piece them together when soldiers' tongues were loose, he just had to say a word, and they'd immediately take the bait.

When the world is shrouded

By the darkness and black

Could the Almighty

Blame humans

For turning blind?

When he saw you sitting in the kitchen, alone, with your head hung low, he found himself inexplicably drawn to you. He laughed at himself when the thought of comforting you crossed his mind, but what kind of human he was, if he didn't feel any sympathy for you?

It's an open secret that you had a loveless marriage, and yet, you stayed with him, despite of the rage that your husband showed that morning.

He'd understand if you wished to throw out your frustration to him, but when you saw him by the table, you offered him a tired smile.

After all,

Humanity

Would always be

Lost

Without its shepherd

"Why didn't you leave him?"

Your face stayed the same despite of the intrusive question, since it's nothing you never heard before.

"Because I chose it that way." You mused, "I don't think you'd understand. I owe him my life. I wouldn't be here if it's not because of him." You told him as you looked at him in the eyes, "Without him, I am nothing."

And he was silent. Silent as he turned, and left you behind. Though he wore a mask, he knew that you saw him. You saw through his false front.

That day, he dreamt of his mother. Her voice echoed, as she chanted her praise at the altar. The devotion in her eyes, the adoration for the Savior whom she owed her life to, awakened the ghastly side of him.

Your devoutness evoked the memory of his own past, ripping his earth open, as the molten rock poured into the land. An ugly jealousy, for something he could never had.

Sentiment.

Something that the commander deemed as unnecessary.

He felt his eyes darkened whenever he witnessed the man's apathy, but his heart would scream at the slightest affection his commander showed to you.

He'd carry this envy until the day of the big Ops.

While Adam bore the title

Of the first Sinner

It was Cain who was the truest,

The most hideous Sinner

For he killed not to survive

But to satisfy his envy

The soldiers were briefed on the possibility of death, or imprisonment due to their carelessness. The commander shouted that it's not an ordinary mission, and everyone is responsible for their own safety.

A sentence that'd become his own doom.

When they infiltrated the enemy base, he knew the possibility of the enemy having bombs planted on each floor. Not to slow them down, but to bury them to the ground.

It wasn't his negligence if he didn't warn his commander about it.

He wasn't an advisor after all.

By the time they discovered the explosives, it was already too late.

He was with the commander when the whole buildings shook, with cracks began to form on the walls. He yelled at the man to follow him, as they made their way out of the room.

As they raced towards the window, a heavy rubble fell through the ceiling, onto the commander's leg. He cried in pain, as the protruding steel dug into his flesh.

"König—" He called out when he stood there, unmoving.

He could've saved him—he should've, but he chose to remain still.

"König." The man looked at him, as suspicion dripped from his voice. Seeing him in that state caused a vile feeling to rose from his chest, as he bared his teeth into a grin.

"Should've said your safety is my business."

His commander's eyes widened, and his jaw tightened into an angry snarl. "Which side is it that you work for?"

"No one."

The man screamed his name when he turned, before a sickening crack filled the room.

He got out just as the building collapsed behind him, swallowing the lives of unfortunate men who were still inside.

The main objective of the mission was reached, but what greeted them at the base was silence. There were no cheers or pats on the back, just a heavy silence.

Many soldiers were injured, and the infirmary wasn't prepared to handle that many. Which pushed the other staff to be one-night medics, and you were no exception.

He only suffered a minor injury, so he could only watch you run in and out of the room from afar.

Of course, the pleasure was short-lived

Since his hatred for his brother

Had nowhere to go anymore

When he found you the next day, with your food untouched, and tears stained your cheeks, he felt his heart squeezed with remorse.

He approached you, as if you were a lone figure—whom, he could confess to and repent—at the confessional. He'd recite the Holy Mary prayers for a thousand years, if that's what it takes for him to be forgiven by you.

But when you looked at him, your lips formed a small smile—the same smile that you gave to him back then, before he pried into your privacy.

"Have you eaten?" You asked him, and he almost ripped out his skin, so you'd see the sins that were carved into his bones. "Come, sit with me."

You took a small bread from the basket and carried it close to his hand, before placing the bun into his palm.

And he understood. He understood the utterance one had to say at the God's table, when they received the Holy supper.

When he brought the bread to his lips, he muttered the soundless words he couldn't deliver,

"Lord, I am unworthy."

#A/N: this is a re-upload bc I deleted the original one #cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #konig x reader #könig x reader #könig cod #religious trauma #the algorithm somehow didn't pick this up. maybe it's bc I posted it in the reblog? idk

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witchthewriter · 2 years

Photo

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ female, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ

🌿ISTJ 🍁Slytherin 📜True Neutral 🔮Gemini Sun, Capricorn Moon, Leo Rising

SFW🌿

⭑ You became a vampire 50 years ago. Your father had gambled away all the family money, and couldn’t repay the gangsters to whom he owed. They gave him three chances, and he was warned. In the end, the gangsters murdered your whole family except for your father. As you lay bleeding out, you watched as your father ran out.

⭑ It was Garret who had smelt the blood. But, you were still alive, and you begged him for help.

“Please. Help me-” The gunshot had missed vital organs, but you had jumped in front of your little brother and took another to the abdomen.

“Why should I help you? Whose at death’s door?” His eyes were red and you knew he was otherwordly.

“I need to kill those who did this,” You sobbed, hot angry tears spilling down your cheeks.

“That’s more like it.”

⭑ So Garret did save you, he turned you and looked out for you for years. You had grown on him.

⭑ Garret had sent you to Carlisle because he no longer wanted a tag-along. His independence was too strong but didn’t want you to be alone.

⭑ Rosalie isn’t easily impressed.

⭑ But neither are you.

⭑ You started off as rivals. Possibly enemies. But there was a tension there that neither of you could deny. You did though. Both of you denied, denied, denied.

⭑ Everyone could see it. They could feel it.

⭑ The tension was always so thick when the two of you were together.

⭑ At first she pretended to forget your name, it stung but you’d be damned if you let it show.

⭑ It was a slow romance, one that made your heart ache and burn. Neither of you wanted to admit your feelings. Pride stood in the way.

⭑ Alice told Rosalie that being with you was inevitable.

⭑ Whenever someone looks at you, Rosalie will appear by your side, grab your face in her hands and kiss you.

⭑ Teasing each other

“Well look who it is, Rosalie Hale. This is twice in one week. You must be in love with me or something.”

⭑ Understanding her true self - the mask she puts on is to protect her. It’s because she feels so deeply and you can connect with that.

⭑ Making sure the other has fed

⭑ She always ALWAYS defends you. Even if you’re in the wrong - when you’re alone she’ll tell you to pull your head out of your ass. But not in front of others .... never in front of others.

⭑ Slow dancing together; foreheads touching as your arms are wrapped around each other.

⭑ Possessive over you but doesn’t want you to see

⭑ Always having a person who would burn entire cities to the ground to get to you.

⭑ Relationship tropes: ✶ Rivals who fall for each other ✶ Old married couple ✶ Dark & Brooding + Sweet & Caring

NSFW🔞minors dni!

⭑ Rosalie is all-consuming. Your head will be full of the image of her naked for days afterward. It would be the only thing you could think about. Because nothing else mattered.

⭑ You would be counting down the hours until you could see her again. Feel her again. Touch the coldness of her porcelain skin, kiss her neck, smooth back her hair.

⭑Both of you are switches - so whoever is dominant usually changes

⭑ Loves both eating you out and you eating her out. There isn’t one she prefers because both give her pleasure

⭑ Rosalie is the biggest tease on earth. She knows exactly what turns you on, and will do it in front of others, just to see you squirm.

⭑ Uses toys; dildos, vibrators, butt plugs, etc

⭑ A lot of hate-fucking at first

⭑ Edward can hear what the two of you are thinking and he gets SHOCKED.

“You want to do WHAT-”

And it was all because you guys were feeling kinky. The man nearly fainted.

⭑ Of course, she likes hair pulling, ass slapping and grabbing, nipple sucking... etc ...

⭑ Have had sex in every room of the house... Jasper was really mad. Edward was happy he didn’t live with you guys anymore. And Bella ... Bella was impressed.

⭑ You might think that degradation is involved but it’s really not. I mean verbally. Physically ... oh yeah

⭑ Lots of spanking

⭑ After sex is when Rosalie is her complete vulnerable self. From a viper to a doe, she opens up like a book. Any questions you have are usually answered, and it’s because she feels so at peace and one with you.

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and-the-stars-collided · 1 year

Text

Ainur as Aesthetics:

Melkor — eye-rolls, either sleep for the week or sleep is for the weak, great music taste, extremely passionate, smarter than you'd think, abandoned cities, alcohol, doesn't care about opinions, midnight hours, black coffee, hates humanity, cold hands, barely-there eyeliner, sharp smiles, lace-up boots, doesn't like to be told what to do, anger so blinding that you forget where and who you are, staring at the mirror until your features start to disappear, bad decisions, their words can hit you like a gunshot, the chilling sensation of metal on your skin, sharp claws ready to slash anyone they encounter, shattered antique mirrors, long dark scarves, dark and tousled hair, swallowing hard, a little broken.

Manwë — pale white snow, red cheeks, dried flowers that used to be the colour of the sun, quiet half-smiles, sunlight coming through an open window in the morning, hair tucked behind ears, gives the most thoughtful gifts, always neat, sparkly jewellery, beautiful poetry, comforting hugs, light footsteps, kisses on cheeks, a laugh like wind chimes, thunderstorms that you feel in your chest, intelligent eyes, collector of small objects, windswept hair, loves their friends with almost an unhealthy amount of loyalty, the colour of the sky at dusk, a crisp autumn breeze, soft hair, gold-flecked souls, the one who is there for you even when you think you don't need them, singing under their breath, smiles as the rain falls down and laughs as their hair lifts in the breeze.

Varda — cracked spines of leather-bound classics, sharing pieces of your soul with the world, starting revolutions with simple words, rosewater, cherry blossom petals floating through the wind, making promises, midnight conversations, writing into abysmal nothingness, stargazing, knowing smiles, doesn't open up easily, soft skin, crystals, a night where the clouds hide the moon, stories swirling in your mind, cursive letters, piercing eyes, whispers filled with secrets, studying things that do not exist, bright flashes of light outside your window, silk bedsheets, mysterious, handwritten notes, stays up so late it's early, plays quiet music for ambiance, fingertips stained with ink.

Ulmo — bodies full of stories, a will that ebbs and flows, lazy smiles, no real devotion to anything but existence itself, wordless lullabies, glassy blue eyes, moves with grace and rhythm, late night swims, blue tie dyed sheets, flowing outfits, the rough ocean at night, tall waves and bitter winds, salty hair, long limbs, kind of sad and tired but you've never see them cry, goes with the flow, quiet voice but loud meaning, walks with purpose, always looks their best, very kind and giving, seashells, loud laughter, perfect posture, habit of overthinking, bare feet, ice-cold lemonade, laying on the ground to soak up the sun, sand in the air, intricate designs, high ceilings, dim lights, bitten nails.

Aule — confident, likes to perform, acts cool but is secretly emotional underneath, bold/dark colours, loves challenges, gets mad and forgives just as quickly, wouldn't change for anyone, laughing so loudly that strangers stare at you, running around like crazy person with your lover, compliments a stranger's crazy hair colour and feeling so good when they smile, unhealthy amounts of candy, fiery red sunsets, getting back up after being knocked down, they know that their friends are right behind them wherever they go, the burn in your lungs after chasing something you'll never be able to catch, always does their own thing.

Yavanna — warm days, soft smiles, making sure everyone is happy, walking barefoot, falling asleep in the sun, wishes everyone would be kinder, mugs of too-sweet tea, the person who screams don't kill the spider, adores animals, covered in freckles, one can never quite tell exactly what their eye colour is, pointing to the stars as they peek out from behind the clouds, large yawns early in the morning, a question left unanswered, honey, one hand catching another, tea that is swallowed for its warmth and not the taste, faded patterns on well-loved t-shirts, dew beading on flower petals, the imprints tight socks leave behind, wanderlust's yearning pull.

Orome — long hair, loves nature and animals, mist, sharp features, dirt under their fingernails, very down to earth, always willing to help, the strong friend, always has new, interesting facts to tell, tough as all hell, doesn't love easily but always loves deeply, walking barefoot everywhere, wildflowers threaded into messy braids, laying in the afternoon sun, big adventures, crisp air, deeply opinionated, climbing the tallest trees around, muddy feet, toothy smiles, accepting of everyone, follows their own path, stargazing off mountain cliffs, running through tall grass, folklore stories of fairies and dragons, a child at heart.

Nienna — honeyed and sulky dark summers, pomegranates, thunderstorms, magnolias, unkept promises, cinematic and shadowy, existing in a trance of melancholy, feels passionately though feigns detachment, slightly off-putting, their presence is announced but even if it wasn't you'd still know they were there, constantly underestimated, desperately afraid of silence, red-rimmed eyes, always appears serene, broken handwriting, short hair, foxes, dead leaves, large coats and scarves, numb fingers, old stone walls, steaming black tea, tears, gazing at a past lover down the hall, the smell before rain, old songs, nostalgia.

Námo — set features, eyes the color of dead souls, candles melting wax atop a piano, tragic smiles, an inexplicable sense of sharpness, hot tears, decaying cores, irreversible tornadoes, infectious whispers, heart is always pounding, doesn't like to be seen, nightmares, dark circles under their eyes that they can't hide, doesn't know their limits, slightly self-destructive, the silent one, bitter coffee, quiet observation, black eyeshadow, knows a bit of everything, no-nonsense, cold fingers and colder gazes, being misunderstood, sitting alone in a hard wood chair late at night, dead roses, losing a loved one too soon, moss covering broken gravestones, shattered glass, the taste of melancholy.

Irmo — glows when they talk, dewy eyes, radiates with a blessing from the sun, gentle hands, dandelions, white clouds, the shy warmth of the first days of spring, afternoon naps, soft pillows, carefree laughter, fields of reeds, basking in the moonlight, flower crowns, sunbathing in creeks, gloriously alive, hours among the leaves, kind soul, often lost in their own thoughts, nights spent watching the river, dancing in a circle, holding hands, soft clothes, sun kissed skin, always listening to music, either works too hard or not at all, warm smiles, dancing in the rain, catching fireflies, wanting to do everything and nothing all at once, innocent hope, paper stars in glass jars, bittersweet goodbyes, looking for beauty in everything, water-coloured skies.

Estë — dried orange garlands, snow on green tiled roofs, a bit in love, quills dipped in metallic ink, daydreaming, angelic singing, very fond of cuddling, homemade bread, constantly buying gifts for people, talkative, will hold your hand whenever and wherever, friends with almost everyone, convinced that sleeping at 10pm is late, strawberry ice cream, calming eyes, telling old stories, rosy cheeks, wanting the best for everyone, sunrises, loves nature, passionate about dreams, self-made flower crowns, will stay up late to comfort you, unexpected hugs from the back, not afraid to tell people they love them, humble.

Vairë — silver knitting needles, velvet skies filled with twinkling stars, red embroidery thread, hot black tea with spoonfuls of sugar, ballet shoes, hearts carved in birch bark, denim jackets, distant bells, foxgloves, rain moving over hills, cheek caresses, a bedroom left alone, walking in the mud and rain at dusk, resisting change, dead ends, unspoken feelings, finally coming home, looking up at the stars in hope of something more, simultaneously brimming with hope and lifeless, wiling the hours away, staring at the ceiling, wanting to write but not knowing the words, hiding from the world, afraid of the future, a sense of dread.

Vána — soft features, the smell of lavender, long walks in the sunshine, singing in a choir, sincere laughter, pastel colours, reading poetry aloud, baking cookies and sharing it with friends, kind gestures, painting on random objects, flower print clothes, lacy socks, handwritten love letters, forgiving people, graceful movements, writing poetry, roses, standing up for those who can't defend themselves, walks through nature, positivity, white lace, long hair, very graceful, always there for you, nostalgia of a time that you never knew, undeniably beautiful, the sweet breeze of a spring morning, slowing drifting off while laying on a green meadow, calm and collected, the best friend you could ask for.

Tulkas — loud laughter, hammocks, doesn't know when to stop, can't sleep, jacket with so many fixed holes it has been reduced to patchwork, flashing smiles, living on the edge, free spirit that will rip you to shreds if you dare to try and tame it, bloody knuckles, the moments of silence after a loud screaming match, riding into the sunset, dogs barking in the distance, the smell of fire on the air, running from person to person, unbridled chaos, aimless wandering, on the verge of greatness, call of the void, empty avenues, walking between worlds, wanting to hold the planets, melancholy nights, seeing things that aren't really there, wishing for more, overgrown unkempt gardens, bright colours against dark greens, tripping up on vines and logs, scraped knees.

Nessa — can go from laughing to serious fast if necessary, little bits of dark humour, staying up late, they do the little eyebrow thing when they get insulted, doodles, everybody else thinks they have friends but they don’t, red lipstick, lively, can be implosive, forgotten, mood swings like crazy, but very calm when they are happy, regrets decisions they made in the past, affectionately called a little brat, out until late in the afternoon of the next day, does not let anyone kill their vibe, seeing their escape in a person, the echo of your own steps on a tile floor, the sensation of being the only one left, a way that seems to have no end.

Eönwë — intimidating, has a soft side but only a few people see it, loves the forest, natural beauty, combat boots, deep thinker, false formality, a chord of music that breaks the silence, clouds rolling in, doesn't get angry but instead just fucking glares at you until you crumble, loves thunderstorms, mind like caverns, hands like stone, to hold or to hurt, heavy irises, earthquake tempers, unrequited love, soft voice, they know you whether you know them or not, lingering touches, people watching, the smell of old books and rain, faint music in the distance, won't let others break their friend's hearts, clearing their throat as a type of warning, moral righteousness, faith in humanity, towering buildings.

Mairon — sarcastic comments with a smile, glares that could kill, speaking in such a pretentious way that no one even understands you, obsession over studies, being a good person but getting corrupted, setting fire to the city, eyes like flames, heeled boots, soft aching hands buried in messy hair, ancient ruins, cups of tea gone cold, flawless eyeliner, impulsive decisions, false pretences, sickly sweet smiles, daunting realisations, masquerade masks, too stubborn to admit their regrets, waking up from a nightmare, hands cold to the bone, chest pains, the sharp cold of winter, rotting apples, dark circles under the eyes from not sleeping for days, hands stripped from over-washing.

So! Still trying to work out my masterlist and first few posts I have pre-written. In the meantime, please enjoy this messy aesthetic thingy.

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theteasetwrites · 1 year

Text

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 10: Straight Through My Heart

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: war, violence, scary situation, blood and gore, death ❧ Word Count: 9.5k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In this Chapter: Alexandria and the Hilltop's forces besiege the Sanctuary, with three objectives: save the princess, kill Negan, and burn the place to the ground.

❧ A/N: I am so sorry I wasn't able to keep up with the schedule for this chapter, but I have been quite busy with school, work, and life, and this chapter was pretty hard to write because it was so action-heavy, and I am not very good at writing action scenes! So I wanted to make sure I was taking my time and not rushing through it. I really hope you guys like the second to last chapter, and thank you to everyone who waited patiently the last few weeks. I hope it was worth the wait. <3

The sky was stained violet in the twilight that married day to night. It was that strange time of transition, wherein the sun had set beyond the distant hills, leaving only a soft halo of light behind, while the moon still had yet to claim her dominion.

And it was quiet, that uneasy kind of quiet. The kind that did not settle, but hung in the air with a heaviness, threatening at any moment to implode.

But the silence in the Sanctuary provided you with the solitude you needed to do all that you knew was left to do: pray.

You could not pray to God, though, for the last time you had, you knew he hadn’t even bothered to hear you. Perhaps you were a sinner. Well, you knew you were. Everyone was a sinner, and you were no exception. In fact, you had more to answer for than most—you’d lied to your own father, lain with a man to whom you weren’t married, and, worst of all, you’d tried to kill someone.

So why should you pray to God, who would surely not listen anyway?

But you still believed in Heaven. You still believed that Daryl was in Heaven, even if he, too, had been a sinner. You had to believe he was there, where he walked amongst angels in perpetual bliss. So, you prayed not to God, but to him.

Your weak knees wobbled on the cool, rough stone underneath you. A faint stream of the last light from the dusk outside crept in through the tiny crack in the old stone wall. You focused on that crack of light, its dying shimmer reminiscent of the sparkle in his eyes of cobalt blue. Just the thought of him, how you’d never see him again, brought forth the tears.

“Daryl,” you said quietly, squeezing your eyes tight as you sniffled. Lowering your head, you clasped your cold hands together, and held them below your chin, just like a prayer. “I do not know if you can hear me…”

Another sniffle as you shook your head, as if embarrassed by how pitiful you must’ve looked—on your knees in a dark, cold dungeon, wearing only a dirt-stained chemise and a pair of once beautiful pinsons on your aching feet. You’d never felt more ugly than now, not only because you felt filthy, cold, and thin, but because you felt as though all your poise and dignity had been stripped from you, until you were bare. Though you weren’t naked, it very nearly felt like you were.

The lump in your throat could not be held back much longer. With a blubbering burst of tears, you sobbed against your hands, still clasped together in prayer.

“Oh, my love… I—I do not know what to do.” The only comfort you had was in that last little sliver of blue, that crack in the wall. It was darkening now, almost black as night settled in. You still kept your gaze locked on it, that little bit of hope. “I have tried to be strong… I tried to k-kill that bastard, Negan. I did it because I do not want to feel like a prisoner ever again, but… now look where that got me.”

Your cry almost melted into a laugh at your own failure, but even that could not distract you from the grim situation you found yourself in. In fact, as you sat in momentary silence, with only the constant drip… drip… drip of a nearby drain to entertain you, you could only think of him.

Though you knew in your heart of hearts that you could not be to blame for his death, you still felt as though you were the catalyst, the cause of your own woe, and the death of the love that you had just barely begun to feel.

“Most of all… I miss you terribly, and I have not known such pain as this in so many years, to think of how you must have suffered, how you…” You swallowed back a strained gasp, shuddering to think of what had happened to him. “I never wanted you to die for me, Daryl. Never. I only wanted… I just wanted to be free. You set me free, and you did not have to. You did it because you were a good man. You are a good man. You always will be to me. I will always love you.”

Releasing a deep breath that shook you to your fragile core, you wiped your tears with the dirty sleeve of your gown. The pressure made the sensitive bruise around your eye sting. As silence settled in again, you thought of one more thing to say, one more utterance to release into the cool night air, surely never to be heard by anyone but the rats and the maggots that plagued this disgusting prison. Still, if there was a chance that your love could hear you, from wherever he was, you were going to be sure that it would mean something.

“My love,” you spoke again, “I am frightened… and I have often felt alone, before you, but now… I fear there is nothing left, that all that’s left for me is loneliness. All I’d need to believe otherwise is—well, it is silly, but… some kind of sign. Something to show me that there is still hope. If you could, would you show me something? Anything? Please, my sweet knight.”

But there was nothing. Only silence. You shook your head, feeling your tears welling up within you again. After all, what were you expecting? A beam of light, a prophetic vision, an epiphany? “Fool,” you muttered. “He cannot hear you… No one can.”

As you began to rise to your feet, a sudden rumble echoed from somewhere outside the walls. It seemed distant, and quite faint. It was not a common sound you’d grown accustomed to over the past twenty-four hours you’d been locked away, but it was familiar. It reminded you of the cannon fire from that night, when the Saviors attacked Alexandria.

It couldn’t have been that, though. The cannon fire was much louder, and had shaken the—

Boom!

You were sent back to the ground, not on your knees but on your side. The ground shook underneath you, while another round of explosions assaulted your ears. Reaching up to cover them, your eyes shot open when you realized.

“We’re under attack!” a distant voice cried out.

When the shaking subsided, you heard racing footsteps from the floor above you, swords being unsheathed and men shouting at each other, barking orders and arguing in panicked hollers. There were no windows in that dungeon, but there was that sliver—that crack in the stone wall. You lifted yourself in a hurry to cross the cell, closing one eye to look through the jagged fissure.

All you could make out for several moments was opaque blackness. The night had swallowed what was left of day in the time that had passed, but in the distance, coming over a gentle slope, was a sight you could not believe.

First, you saw the flames, the torches that some of the men carried as they rode on horseback. Much further in the distance, you could make out the silhouette of the bombards mounted on carriages, some being loaded by men in full suits of armor, others being pushed forward, making their assault on the keep.

They’d already made it past the castle walls, it seemed, as the battlements were all but destroyed, with flames swallowing the remaining rubble. It was too dark to make out their alliance, but you knew it could not be Alexandria. The kingdom was too weak for such a siege, and you’d never seen such bombards before. No, this must have been some foreign faction… Perhaps they even could have been just as evil as Negan and the Saviors.

You could not allow yourself to have hope of being rescued, but you had asked for a sign. Any sign. Though you were hoping for something more metaphorical, you supposed this would do.

As the armored Friesian’s hooves galloped over a fallen Savior’s writhing body, the knight raised his sword with one hand, and, in one swift motion, sliced the head of another’s clean off before rounding the corner of the keep.

Through his armet, with only two thin oculariums allowing him to see, he could just make out the great entrance, raised high by a flight of imposing stone steps looking over the besieged castle grounds. The armored Prince Jesus and Duke Richard followed closely behind, each upon their own steeds and slaying every Savior that came barreling towards them.

“We must go on foot now!” Jesus shouted over the warfare, men-at-arms all around them, some roaring battlecries, others wailing in agony as they writhed in the bloodied earth, Saviors and Alexandrians and Hilltop soldiers alike. “Onward to the keep! That is where your princess will be, and Negan.”

The three men dismounted before their horses ran off, over the debris from the fallen walls and towards the safety of the woods. Sir Daryl watched them as long as he could see them, before they dissolved into the smoky darkness of the night.

Making their assault on the keep, the three fought through the crowd, knocking men from their horses to rid them of their helms before driving their blades through their faces without too much remorse. These men were all different degrees of evil, but they were all on the same spectrum. They all stole, tortured, killed, raped… There could be no remorse for the Saviors, who had shown no such remorse before.

With each step the knight and his companions get closer, climbing the steep hill towards the entrance to the keep, the other soldiers of Alexandria and Hilltop followed, preparing to assault the keep—Negan’s home.

They were fueled by vengeance, rage at the ravaging of their homes and the murders of their loved ones. In the distance, Daryl could hear the king shouting above the chaos. “Surround them!” he said, wielding his own sword as he fought amongst the common men. “Push on! To the keep!”

But the mass of soldiers was too thick for the battering ram to get through without conflict, and that door was not going to open by itself. More likely than not, there were Saviors on the other side of that door—likely Negan’s most skilled, trusted guards.

Seeing this, the king turned to whistle the signal.

The beast was released from her chains, then, and with a roar, Shiva bounded towards the skirmish, her strong paws pushing the Saviors out of the way before she dug her claws into them, her teeth cutting through the steel of the armor to puncture their flesh. A few Alexandrians and Hilltop fighters were knocked over in the event, but the tiger kept the Saviors down long enough for twelve of the king’s men to run up the steps to the keep as they carried a long, heavy wood beam with the steel head of a ram on its end.

The knight, the duke, and the prince stood by, their swords held high in preparation to fight the Saviors on the other side.

The men with the battering ram heaved several times, each time making the door splinter until finally the ram broke through, destroying the door as the men plowed through, dropping the beam to lift their blades and fight.

Daryl went first in afterwards, with Jesus and Richard following behind. Sure enough, the place was crawling with Saviors, armored and wearing the black and red colors of House Smith.

The knight was faced with a particularly skilled Savior, who advanced towards him in a diagonal lunge, his sword swinging with intent to attack the weakest point—the underarm.

But Daryl was quick, parrying for a moment, only to regain his stability and counter the Savior’s next strike with his own.

Though he had the perfect moment to slash at the briefly exposed skin between his helm and his gorget, instead he seized the opportunity to tackle the man with such force that his weapon clattered to the floor as he pushed him into a hidden alcove beneath the stone staircase, where the Savior fought for freedom from the knight’s attack, but Daryl was using all his strength to keep the man pressed against the wall.

He sheathed his own sword to reach for the misericorde strapped to his leather belt. With the dagger in one hand, he used the other to yank open the visor of the man’s helm, exposing two wide, frightened deep brown eyes.

The knight was young, probably only just promoted from a squire, but Daryl did not have time to care. He’d already killed plenty of young men tonight, and one more wouldn’t make him any less damned.

He lifted the blade to the Savior’s left eye, its narrow tip poised to puncture the young knight’s pupil as though it were the center of a target. In the confined space of his helm, he breathed heavily, the heat of his anger and adrenaline burning fumes in the back of his throat as he spoke three simple words, his voice louder than even he had anticipated, but he had no time to repeat himself: “Where’s the princess?”

“I—I know of no princess.”

A low, muffled growl escaped Daryl’s lips. He pressed his chest harder against that of the Savior, his grip on the dagger becoming at once firm and shaky as irrational rage overcame him. It was as though he was looking Negan in the eye right now. Though, this Savior had a kindness in his eyes, one distinctly different from the evil of Sir Negan’s serpentine stare. Still, there was deceit behind those eyes. Years of interrogating prisoners of war had trained him well, despite the psychological toll it had taken on him. At least he could tell when a man was lying.

“Wrong answer,” he replied through lips tightly drawn into a snarl. He did not need to harm the knight beyond the suffocating weight he inflicted onto the young man’s chest, he only had to narrow his eyes in a freezing stare. “Wanna try again?”

The young knight swallowed hard as his defense began to crumble, though he still feigned ignorance. “Sh-she is here.”

Daryl huffed as he inched his dagger closer, the tip grazing the Savior’s eyelashes as they fluttered in nervous movements. The knight never did have much patience, and now, with your life and the lives of his men at stake, he couldn’t care less about the chivalry which was supposed to dictate his every action and every word, even in battle. In fact, he’d never been chivalrous enough to care about that before. When it came to war, every man was a savage, and Daryl was no exception.

“You’ve got about five seconds to tell me where she is ‘fore you lose your damn eye.”

“No, please!” The Savior caved easily, and it was clear that, despite the fact that Negan trusted him enough to be one of his personal guards, he was not particularly loyal. Not if he surrendered that easily. From Daryl’s knowledge of war, a truly loyal soldier would lose his eye and maybe a few other body parts before giving in. “Last I heard she was locked away in the dungeon. Negan gave orders to put her in there just last night. I haven’t heard anything since, that’s all I know. I swear!”

For a good several moments, Daryl did not remove his blade, his lips snarling at the Savior as he processed his words, and contemplated whether or not to kill him.

He wanted to. No Savior left alive, he repeated in his head like a mantra, but he wasn’t going to be the one to kill him. Something told him not to. Perhaps it was that last bit of gallantry, or perhaps he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“What’s your name?” he asked the young man, words which he’d never thought he’d ask of an enemy. The man seemed confused by his question, so he jolted him against the wall and demanded again, “What’s your name?”

“Alden.”

“Alden… This place is gonna burn to the ground. If you value your life, you’d leave now and never look back.”

The Savior nodded, his eyes softening as Daryl removed his weight and the knife from his face. As Daryl turned to begin his search for you, Alden said one more thing. “Wait!”

The knight turned, half-expecting the man to turn on him, just as a precaution.

But he did not attack him. He only held out a large iron key, dangling from the ring in his hand. “You’ll need this.”

You paced back and forth the length of the cell, wringing your hands nervously before you tried again, though you were sure either no one could hear you, or no one cared.

But you had to try, even if every cell in your body was against it. Death seemed inevitable, and perhaps you truly had nothing more to live for, if the world was as dark and cold as it seemed, but you believed that fortune held you in its favor, somehow. The attack was a sign. A sign from Daryl. That’s what you had to believe. There was no time to stand idly by, you had to act. And the only way to act, in your current position, was to shake those bars that held you in your cell, and to scream at the top of your lungs.

“Hey!” you cried out, your voice drowned out by the sounds of warfare outside and above you. “Hey! What is happening?! Let me out!”

As they neared the dungeon, racing down the winding steps that took them underground, the four men plowed through more Saviors, the ones tasked with guarding the dungeon. Despite being nowhere to be seen, Negan must’ve sent extra defenses to protect the subterranean corridors.

With the help of Jesus and Alden, the duke and the knight tunneled their way through the maze, each corner they turned revealing a new foe, until they found themselves nearing a great iron gate, beyond which Daryl swore he could hear your voice. The fear and confusion pierced his heart like a thorn, though the familiarity in your voice was like the sweetest rose.

“This way!” cried Alden. “Hurry!”

The four men raced towards the gate, with Alden hurriedly turning the key in the lock. Daryl did not hesitate, throwing the door open with a great echo of the squeaking of hinges. He stepped in quickly, and the other three men followed, though Daryl pushed them back.

“Stay out here,” he said. “Keep watch. If anyone followed us—”

“Go,” said the duke. “But hurry.”

For the first time in several hours, you heard the creaking of the opening door, the footsteps that echoed through the dark, winding halls of the dungeon. Though you could not see who they belonged to, you had more fear in your heart than hope.

All you could see beyond the bars of your cell and at the end of the hall was that same glow of that same fire of that same sconce that provided the only light you had in this God forsaken place. As you stepped back, terrified of the slow, heavy footsteps growing increasingly loud, the shadow of the figure played against the stone floor, flickering with the light.

Surely, you were to die tonight, whether by the hands of a Savior or one of the intruders. You could not see any other way for this to end, though you had wished so much for Daryl’s sign to be true.

“Please,” was all you could muster, your voice shaky and delicate, close to shattering like thin, weak glass.

He followed your voice, his vision obscured by his helm that he had forgotten to remove in the haste to locate you. When he turned the corner, finally laying eyes on you, his heart could not bear to waste another moment—he moved as fast as he could in his heavy steel armor, which you could not recognize at all.

It was not the armor of Alexandria, nor of the Saviors. No, it was the Hilltop’s armor, but you’d never seen it in your life.

All you could see was an unfamiliar man in unfamiliar armor hurriedly jimmying the key in the lock of your cell door, while you cowered in the dusty dark corner, frightened. With nowhere left to go, you sank to the floor in defeat, hugging your knees to your chest for some semblance of comfort.

“I—I am not one of them,” you stuttered. “Please.”

But the knight did not respond, himself too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. He stood before you now, frozen for a moment, until he kneeled to face you at your level. Between those thin, rectangular windows built into the cold shiny steel of his helmet, you could see a sparkle of cobalt blue, like the reflection of the sunlight that danced upon gentle waves of the sea on a bright summer’s day. For a split second, you swore you recognized that glimmer, the way it made your stomach do somersaults and your chest swell up with air when you’d forget to breathe properly.

Only now, you were sure it was fear that made your body react that way, not the eyes of your lover, so you thought.

It could not be… And yet, he moved like him, he was built like him, he even very nearly smelled like him—a warm, woody musk. Perhaps it was only your mind playing tricks on you, though, or just wishful thinking.

“Wh-what do you want?” The words were so strangled by the tightness in your barren throat that he could hardly hear you, his helm dulling his senses. “Who are you?”

Just then, Daryl realized how negligent he had been in his stupor. He was still wearing that helmet, and you could not see him for who he was. He could speak, but he feared he’d just cry, and what kind of knight in shining armor would weep before his beloved lady?

You watched with bated breath as the knight lowered his head, his gauntleted hands rising up to either side of his helm. It took some effort to pull the thing off, with it the linen padding and chain mail that protected his head. Left behind was only a curtain of long, shoulder-length hair, chestnut in hue, with subtle streaks of sun-kissed brown and ashy flaxen laced throughout.

His head still hung, you could not quite make out his face, as it was shrouded in sinuous ripples of hair that so much reminded you of Daryl, but you could not let your mind wander into irrational fantasies of seeing him again, though it was tempting to do so.

With a drag of his hand, he pushed back the hair that hung over his forehead, then lifted his gaze to meet yours, his face blotched with blackish-gray ash and gunpowder from the cannon fire that he’d fought through to get to you.

But it was not dark enough to disguise him, his features clear as day. Gentle, deep-set eyes of blue shone brighter now without the obscurity of his helm. A short, rounded nose of button shape sat above a pair of panting lips. They were not plump, nor exceptionally thin—there was a softness to them. Around those lips, a smattering of a thin layer of facial hairs, which faded into high cheekbones, defined just enough to bring shape to the otherwise soft curves of his face.

The part of him that made you shudder, though, was the long, reddish scar that split above and below his left eye. You’d traced that scar over in your mind a thousand times, recreated it to perfection whenever the image of your knight’s visage lulled you to sleep in the comfort of your warm feather bed.

Could it be some cruel trick, some strange sorcery, some facsimile that you’d conjured up in your troubled mind? Or perhaps, and most mercifully, you were dead, too, and this image was an angel sent to carry you into Heaven… Though you knew you were not bound for such a place. No, he was real. You could feel it.

But you could not believe it, not until you touched him, reaching out to hold his ashy cheeks in both of your hands as you leaned closer to him, feeling the heat of his body which you once thought was cold and lifeless. Yet here he was, alive, his heart beating fiercely, as though it yearned to tear itself from his chest and his armor and bury itself next to yours, where it belonged.

“Daryl?”

When he spoke your name, you could not keep yourself from him much longer, your head dizzy with shock and your heart fragile with the sudden break away from grief and utter despair. Your body melted into his arms, your cheek held firm against the cool hard steel of his pauldron as your tears began to puddle on the surface.

There were no words between you for a while, only the sound of your gentle cries against his shoulder, and the heavy breaths he panted out as his lips gently grazed your neck, one hand supporting your back while the other tangled in your hair.

But you could not keep yourself from lifting your head up from his shoulder, letting your eyes dart frantically all over his face. Despite your tears, your lips curled into a smile, with something between a laugh and a cry escaping between sighs.

He could not handle the separation, though. His eyes squeezed shut, he leaned forward to touch your forehead with his, then the tips of your noses were stuck together like glue, your lips tickling each other’s in featherlight grazes as your breathing synced and your heartbeats seemed to create a harmony from their natural rhythms. Of course, you could not hear it, but you both felt it, deep in your souls.

“I thought you were…” Hesitation to even speak of the possibility of his death stopped you from continuing, your voice instead softening into a teary sigh, the breath of which he felt on his trembling lips.

Just the sound of your voice had him in pieces, crumbling like a dried leaf in the palm of your hand, the hand which he held in his, his grip firm but so gentle. And in his arms, you were trembling, cold and tired and hanging onto him as though he was an apparition that could dissolve at any moment, and after everything you had seen, you feared that could be true.

“Are you real?” you whispered, still surrounded by him and his corporeal presence. “Am I dreaming, or are you really my knight, my Daryl?”

“I am real… I am your knight, and I am gonna get you out of here.” Now, he pulled away, the reality of the situation setting in, but his gaze was set on the purple swelling of skin around your right eye. Though you tried to lower your head, as if to hide it from him, he lifted your chin up with his armored hand. Tears trickled down your cheeks, squeezed out as you closed your eyes.

A burning rage took him over then, that puffy, bruised flesh striking him like lightning that set him ablaze. As he examined you, you swore you saw his top lip twitch into a snarl. The anger was not at you, of course, but at the mark of your assault, and the hand which had committed it.

“He did this?” he asked. “He hurt you?” You had not known such intensity in his voice, or such a menacing fire of fury behind his eyes. Underlying it all, though, was concern. Concern for you. His soothing touch as he stroked up and down your arms proved that. “Did he touch you?”

Though a part of you wanted to lie, to forget about Negan and everything you’d gone through, you could not lie to him, not your love.

“H-he… Yes.”

You did not have to say more.

“I’ll kill him. Right now. Son of a bitch is a dead man.” He’d stood to his feet now, with you still clinging to him, and his hands still holding onto your arms as you shook your head. You could not risk losing him again. You’d already gone through the pain of losing him once, and now that you knew that pain, you could never go through it again.

“No, my love. He is not worth risking your life, not again.”

Of course, he knew you were right—your safety was more important than his desire to kill Negan, and right now, in the catacombs of the Sanctuary, you were anything but safe. His priority now was getting you as far away from Negan and the Saviors as possible, and just hope to God that whoever found Negan killed him slowly, because that’s what he deserved for laying a hand on you.

At the very least, he’d see that you’d never be hurt again so long as he could help it. Pulling his dagger from his belt, he held it by the blade to offer you the handle. “Take this,” he said. You took the misericorde with a shaky, tired hand.

Before you could speak, the duke’s voice called out: “Let’s go!” he cried. “Now!”

There was no time to even consider it. Daryl took your hand, leaving behind his helm in a hurry to lead you out of the dungeon. You were greeted by the three other men, two of which you had never seen before, one of whom was dressed in Savior armor.

But before you could even ask, the Savior led the way down the cavernous tunnels below the Sanctuary, where footsteps and screams and sounds of cannon fire echoed through the old, winding passageways.

“There’s an escape route through here!” said Sir Alden, pointing further down the underground tunnel, leading into darkness. “It opens into the woods!”

The Saviors, though, were following not far behind, a squadron of them rounding the corner to see the prince, the duke, the knight, the traitor, and the princess, all momentarily frozen to face the dilemma: either stay and fight them off, or keep running until you reached the other side. Either way, they would have to fight at some point.

One strong hand pushing you back behind him, the knight withdrew his sword, as did the other men, standing firm against the Saviors, but Prince Jesus had another plan.

“Go,” he said. “We’ll keep them busy, you get the princess to safety.”

Daryl hesitated, looking between you and the prince, whose sword was about to strike one of oncoming attackers. “Go!” he called out, still feeling the knight’s presence. It was not honorable to leave an ally to battle alone, but then, it was even more dishonorable to put a princess in danger.

With only a few more moments’ hesitation, the knight took your hand, spinning you around to pull you further down the tunnel, into darkness.

There was hardly a flash of light to guide you, but somewhere in the distance, a sliver of bright moonlight crept underneath the iron door that surely led out into the woods outside, far from the cannon fire and bloodshed.

At length, you reached the exit, the knight only letting go of your hand to lift the bar that kept the door sealed from the outside, and to then break the link of the chain lock with the steel of his armor. When the door was thrown open, a gentle, cool breeze awakened you, into the relative peace of the quiet sylvan glade.

You could only double over for a moment, panting heavily as Daryl closed the door behind you. When you felt his arms lifting you up, you stood upright, falling into his embrace.

“We’ve got to keep movin’,” he panted, his armor weighing him down and forcing his breath to escape him more strongly. “Further we get the better… The horses aren’t far from here.”

Beyond the gentle slope of a hill, you could see the Sanctuary—plumes of gray smoke illuminating the crumbling parapets and the burning towers that once had stood tall and formidable. Even now, you could faintly hear the voice of your father, commanding the cannons to release more fire upon whatever rubble was left behind. The forces of Alexandria and the Hilltop did not retreat, not even now, but kept pushing, with the intent of killing every armored Savior man big enough to carry a sword.

Frozen in fear, you were shaken by Daryl’s hands on your shoulders, his touch reminding you where you were, and that you were alive. Free. It was not unlike the feeling you had when you escaped through the tunnels that first time, stepping out into these same woods.

He spoke your name, drawing your attention to him. Wordlessly, you let him guide you, his arm wrapped around you as he practically held half your weight to move you with him. Somewhere in the darkness, you’d lost your slippers. Once you’d relished in the feeling of being barefoot in these woods, but now, your feet were tired, soar, and stinging with cuts from the sharp twigs that your soft soles dragged over.

But his strength kept you upright, though gravity seemed to be working against you. Just for one moment you wished to stop, to catch your breath and to rest your poor, lacerated feet. “Daryl,” you said. “I—I must stop. Just for a moment.”

He felt your weight begin to sag as he nearly lost his grip on your waist, but he was quick to set you down upon a fallen log, coated with overgrown moss nearly soft enough to feel like some sort of cushion. It was a welcome relief as you struggled to stay sitting upright, despite your desire to lay down and sleep for an eternity or two.

“Let me see,” said Daryl, lifting your foot by your heel to examine the sole. If you’d been more alert, you’d have been more embarrassed for him to see the state of your feet, bloodied and feeling as though they had been whittled down to the bone. “I will carry you… We can’t tarry long.”

“Just… just a moment, please.”

The pain in your voice carved a new fissure in his heart, your hand clinging to his shoulder, the other gripped tight around the knife at your side as you strained to control your tears. Though you screwed your eyes shut with the tension of your pain, the gentle feeling of his forehead against yours forced them to flutter open, his face a welcome relief from the agony that plagued your sore, tired body.

It occurred to you again that he was alive, real, that this wasn’t some kind of strange dream. Or maybe it was. You could not tell, with the hazy glow around him as your tired eyes struggled to focus on his visage. “Daryl…”

All pain melted away for a moment as you lifted your hands to feel the warmth of his cheeks. You could feel his smile, both in the lift of his face and the depths of your soul, which you were sure now was tied unbreakably to his, for he was alive, and so were you.

“I love you,” was all you could say, with so much more fervor and earnestness and purity than you had before, to anyone. You said it once more, this time through a weak laugh that made your voice tremble in delirious glee: “I love you.”

He did not need to reply in words—his soft, featherlight kiss conveyed more than words ever could. It was more coherent, more potent, more true. Your lips conformed to the gentle contours of his as you leaned forward, fully immersed in him and his love, his warmth embracing you like two strong arms of burning hearthfire. It was not an impassioned kiss, but one of comfort, reassurance, and the truest kind of love.

As he pulled away, you ached to feel his lips once more, but his eyes entranced you. Even in just the light of the full moon, you could still see that crisp blue, enveloping you in his longing.

“I never stopped thinking of you,” he said.

“Nor did I… Every second I was in that horrible place felt like the world ending all over again. All I wanted was to hear your voice again.”

On his knees before you, he felt like a pilgrim at the altar of his Goddess, to whom he promised eternal worship and sacrifice—the only divinity he devoted himself to, the only saint worth sanctifying, the only idol he held to such exaltation that he would gladly be nailed to a cross in sacrifice for Her and Her alone. In the temple of your body, he felt your heartbeat against his chest, even beyond the plate of armor that separated him from you. At least, he swore he could. How he missed that feeling.

“I’m here now, princess… And I love you.”

For a while, the space between you seemed to be the entirety of the universe, the center of it all right where your chests met, where your hearts beat. In the bliss of the silent, cool night air, you smiled. “Oh, my sweet knight.”

But the peaceful darkness was broken by the harsh glow of a flame, creeping into your line of vision despite all your focus concentrated on the man before you. Behind him, a figure was silhouetted by the light, moving between the trees on the edge of the forest.

It was a figure you knew well.

Tall, lean, almost slithering, but much too bold for that—he moved with more arrogance. It was more like a saunter, but with an unmistakable rage in his heavy, ominously slow step.

Daryl felt the presence, shooting up from his knees to withdraw his sword, his body shielding you from whatever danger lurked. The minute he saw his face, that wide, chortling grin, a strange feeling overcame him. Though it was mostly abject fury, there was a hint of satisfaction, as though the perfect opportunity had befallen him.

Bloodlust. He’d felt it before, but never like this. Never before did he have such a resolute desire to kill a man, and now the man was before him, he did not have to wish that he could’ve been able to kill Negan himself. He was right there, and just as he knew he would the minute that vile man set his filthy snake eyes on you, he was going to kill him.

There was no question, no hesitation, no other option. Daryl would have his head for taking you from him, for hurting you, for even looking at you.

In Negan’s hand was the lit torch from which the light had come. In the other, a sword. He was not heavily armored, only protected by a breastplate and loose chain mail draping over his arms, but the way he glowered at Daryl now, his smile becoming more devious and sinister by the second, you knew he was here to fight.

With your knife behind your back, you stood to your feet, positioning yourself so you were nearly alongside Daryl, but he quickly moved in front of you, shielding you from the presence of Negan.

But beyond his shoulder, you could still see the bitterness in his gaze as he approached, sauntering as he swung his sword by his legs.

“Daryl, I presume?”

For the first time in his life, he made sure that his title was honored. “Sir Daryl.”

Negan’s eyes widened in amusement and faux impress. “Pardon my inelegance… Sir Daryl, I believe you have taken something from me. Something that belongs to me.”

Behind your snarl was a momentary lapse of fear, only vanquished by smoldering anger and hatred. To think of any universe in which you belonged to that man was nothing short of abject horror. You only hoped that such a universe could never exist. Before you could think about it too long, Negan added another few words to his vile declarations.

“And I want it back.”

The it in question was you, of course, and the insinuation that you were some kind of object to be passed around only fueled Daryl with more hatred than his heart could stand. Another word from that man might have been fatal to the both of them.

“You’ll die first,” he said.

Negan let out a hearty chuckle, underscored by a biting bitterness that cut through the knight’s armor, reminding him of the danger he was up against. Daryl might’ve been a good fighter, but surely Sir Negan was no amateur. He had been knighted once, after all, and he could not have made it to his position as a leader without some battle prowess. It was evident in the way he walked, his sword now held high in both hands, the torch he once carried thrown haphazardly to the dirt and illuminating the scene with the hellish glow of an orange flame.

“Are you challenging me to a duel, knight?”

“No,” replied Daryl, swinging his sword upright with impressive swiftness and skill. “I won't duel a dishonorable knight… But I am going to kill you.”

As Negan held back another insufferable chuckle, you stood to your bare feet, one hand still holding the knife behind your back, the other upon the knight’s shoulder, as if to pull him away, but he was planted firmly. In fact, he nearly lunged towards the other man, if it weren’t for your touch.

“Daryl, you do not have to fight him,” you said under your breath, your concern not for the other man, but for the wellbeing of Daryl. You had already believed him to be dead just an hour ago, and you did not possess the strength to face that reality again. “He is weak now. The Sanctuary has fallen… He has nothing. He cannot take me again.”

But that was not good enough for him.

Negan was ordered to be killed on sight, and there was no way in Hell he would let that man go with his head still intact. Not after what he had done. The evidence was on your face as he looked back at you, his sight beginning to practically blur with rage. No, it did not matter how powerless Negan was now. All that mattered was ridding the air of his filthy stench.

“Princess,” Negan said, a bite to his teasing voice that made the bruised flesh around your eye sting. “When I kill your useless knight, you come with me.” There was a crazed desperation in his eyes, and a frantic adrenaline running through his veins until they bulged in his sweat-shined forehead.

The powerlessness came rushing back, the feeling that you were nothing but property to be claimed by whichever powerful man came along and made his decree. But that would never happen again, not anymore.

You’d spent too long feeling trapped in a world that you had no control over, like a flimsy paper doll subject to the whims of a careless child. Though there was not much you could do now, there was the reassurance that you were ultimately in control of your own destiny—that you were free.

And Daryl had freed you. Though you had the power in you all along, his love had changed you. It made you stronger, and now you stood in the face of that which threatened your destiny. With whatever power was within you, you would protect that destiny, and that destiny was him.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Daryl said to you, his voice low and rumbling with the earthquake of fury that rose inside of him. There was nothing else to say, only a steady look cutting through the heavy air between you. With a nod, you clenched your jaw and straightened your back in an attempt to hold back the fear of losing him again, though above all, you had faith in him.

Only three words fell from your trembling, burning lips: “Yes, you will.”

At length, Daryl stepped forward, while Negan matched his movements to the knight opposite of him. As their swords swung up in unison, the tension between them was broken by their sharp blades cutting through to meet, the sharp, stinging sound of silver crossing silver ringing in your ears as you watched, eyes wide and unblinking for fear of one second changing everything.

There was no fear of going back to Negan now, only the fear of losing Daryl.

But he was a good swordsman—that much you knew. And as he advanced forward diagonally, he met Negan’s next swing with a front guard and a heavy step forward to push the lighter man back with his body weight, then striking again in an attempt to lacerate the exposed skin of his opponent’s neck.

Negan was swift, though, fading backwards only to catch himself with the skill of a trained swordsman. He took a fierce lunge with his sword’s point aimed at the space between Daryl’s breastplate and his underarm, but Daryl blocked the attack with a short guard, his sword held with such force that it propelled Negan’s sword nearly out of his hands.

Daryl’s movements were equally as swift now, his attack coming quickly as he lunged towards Negan with the offensive. He raised his sword high now, coming at the taller man with a window guard that poised his blade just above his own head, the point headed directly for Negan’s eye.

If the strike had hit, you were sure you’d be sick to your stomach to see the steel penetrate his face, blood surely spewing in a geyser as the blade would tunnel through the brain and exit out the back of his head, but Negan was too cunning, once again.

With a pivot, he swiveled himself to the right of Daryl, using his height to his advantage as he turned his sword at an angle, then used the pommel of his hilt to strike at the base of the back of Daryl’s neck, the pain of which elicited a grunt from the man who stumbled forwards.

A fearful gasp escaped your lips, though only rage burned through you, causing you to grip harder on the handle of the dagger you still held behind your back, waiting only for the right moment to strike. You took to studying the man’s weak points—the spots at which his minimal armor allowed for easy access. His back was only draped in chain mail, which you knew to be weaker than steel plate.

And the blade Daryl had given you was incredibly sharp, with its point small enough to penetrate through small crevices and weak spots in armor. If you could get through that chain mail, you might puncture his heart from the back… But he moved so fast, his feet conjuring a whirlwind of dust as he slid to and fro above the dirt ground.

Though Daryl had caught himself before he could fall, he was winded by the hit to his neck. Negan only smiled, swaying his head in arrogant amusement as the knight returned his gaze with a glare.

Had this been a true duel, Negan’s hit would have been unsanctioned, an unfair and unchivalrous move that would have had him disqualified. Daryl should have known, though, that a dishonored knight would not abide by any code, and that the only way he would be able to defeat Negan was to forgo any last shred of chivalry he could spare.

A man of Negan’s ilk did not deserve such a privilege anyway.

“You see, my princess,” Negan called out over his shoulder to you, his eyes never leaving the huffing and puffing knight whose face grew more red and more strained with each second that Negan still breathed. As he spoke he swung his sword in haphazard circles through the air in front of him, a slight chuckle rumbling under his voice. “He’s pathetic, a waste of a good sword. How could your so-called knight keep you safe when he can’t even keep his balance?”

Daryl stood still, momentarily paralyzed by unspeakable anger as sweat soaked through his hair and trickled down the hot skin of his face. Heavy pants and an increasingly frantic heartbeat nearly drowned out the man’s loud, brash voice, but it cut through like a hot knife, scorching his burning skin as his words gouged a little deeper with each stinging utterance.

“Oh, but he could not even protect you when the Dead invaded your kingdom… He couldn’t protect you then, and he sure as hell can’t protect you now.”

The man turned towards you now, peeling his aways away from Daryl to saunter slowly in your direction. You stepped back, eyes wide and lips agape with quick pants. As fear overwhelmed you, you kept your hands behind your back, just waiting for him to get a little closer, though he never did.

Daryl lunged towards him, taking advantage of Negan’s momentary lapse of attention to raise his sword and swing it down just as his opponent turned around. But Negan was quick, retreating with a backwards step and a block that pushed Daryl back too.

And Negan knew what he was doing—weakening Daryl with his words, drawing out his anger to render his technique sloppy and uncoordinated. So he continued, gesturing the tip of his sword towards the knight.

“You know how this ends,” he said. “You know that I’m gonna win… Because people like me, we always win in this world. People who take what they want and get what they want.”

But none of those words meant anything to Daryl, who could not comprehend anything past the smug grin that split Negan’s face, and the boiling of his blood as he grew nearly faint with rage.

Through heavy panting breaths, he spoke without even hearing his own voice: “I said… I’m the one who’s gonna kill you… And I am no liar.”

With a strong footing, he threw himself forward with a grunt so loud that it could have suited as a battlecry. His swing was fueled by pure hatred, to the point that he moved even faster than Negan could deflect this time. It made your heart jump in your chest, watching your knight seem to gain the upper hand again, his sword never relenting and his movements swift enough to dodge every stroke that came his way.

Now, Negan was winded, his long legs seeming to almost shake underneath him as he struggled to keep his body guarded against Daryl’s blade. With a swift advance, calculated yet impassioned by another outburst of anger, he drew Negan’s attention with a false strike, his blade not following through with the swing directed towards his abdomen.

Negan’s right shoulder was effectively exposed now, displayed for just a millisecond directly before Daryl’s eyes. Where his pauldron slipped, loosened by the movement, a sliver of aged leather was revealed between plates of shining black steel. In a split second, he made a hard strike, the edge of his blade slicing through the leather and gouging open the skin of his shoulder.

Negan bellowed deeply, groaning in pain as he swung haphazardly while Daryl faded back, narrowly missing the edge of his blade.

The cut was deep, digging through muscle and ligaments and nearly into bone. If Daryl had swung any harder, his arm might’ve been hanging on only by a thread of blood dripping flesh.

But there was enough strength in his arm still to raise his sword again, barrelling towards Daryl as fast as his anger could carry him. Daryl deflected his strike with a front guard, but the second blow was strong enough to do the unthinkable.

Your eyes widened as a gasp escaped your lips, the edge of his sword cutting through the air as it flew a yard or two away from your knight’s outstretched hand. With nothing to block against Negan’s next move, Daryl was rendered defenseless.

“Daryl!”

The knight had fallen on his back, struggling to return to his feet just as Negan walked over him, planting his muddied boots on each of his wrists to keep him pinned down, despite his fingers flexing in desperation to reach the handle of the sword that lay just inches from reach.

And your heart had dropped to your stomach again, your frantic mind scrambling to figure out what to do. There was that blade in your hands, and perhaps you could… No—not perhaps.

There was no doubt in your mind now what you needed to do, the red cascade of blood beginning to pour over the silver steel of his greaves. Negan’s last swing had been strong enough to slice through the armor, into the flesh of Daryl’s thigh. Without his sword, and without the strength to free himself from underneath Negan’s feet, he could not defend himself against Negan. Even with the wound to his shoulder, he had the upper hand. The final upper hand.

That fear showed itself again—that same confusion and uncertainty that overtook you and made you freeze when that herd closed around him, a feeling which you knew all too well. Now, he was not surrounded by the Dead, but something much more evil: a man whose selfishness and greed trumped any human decency he once might have had.

But you would never feel powerless again. Not when you were in control, and that misericord in your trembling hands could put an end to the fear that had held you in its clutch for a decade. All this time, you thought freedom was in leaving the walls of Alexandria, but it was in something else, too.

Freedom was in putting an end to that which kept you imprisoned in fear.

As you moved forward, your aching, lacerated feet carried you slowly, silently towards the man whose back was turned to you. With your eyes narrowed on a ring of silver in the center of the chain mail draped over his back. Unblinking and barely breathing, you lifted the small blade, trapped in the clutch of your hand beneath your white knuckles.

“You’re the one who’s gonna kill me, huh?” Negan’s head tilted slightly as he watched Daryl struggle to free himself, his face displaying the utter amusement that such a sight afforded him. “Now, I just don’t see that happening… You know, you really shouldn’t come to a duel without a sword.”

With a huff, the knight spat a glob of saliva at Negan. A futile exercise in defiance, but what else was he to do?

“Now, because I am a merciful man,” he continued, the tip of his sword beginning to dig into the skin of Daryl’s neck, just enough to draw a bead of fresh blood onto the already bloodied edge, “I’ll let you make your peace with my princess, whom you so unceremoniously swept away from my castle.”

Without turning completely towards you, he called out your name. “My princess,” he said, “is there anything you’d like to say before I rid your knight of his weary head?”

For a moment, you feared he would turn to see you just inches from him, your knife poised to dig into his back, but just before you lunged forward, you answered him—with the only words you could think to say in response:

“I am not your princess.”

The closeness of your voice widened his eyes, and just before he turned, you’d felt the heaviness of the knife tunneling into his flesh, its sharp tip carving a path straight to his cold, evil heart.

You swore you could even feel it beating, if it had ever beat at all.

Negan stumbled backwards, taking you with him as your hands were still grasped tight around the handle of your dagger.

And the weight was lifted from the knight’s wrists, as Negan’s grip on his own sword faltered and weakened. The blade fell from his hands, but in midair, the knight caught it by its hilt as he leaned up with all his strength.

In just a moment’s time, he swung.

The slice was clean, only a splash of hot blood stinging your cold cheek. Severed with ease, the head flew in midair only for a few moments, landing in the dirt not far from the knight’s fallen sword.

Negan’s headless body sank to the floor, almost with an eerie consciousness, as though even his body insisted to stand his ground until the last possible moment. With only the distant crackling of the torch and the heavy breaths back and forth between you and him, the silence of the night swallowed the tension that had once lingered in the air.

Now there was only relief, and whatever was left of the fear you had began to crumble away.

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