#The Raw Impact Unleashed

[2kk2network]

TRIU Match of the Week w/K Double (1994 Royal Rumble)

Original Air Date: Jan 5, 2017 Description: This week K Double takes a look at a classic as he looks at the 1st Double winners in Royal Rumble history, Bret Hart and Lex Luger…

[aventurineswife]

Hihiii !!

may i request a Phainon x reader where as hes using his ult form whilst in battle, the reader gets injured (it can be anything !! like a broken ankle or they sprained their wrist handling their weapon) and Phainon insists on carrying them either still in battle even still in his ult form or after he finished obliterating the opponents that caused the injury in the first place? I dunno, but surprise me ! !(^o^)!

Feel free to ignore this if you don't want to write it, and take care of yourself!!! 🫶

A Sovereign’s Vow

Summary: During a fierce battle in the Okhema Wastes, you suffer a sudden injury that leaves you vulnerable on the battlefield. As chaos erupts around you, Phainon unleashes his ultimate form—Demiurge—becoming a celestial embodiment of light and shadow. After obliterating the enemies responsible, he finds you and insists on carrying you to safety, revealing the quiet, unwavering depth of his devotion beneath his godlike power. Between divinity and vulnerability, a bond between you shines through.

Tags: Phainon x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Battle Scene, Injured Reader, Protective Phainon, Demiurge/Ult Form, Soft!Phainon, Carrying Scene, Divine Imagery, Mutual Care, Romantic Tension, Fluff Amidst Chaos.

Warnings: Battle violence (non-graphic but intense atmosphere), Injury (sprained/broken ankle, mild pain described), Supernatural combat themes, Mild language, Emotional intensity / power imbalance themes.

A/N: HE'S BARELY OUT Y'ALL!!! 😭🙏

The air cracked with celestial energy.

Swords clashed with shadow as Phainon's Demiurge form illuminated the battlefield. One half of him burned like the heart of a star—golden and searing—while the other whispered with the void, wings of shadow curling like smoke around his form. Every movement he made carved silence into the chaos, obliterating the Titanspawn that had broken through the city walls.

And then you screamed.

You hadn't meant to—gods, you never wanted to be a distraction—but the wrong pivot, the weight of your blade, and a cruelly placed fragment of rubble wrenched your ankle at a sickening angle. You hit the ground hard, dust clouding your vision, fingers scrabbling at the uneven stone. Pain radiated up your leg, white-hot and pulsing.

Your weapon skittered a few feet away. Useless.

But they were coming. The ones who had flanked you—the Strife-bound, writhing with corrupted energy—were closing in, their snarls a cruel melody above the thunder of war.

And then everything stopped.

A wave of divine pressure swept the field. The enemies froze—not from fear, but from raw, oppressive awe.

Phainon landed between you and them in a shock of light and shadow, the impact fracturing the ground in a radiant burst. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

The next instant was a blur of annihilation.

Golden strikes that flared like sunfire tore through flesh and metal, while sweeping arcs of indigo carved silence where once stood fury. He moved like a deity who had forgotten mercy—a perfect storm of power and purpose.

And then, only the wind remained.

You winced, trying to rise.

“Don’t,” came his voice—ethereal and layered now, like it echoed from both heavens and abyss.

You blinked up through the dust. Phainon stood before you in his Demiurge form, radiant and terrifying. Yet when his eyes met yours, they softened. Still piercing, but grounding. Still divine, but real.

“I told you not to push yourself alone,” he murmured, kneeling.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you stammered, guilt washing over you.

He silenced you with a look. “You’re hurt. That’s all that matters right now.”

You tried again to stand, but he reached out—carefully, reverently—and scooped you into his arms. Even in this form, his touch was gentle, warm where the golden armor brushed your skin, cool and comforting where the indigo embraced you like dusk.

“You’re still glowing,” you said softly, half-laughing through the pain. “You’re going to blind me.”

“And yet, you still manage to tease me.”

You rested your head against his shoulder as he rose into the sky, wings of shadow fanning out, the halo above him casting ripples across the clouds. His long coattails flowed like a royal banner, divine and defiant.

“You came for me,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

“I always will,” he replied, voice a harmony of solemn vow and unspoken ache. “Even if I have to burn the stars and shadow the sun.”

As he carried you beyond the broken field, his power receded slowly—but he never let you go.

Not through the pain.

Not through the silence.

Not even when the battle ended.

[dirthenera]

Ok I need to get this out with the news about devs being fired dropping.

There will be spoilers for Veilguard here so proceed with caution.

EA fucked the game, and the more I think about it, the more angry I am with them.

It all starts with one choice- the devs wanted the veil to come down in that opening, and EA told them no. Told them they couldn’t bring the veil down at all.

It was never going to be a player choice- it couldn’t, it would create two entirely different worlds leading forward, so it would have to be something outside player control, and they were told no.

The veil coming down was outside forces and the veil staying up was Rook’s choice. And had to be Rook’s choice.

Because of that, our Rook could never see the veil coming down as a worthwhile option. Which means we could never engage with it as a reality. We could never ask what that would look like, or question the morality of the veil, either practically, or as a thought experiment. No companions will bring up what it might be like in any positive way or even just as an “I wonder.”

We only get to see veil =bad so Rook must be right.

They cut Solas’ elven followers because having even *one* npc on his side for noble reasons would make us question too much, and we were not allowed to have an opinion other than veil =good, because the devs were hamstringed by it.

No companions ever discuss what it could be like without the veil, and they *should*. Can you imagine Emmrich and Bellara debating it? Emmrich absolutely fascinated by how it would impact spirits and they wouldn’t need to possess anyone or anything, Bellara leery after seeing so much wild magic in Arlathan but wondering if uninterrupted etheric flows would create more stable magic over time. Taash surprising the party by being way more cool with it than expected due to their Rivaini upbringing, and more open to that than necromancy.

Lucanis and Harding being firmly against it to the point it causes some friction in the team, Davrin just staying out of it because he doesn’t get it and doesn’t want to. Harding has a moment of questioning at a weak point after reminiscing about Cole, and wonders how many like him there could be if the veil did come down.

Neve feeling extremely mixed about it, between it possibly allowing a reshuffle of power in Tevinter, removing the ability for mages to make deals with demons, but also upset at the potential raw chaos.

But we never even get to look at that. Because there was no option there. Even if each character landed on veil=good, we never even got to have the discussion, because we couldn’t do anything with it.

And we can see how that spirals out and created a much less morally complex game than we’ve previously gotten. Rook is the good guy because they said so, Solas is the bad guy who, despite being beyond willing to talk to anyone who will listen to him, refuses to expand on what the veil coming down looks like. Because he can’t. Because then we might agree with him.

We’re only allowed Varric’s point of view, which makes sense for the beginning, but there was never an option to expand it. There is one single dialogue option where we can tell Solas “whoops didn’t know that.” But that’s the beginning and end of that train of thought.

They even set us up as this FANTASTIC foil to Solas, having meddled in a ritual we didn’t understand and unleashing multiple blights and elven gods, essentially destroying the south, blighting most of the north, partially destroying a city, and a countless death toll. But taking actual responsibility with that isn’t allowed- because we may sympathize too much with Solas. Because we clearly did the right thing because the veil is still up. It’s not even addressed in the regret prison! Solas tells you thousands would still have died if he took down the veil, but thousands did die as a direct result of Rook meddling. And nowhere can you acknowledge that.

[kateschi]

into the ashes

synopsis: amid the chaos of flames and debris, dabi bares witness to you getting injured. he does not like it.

pairing: dabi x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: behold i have forced my bestie into liking him

the air reeks of smoke and burnt metal, debris scattering across the alley as another explosion rocks the street. you’re cornered, body trembling from the impact, struggling to regain your footing.

blood trickles down your arm from a gash on your shoulder, and the sharp sting makes your vision blur for a moment.

dabi stands a few feet away, eyes locked on the thug who had dared to strike you. his entire frame is tense, shadows dancing across his scarred skin, the blue flames licking at his fingertips ready to erupt.

he doesn’t even glance your way at first—his gaze is trained solely on the scum in front of him.

"you’re going to regret that," he says, voice low and lethal, a dark promise wrapped in fire.

the thug grins, clearly underestimating the depth of dabi’s rage. but you can see it—the way his blue eyes darken, how the flames around him burn hotter, more unstable.

there’s no room for banter now, no time for him to throw his usual sarcastic remarks. the second you hit the ground, his entire focus narrowed to one thing: absolute destruction.

but as much as his fury is directed outward, there’s something more dangerous in his posture—something sharp and suffocating in the way his hands shake, just barely under control.

for once, he’s not just mad. he’s terrified.

"dabi—" you start, trying to push yourself up, the pain shooting through your side forcing you back down.

he whirls around at the sound of your voice, and for a split second, you see something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

it’s brief, but the fear is there, raw and unchecked, the kind of fear that cracks through the facade he wears so well. his lips curl back into a snarl, but the flames flicker dangerously as he rushes toward you, the thug all but forgotten in that moment.

"don’t move." his voice is harsh, sharper than usual, but there’s an edge of desperation beneath it. "just—stay still, alright?"

you blink up at him, dazed, but you manage a weak nod. he kneels beside you, one of his hands hovering just above your wound, hesitating.

his touch is scorching, his quirk on the verge of slipping out of control, and he knows it. the last thing he wants is to hurt you more.

"fuck…" his breath comes out in a shaky exhale as he forces himself to calm down, though the fury in his eyes hasn’t diminished.

"you—you're so goddamn stubborn, you know that?" his voice wavers for a second, betraying the vulnerability he’s trying so hard to conceal.

you manage a faint smile despite the pain. "takes one to know one."

his lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but the moment is fleeting as the sound of movement snaps his attention back to the thug behind him. instantly, his entire demeanor changes.

his hand slips away from yours, blue flames surging to life once more, but this time, they’re different—brighter, hotter, more dangerous. the air around him pulses with a terrifying heat, and the ground beneath his feet begins to blacken.

"you think you can touch her and walk away?" dabi’s voice is venomous now, dripping with pure hatred. "I’ll burn you until there’s nothing left."

there’s no mercy in him anymore, no restraint. you can barely keep up with what happens next as he moves in a blur, his flames surging forward like a wildfire.

you can hear the thug’s screams as dabi unleashes the full force of his power, the blue fire consuming everything in its path.

the heat is suffocating, but you can’t look away. you’ve seen dabi angry before, but this is something else entirely.

this is him unhinged, relentless, the raw intensity of his emotions laid bare for the world to see. it’s terrifying and yet… there’s a twisted kind of beauty in it, in how fiercely he fights for you.

in minutes, it’s over.

the alley falls silent, save for the crackling of dying flames, and dabi stands amidst the ashes of what used to be the thug. his chest rises and falls heavily, his skin gleaming with sweat, but his eyes find you immediately.

without a word, he’s back at your side, kneeling down, his hand reaching for yours again. his fingers are still warm, but gentler now, as though he’s scared you’ll break under his touch.

"don’t you ever—" his voice is hoarse, ragged with emotion. "don’t you ever get hurt like that again."

there’s no teasing this time, no snide remark to hide behind. his grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to let you know just how much this is affecting him.

he doesn’t want to say the words, doesn’t want to admit just how deep you’ve gotten under his skin, but it’s there, in the way he holds onto you like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

you give his hand a gentle squeeze, offering him the only comfort you can in that moment. "I’m okay, dabi."

his jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. "you’re not. and that’s the problem."

for a moment, he just sits there, staring down at your intertwined hands. his flames have finally receded, the heat dissipating, leaving only the cool night air around you both.

when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost vulnerable. "I can’t—" he stops himself, frustration flashing across his face as if the words themselves are too hard to say. "I can’t watch you get hurt. not you."

it’s not an outright confession, but it’s close. as close as dabi can get. and in the way his hand trembles slightly in yours, in the way his gaze softens, just for you, you realize that maybe that’s enough.

for now.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[reveryfics]

Limits

Mark Grayson "Invincible" x Male Reader

Summary: A battle against a powerful adversary pushed your abilities beyond their limit, culminating in a devastating supernova that consumed you and everything in its path.

A/N: Reader has energy manipulation/projection, which in this case if you produce to much your body basically let's off the equivalent of a supernova blast (^44 Joules, or roughly 10^28 megatons of TNT). Close to 2.6k words

TW: Angst - Blood - Gore - Hurt - Comfort

The emerald tapestry of the countryside had been brutally torn asunder, replaced by a scarred landscape of raw earth and splintered timber. Craters, gaping maws in the once-fertile ground, marked the violent finales of your earth-shattering impacts. Trees, ancient sentinels of the land, lay cleaved in two, their fallen forms tracing the chaotic ballet of destruction where you and your alien adversary had traded blows with the force of small explosions. The very air seemed to hum with the residual energy of your brutal exchange.

Each clash had ripped through the idyllic scenery, gouging furrows in fields, shattering rock formations, and sending shockwaves that uprooted everything in their path. What had been a peaceful vista of rolling hills and whispering forests was now a testament to the ferocity of your struggle, a brutal masterpiece of devastation painted in shades of churned soil and broken green.

A tremor ran through your battered frame, a physical manifestation of the agony that bloomed across your skin. Deep purple bruises, like angry constellations, spread across your flesh, a stark contrast to the crimson seeping through the rents in your once-sleek suit. Jagged lacerations crisscrossed your body, each throb a fresh reminder of the enemy’s relentless assault. The protective goggles, your shield and anonymity, were gone, lost somewhere in the ravaged landscape. One eye was swollen shut, the lashes glued together by dried blood that had trickled from a gash marring your forehead.

Your fingers and arm jutted out at grotesque angles, stark white bone peeking through torn flesh. The unnatural bends left you agonizingly vulnerable, your already limited mobility reduced to the clumsy movements of a single, barely functioning limb. Yet, even as your physical form protested with every strained breath, the raw energy you had instinctively drawn from the environment, amplified by the brutal force of each impact against your body, continued to surge within you. It built, a volatile tide threatening to breach the dam of your tolerance, pushing past the established limits of your energy manipulation, a desperate gamble to keep your ravaged body functioning just long enough to end this.

Your vision swam in a hazy red film, each shallow breath a searing pain that confirmed the certainty of broken ribs. Blood welled in your mouth, a coppery taste that mingled with the grit of the ravaged earth, and trickled down your chin in thick, viscous drops. Despite the symphony of agony echoing through your bones, despite the mangled limbs and the gaping wounds, a primal refusal burned within you. You would not yield. You would not grant this alien the satisfaction of your broken form.

“You’re stronger than I thought,” the alien’s voice cut through the haze, a chillingly detached observation devoid of any genuine emotion.

A ragged breath escaped your lips, your remaining hand flickering with a faint yellow glow as you desperately focused a burst of energy at your palm. “I guess that’s what you aliens don’t understand,” you gurgled, the words thick with blood. “It ain’t over… till I say it’s over.”

A guttural scream tore from your throat, your glowing hand lashing out just as the alien lunged. His hands clamped onto your shoulders, a vise-like grip as you both plummeted through the air once more. The raw energy pulse you unleashed ripped through his alien flesh, a searing wave of force that tore through muscle and bone, just as your broken bodies slammed against the ravaged earth.

His alien eyes widened in shock, staring down at your seemingly lifeless form as a pulsing yellow glow began to emanate from your chest. “You fool!” he spat, a flicker of something akin to fear finally crossing his features.

Your body, pushed beyond its breaking point, had greedily absorbed too much ambient energy, transforming you into a volatile, ticking time bomb. You had known the potential outcome, the catastrophic cost of such extreme exertion, yet you had embraced it, a desperate gamble born from the primal instinct to survive, to end the threat.

With a final surge of adrenaline, your hand shot up, fingers locking around his throat as an inferno ignited within your chest. “Ever wondered what a supernova felt like?” you whispered, your voice a raspy caress against his alien skin.

Your body arched violently off the ground, a chorus of cracking bones accompanying the blinding light that erupted from your chest. Flesh seared and melted, consuming the alien that clung to you, his horrified scream swallowed by the incandescent bloom.

The expanding wave of raw energy, born from your self-immolation, surged outwards, a phantom sun rising from the ruined countryside. It reached the edges of the distant city, engulfing its skyline in an ethereal, pulsating glow. Buildings were bathed in an otherworldly luminescence, their stark silhouettes softened by the radiant aura. Then came the shockwave, a physical manifestation of your final act, a concussive force that rattled foundations and shattered glass into glittering rain. The ethereal glow intensified, reaching its zenith before abruptly collapsing inward, the immense energy retreating back into your ravaged form, culminating in a silent, internal combustion that left a void where life had once flickered.

News of the unprecedented event rippled through the global networks, images of the devastated countryside and the strange energy surge over the city flashing across countless screens. At the Global Defense Agency headquarters, the chaotic reports blared across monitors, catching Mark’s attention amidst the usual stream of crises and alerts. He barely had time to register the unbelievable scale of the destruction, the impossible energy signature, before the very foundations of the GDA building shuddered violently. The shockwave, even at that distance, was palpable, a brutal reminder of the raw power unleashed. Without a word, his mind a whirlwind of terrifying possibilities, Mark shot out of his chair and sprinted towards the transport bay, the image of you seared into his thoughts.

Your body lay still, a broken doll amidst the devastation you had wrought. The cold air, sharp and biting, kissed the raw, open wounds and the angry red burns that patterned your now-naked flesh. Your heart, a fragile drum against the silence, beat weakly, a thready pulse struggling to maintain its rhythm, to cling to the fading embers of life. The blast had carved a deep crater beneath you, a stark monument to your sacrifice, utterly desecrating everything within a two-hundred-mile radius.

Your mind was a blank canvas, a numb embrace that offered a tempting oblivion. You were willing to surrender to the comforting darkness until a faint, almost imperceptible whisper brushed against your consciousness, calling your name. Your eye fluttered open, a sluggish movement that revealed a world blurred and indistinct. Your mouth twitched, a silent attempt to respond, but only a weak cough escaped, followed by a trickle of blood.

Through the hazy veil of your vision, a faint blur coalesced above you, the familiar, hated colors of that suit. Mark. His voice, barely audible above the ringing in your ears, repeated your name, a desperate plea carried on the wind.

Mark knelt beside you, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if his own body was struggling to comprehend the scene before him. Shaky hands, trembling with a mixture of disbelief and terror, came up to cup your face, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you would shatter. His eyes, wide and frantic, scanned your ravaged form, cataloging every horrific detail: the angry red burns that marred your skin, the unnatural angles of your mangled limbs, the jagged edges of the lacerations. And then his gaze fell upon the mark on your chest, an intricate spiderweb of pure, pulsing energy that seemed to have latched onto your heart, a macabre reminder of the supernova’s destructive power. A weak breath escaped your lips, your uninjured arm reaching out, a desperate plea for connection. Mark’s hand shot out, engulfing yours, pressing it tightly against his chest, as if trying to transfer his own life force into you. “Don’t move,” he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears, a raw, broken sound.

“Cecil!” Mark’s voice cracked, the desperate cry tearing through the stillness of the devastated landscape. You turned your gaze towards him, a gurgling sound escaping your blood-filled mouth. “I… don’t… want… to die,” you murmured, the words a fragile whisper carried on a ragged breath. Mark’s heart shattered at your plea, tears finally welling in his eyes, blurring his already distorted vision. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands trembling violently as he held you close. “Don’t… don’t say that,” he choked out, his voice thick with sobs. “You won’t die. I promise.”

Deep down, a cold certainty settled within you. His words were hollow, a desperate denial of the inevitable. “I’m… sorry,” you gasped, your body going limp in his arms, the fragile spark of life within you flickering precariously.

A strangled cry tore from Mark’s throat, his head pressing against your still chest, as if by sheer force of will he could reignite the fading embers of your life. “Cecil!” he shouted again, the name a raw, desperate plea echoing across the desolate landscape, even though a part of him knew there was little Cecil or the GDA could possibly do now.

The arrival of the GDA was a blur of flashing lights and hushed voices. They moved with practiced efficiency, their faces grim as they carefully transferred your broken body onto a stretcher. Mark watched, numb and unmoving, as they carried you away, the sight a fresh wound to his already ravaged soul. Cecil stood beside him, his expression unreadable, watching the scene unfold with his usual quiet intensity. “We’ll fix him,” he murmured, his voice low and devoid of emotion. “We always do.” He turned, a brief, impersonal pat on Mark’s shoulder before he too walked away, leaving Mark alone amidst the devastation.

The GDA worked tirelessly, a silent army of medics and scientists battling against the odds. They mended shattered bones, stitched gaping wounds, and desperately attempted to coax your heart back into a steady rhythm. Days bled into nights as they fought for every flicker of life, their efforts finally rewarded with a weak, thready beat. Your body slowly began to heal, a testament to your resilience, but the scars remained, a stark roadmap of the unimaginable power you had unleashed and the devastating cost it had exacted. The healing process was agonizing, a relentless cycle of pain and discomfort that kept the GDA medical team on edge and haunted Mark’s restless nights. Cecil, with his usual detached pragmatism, had barred Mark from seeing you, a cruel mercy perhaps, until the “bloody mess” you had been transformed back into something resembling the person he knew.

The moment Mark was finally allowed to see you, he was a ghost haunting the sterile halls of the GDA medical wing. He came nearly every night, a silent vigil beside your still form. You were more than just a friend, more than someone he had grown up with, more than the reckless hero StarBoy who seemed incapable of self-preservation. You were someone special, someone who had shown him the quiet beauty in the mundane, the immeasurable value of the bonds he shared with his chosen family. You were a silent counterpoint to his father’s cold ambition, a living embodiment of the empathy and connection he desperately craved. He loved you for that, a quiet, unspoken affection that had taken root and blossomed amidst the chaos of his life. He had been too caught up in his own turmoil to voice it, afraid of disrupting the delicate balance of your friendship. But seeing you broken, hearing your whispered plea not to die, had shattered his carefully constructed walls. Now, all he prayed for was your return, a chance to finally bridge the unspoken space between you.

It was late, the sterile silence of the GDA halls broken only by the soft hum of life support machines. Mark had slipped in again, a familiar ritual that Cecil seemed to tacitly condone, a silent acknowledgment of the depth of Mark’s unspoken feelings. The doors to your private room slid open with a soft hiss, the rhythmic beeping of the monitors a bittersweet symphony in Mark’s ears. He pulled a chair close to your bedside, his gaze fixed on your still form, a silent vigil of hope and fear. He hadn't noticed your eyes were open, watching his every move with a quiet intensity. A weak hand, pale and still bearing the marks of your ordeal, emerged from beneath the crisp white sheets, lazily grasping at the fabric of Mark’s sweater as he sat down. He let out a startled gasp, his eyes widening in disbelief as he met your gaze. “What’s wrong, Grayson?” you croaked, your voice raspy and weak. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” A faint, weary smile touched your lips as you licked your chapped lips.

Mark shot up, his hands instinctively reaching out to cup your face, his touch gentle, reverent. He wasn't thinking, his mind a whirlwind of relief and disbelief at your awakening. He hadn’t considered your potential reaction, lost in the overwhelming joy of your return. His lips met yours in a slow, hesitant kiss, a silent outpouring of emotions he had never dared to voice. Your eyes fluttered closed, your own hand rising weakly to hold his against your cheek as you kissed back, a fragile affirmation of his unspoken feelings. His tongue tentatively pushed past your lips, a soft gasp escaping you at the unexpected intimacy. Mark pulled back, his eyes wide with panic, a rush of apologies forming on his lips. But you lay there, a small, genuine smile playing on your lips. You didn't release his hands, keeping his warmth pressed against your skin. You looked up at him, your voice barely a whisper. “About time you kissed me, Grayson.”

A blush crept up Mark’s neck, painting his cheeks a soft pink. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his thumbs gently brushing against your cheekbones, his gaze tender and unwavering. He didn't speak, his answer a soft, lingering kiss that deepened with unspoken longing. Your lips moved in sync, a silent dance of shared desire, as if both of you had been waiting an eternity for this connection. Mark pulled away slightly, his breath warm against your lips, his nose brushing against yours in a tender caress. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice surprisingly steady, a declaration that had been brewing beneath the surface for too long. A ragged breath escaped your lips, your heart monitor spiking with a sudden surge of adrenaline at his words. “I love you too, Mark.”

Your lips met again, a deeper, more fervent kiss that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions. Mark’s fingers tangled in your hair, a gentle caress against your scalp, while your hands clutched at his sweater, holding him close as if afraid he might disappear. He broke the kiss, trailing soft, lingering kisses down your bare chest, his lips careful to avoid the tangle of wires and medical devices still attached to you. His lips brushed against the raised, angry scar on your chest, a permanent reminder of the devastating power you had unleashed. “Don’t ever do something stupid like that again,” Mark whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His lips trailed back up to yours, a soft peck before he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close against his chest. “No promises,” you whispered back, a shiver running through you at the warmth enveloping your fragile body.

[noobiestnoober]

A Deal with the Devil (Klaus X Reader)

Klaus saves you from a vampire attack—but at a price. “A debt must be repaid, love,” he purrs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I intend to collect.”

SMUT WARNING. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.

The moon hung low over the vibrant streets of New Orleans, casting an ethereal glow on the cobblestone paths. Shadows danced in the corners, and the voice of jazz trailed through the air, masking the dread that churned in your stomach. Heart racing and breaths shallow, you sprinted through the narrow alleys, desperate to escape the ominous figure chasing you—the vampire who sought to claim you as his next victim.

You rounded a corner, panic surging through your veins, but just as the cold breath of your pursuer caught up, a familiar silhouette emerged from the gloom: Klaus Mikaelson, his presence a confusing mix of safety and danger.

“You’ve always had a flair for dramatic exits, haven’t you?” he teased, a wicked smile spreading across his face as he assessed the situation, muscles tensed and eyes focused.

Before you could respond, the vampire lunged at you. Instinctively, you braced for impact, but Klaus was faster. He stepped in front of you, a feral growl emanating from his throat. With a swift motion, he took hold of the vampire, his hands wrapping around its neck with an iron grip.

“Do you even know who you’re dealing with?” Klaus’s voice was a mix of playful banter and deadly seriousness as he threw the opponent against the alley wall. The sound echoed in the still night air.

You watched, heart pounding, as Klaus unleashed his supernatural strength. The vampire, now scrabbling for breath, retaliated, but Klaus easily countered, slamming his fist into the creature's jaw. Blood sprayed against the cobblestones, painting the night in darker shades.

“Stay away from her!” Klaus roared, electricity crackling around him, and you felt entranced by the raw power he exhibited.

In one final, fluid motion, Klaus drove his stake through the vampire’s heart. The assailant crumbled to the ground, lifeless, leaving you with an unsettling awe of the man who had saved you.

Klaus turned to you, his gaze softening yet still smoldering with intensity. “Let’s not make this an early night,” he said, stepping closer, an overwhelming sense of both danger and allure filling the air between you.

“Running will only tire you out, love. Let me protect you… for a price.”

His words hung heavy between you, and your breath hitched as memories of your complicated past surfaced. He had once sought to turn you into one of his hybrids; his interest in you was never just about survival.

“I owe you nothing,” you shot back, grounding yourself in your defiance, although your heart raced at the sight of him.

“And yet, here we are,” he retorted, his voice low and alluring. “You may have escaped before, but now? Now I find myself in a position of power. You’re mine to save, and I fully intend to collect what’s owed.”

Klaus reached for you, cupping your face with his hand, his thumb brushing softly along your cheek. He ignited flames within you, sparking desires previously buried.

“I’m not a prize for you to claim, Klaus,” you murmured defiantly, yet your body betrayed you, hunger clawing at your insides.

“Are you certain about that?” He leaned in, lips tantalizingly close, his breath warm against your skin. “The wolf lurking inside you only adds to your allure. Let me remind you what it feels like to be truly alive…”

As his lips captured yours, the kiss was intoxicating and engulfing. It exploded into something primal, fueled by fear and desire, sending you tumbling into a whirlwind of passion.

“Tonight must have its price,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice thick with lust.

“What will this cost me?” you breathed as the kiss broke, your body thrumming with anticipation.

“Survival has its price,” Klaus replied, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I assure you, what I offer is far more valuable than mere survival; it is a taste of your very essence.”

Your instincts screamed at you to resist, but he ignited something dark within you. You leaned in, surrendering to the chaotic thrill that coursed through your veins. The alley around you seemed to vanish, the world narrowing to just the two of you, caught in a dangerous dance.

In a moment of reckless abandon, Klaus pressed you against the cool, damp wall of the alley. Your heart raced as he pinned you there, and you felt a delicious shiver snake down your spine. His lips traveled from yours, along your jawline, lingering at the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Klaus!” you gasped, parting your lips to let another moan slip out. The sound mingled with the distant echo of music from the street, creating an intoxicating harmony.

He met your gaze, eyes dark with need. “You wanted me to remind you what it feels like to be alive, didn’t you?” he teased, lowering his lips to your collarbone, kissing and biting as desire pooled within you.

“Yes! I-I need you,” you whimpered, the desperation and wanting electrifying the air around you.

“Then allow me,” he growled, kissing down your chest, hands pushing your clothing aside to explore your skin. His fingers danced over your body, teasingly grazing your sides before settling on the curve of your waist. The touch sent shocks of pleasure radiating through your body.

With expert precision, Klaus took you, guiding every movement, driving you to the edge of ecstasy amidst the shadows. You lost yourself in him, every thrust carving out the remnants of fear and leaving only pleasure in its wake. The gritty alley became your private world, echoing with breathless gasps and passionate cries.

“Tell me you want this,” Klaus commanded, his voice both a plea and a demand.

“Y-yes! I want you,” you cried out, thrusts deepening as he claimed you, the two of you lost in primal rhythm that spoke of both conflict and desire.

Klaus's grip on your waist tightened, pulling you even closer as he thrust into you with a pleasurable intensity that made your head spin. You could feel every inch of him, every thrust igniting a fire deep inside. He took you hard against the wall, the rough surface scraping your back delightfully, adding to the overwhelming sensation.

“More,” you begged, feeling desperate and wild. Every moment shared between you felt forbidden; the thrill of it combined with the loss of control sent you spiraling faster toward your peak.

His lips were on yours again, a hungry, demanding kiss that left no doubt of his intentions. “You want to be mine, don’t you?” he murmured, and the question enveloped you as he kissed his way down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin.

“Yes! Forever,” you moaned, feeling the heat coil tighter within you as he began to pick up the pace, thrusting feverishly. The alley’s air was thick with the sounds of your bodies colliding, skin against skin, and the mingling of your breaths.

Klaus's rhythm intensified, each thrust plunging deeper, igniting sparks of pleasure that shot through your core. You could feel yourself unraveling, teetering on the edge, each wave crashing over you more powerful than the last.

“Let go for me, love,” he urged, his voice a low growl that reverberated through you.

With one final thrust, your entire body erupted with pleasure. You cried out, waves of ecstasy crashing over you, the world fading away as you surrendered completely to the moment. He followed you into bliss, his body shuddering against yours, the two of you caught in a crescendo of passion that reverberated through the dark alley.

As you both slowly came down from the high, you rested against him, breathless and exhilarated. The night deepened, and shadows loomed large. You were no longer just a wolf in hiding; you were entangled in Klaus's world—a place where thrill and chaos reigned supreme.

As you gathered your bearings, Klaus pulled away slightly, cupping your face with a smirk. “Now, was that so painful?”

You chuckled, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration radiating from your core. “You certainly have a way of collecting your debts,” you replied, a playful glint in your eye.

Klaus leaned in, brushing his lips against yours softly this time, a promise lingering in the air between you. “This is just the beginning, love. I think we have many more debts to settle.”

Thank you for reading ❤️. Check out my other stories here >>>> Master List

[kbwrites]

Collision Course

synopsis: Ryomen Sukuna, heavyweight champion and your ex-boyfriend gets a wake up call when he is injured for the first time during a fight.

⚝content: boxer!Sukuna x f!reader, reader is a physiotherapist, slight angst, nsfw, choking, Toji beating Sukuna's ass bc I said so

⚝wc: 2.4k

⚝a/n: working on the requests I've gotten in the past month. This one was fun!

Ryomen Sukuna, the heavyweight champion of the world, stood in the center of the ring, his piercing gaze locked onto his opponent his focus was razor-sharp, body coiled like a spring. The crowd’s roar surged around him, but his eyes were fixed on one man—Toji Fushiguro, his gaze dark and unreadable. This wasn’t just a match—it was a reckoning, a confrontation years in the making.

The bell rang, and the arena erupted. Ryomen moved like a predator, his punches fast and lethal. But Toji met every strike with equal force, counters precise, his movements a dance of calculated power. Each round was a brutal display of skill, neither willing to back down, the anticipation in the crowd building with every punch.

Then, in the eighth round, it happened. Sukuna, sensing victory within reach, unleashed a devastating hook aimed at Toji’s jaw. His muscles coiled with the familiar rush of adrenaline, a primal drive to end the fight. But Toji, with an unsettling calm, sidestepped the attack with almost supernatural precision. In that split second of realization, Sukuna's heart pounded, the moment feeling like slow motion. With a swift sidestep, he avoided the blow and delivered a crushing punch directly to Sukuna’s shoulder. The sound of the impact was sickening—a sharp crack that seemed to echo through the arena. Pain flared instantly, his arm falling limp as he staggered back, the once unbreakable champion now vulnerable.

The crowd’s roar turned into a collective gasp. He gritted his teeth, the realization dawning that he was injured—seriously so.

The world spun, a dizzying blur of lights and colors. The roar of the crowd was a distant murmur. His mind struggled to make sense of the situation, the sharp sting of defeat sinking in as he replayed the moment Toji’s punch landed.  That scar-faced grin, a haunting image in the corner of his mind, lingered as he was wheeled through the narrow corridor.

This wasn’t happening. It had to be some nightmare. But it wasn’t… Ryomen, the undefeated champion–had been defeated.

The doors to the medical suite swing open, and your eyes see something they'd never dreamed of. Ryomen Sukuna on a stretcher, holding his shoulder as his face contorted in pain. You walked over to him, helping the medic team move him to a table.

As Sukuna settled onto the table, his gaze met yours you glanced at him with a wry smile and said, “I thought you said you don’t lose.”

He grins through the pain, his normal confidence shining through. 

“You know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”

𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ

It was never going to work. That’s what you told yourself. He was in a different world from you completely, one full of glitz and glory, a realm of raw power and relentless ambition. You had tried to convince yourself that the divide was too vast, that his world and yours were irreconcilable. But every night, as you laid next to him, it all seemed to blur, if only for a moment.

The clock ticked past midnight, you sat on the counter of your apartment’s kitchen. Eating the cup noodles as you swung your feet lazily. He had sworn he would be home early, that tonight would be different, that he’d finally make time for you amidst his whirlwind schedule.

And yet here you were. Waiting for him. Again.

The sudden clatter of keys and the turn of the doorknob sliced through the silence of your apartment. You rolled your eyes, finishing the last of your ramen with a resigned sigh.

The door swung open, and Sukuna walked in, his presence as commanding as ever. Without missing a beat, he headed straight for the kitchen where you sat. His gaze softened slightly as he approached, a smirk playing on his lips. Without hesitation, he reached for you, his lips descending toward yours in a kiss that was supposed to bridge the gap his absence had created. But as his lips neared, you caught the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath.

You pulled back just slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing your face. “You’re late,” you said, your tone a mixture of frustration and fatigue.

Ryomen, still maintaining his confident demeanor, shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Had a long night,” he said bluntly, his voice laced with a casual charm that only made your blood boil.

Without a word, you slipped off the counter and turned away, heading towards the living room. The anger you had tried to suppress now surged to the surface, and you could feel your pulse quickening with every step.

The pink-haired boxer followed, his irritation rising as he caught up to you. “What’s the problem now?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

You keep walking, refusing to face him “There’s no problem.”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “Don’t play games with me.” He warns.

You met his gaze, the space between you crackling with tension. “I’m not playing games.” you shot back, your voice tight.

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with anger. “What do you want from me, woman? You think I can just drop everything and cater to your every whim?”

His crimson eyes bore into yours, you felt the beat of your heart in your chest. He closed the gap, your chest pressing against his broad one.

“I’m tired.” You grit your teeth, glaring up at your boyfriend.

“If you’re so tired of this, then why the hell are you still here waiting for me?”

His proximity and the rawness of his gaze made your heart pound even harder. The tension between you was palpable, the argument morphing. Without thinking, you closed the gap between you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor born of frustration and longing.

Sukuna responded with equal passion, his grip on you tightening as he deepened the kiss. The fight in his touch gave way to an urgent need, the argument transforming into a fierce, all-consuming embrace. The anger, the pain, and the desire all melded together, creating a storm of emotion that swept over both of you.

You walk backward to your bed, the back of your knees hitting the bed frame. Ryomen’s larger frame pushed you onto the bed, trapping you between his arms. He was rough in the ring—even rougher in bed.

His lips left your now bruised ones, moving immediately to your neck. His teeth leaving small bites along your pulse point—tongue darting out to soothe the pain. Your soft moans and whimpers echo in his ears. He rolls his hips into yours, his erection grinding against the growing wet spot in your panties.

“F-fuck… Ryo” You breathe as he unclasped your bra. His mouth latches to your nipple, expert tongue swirling around the swollen bud. His eyes flutter shut as he loses himself in your chest.

Rough hands roam your body, touch setting your skin ablaze.

Ryomen tugs your panties to the side, thick finger gathering your slick before plunging into your sopping wet cunt. He pumps in and out, mouth switching to your other nipple as his digits explore your gummy walls.

“S-shitshitshit Ryomennn~” You whine as your back arches into him. He picks up the pace, fingers scissoring inside of you as your hole clenched around him. He releases your nipple, burying his head into the crook of your neck.

“Heh… thought you were tired.” His voice rumbles against your skin. If you weren’t so close to cumming you would’ve cussed his ass out but–

With an expert curl of his finger your vision goes hazy as you cum on his fingers. Not even giving you a minute to recover, he replaces his thick digits with the fat head of his cock.

He slides his throbbing length up and down your folds, tip kissing your clit before pushing into your tight entrance.

“Oh fuucckkk.” You whine as the stretch causes tears to prick your eyes. Ryomen hooks your legs over his broad shoulders. He reaches between your bodies to rub your clit, slow deliberate circles as his thick member is swallowed by your walls. He lets out a low groan as he bottoms out.

“Think you can… keep this fuckin’ pussy from me?” He mumbles slamming into your cunt, heavy balls slapping against your ass as he moves your legs from his shoulders to your ears. He loved folding you in half. You loved it too.

His pace was relentless, you felt every vein of his cock brush against your gummy walls. He always made you feel deliciously full. His large hand wraps around your neck, pressing gently on the sides.

“C-close Ryo–” You choke out.

“Oh yeah?” He smirks, feeling you flutter around him. He fucks you through your orgasm, reveling in the way your body writhed and shook underneath him. He felt the tightening in his balls as he pulled out. He removed his hand from your neck, wrapping it tightly around his cock.

He pumped a few times, thick ropes of hot cum decorated your stomach. His now sensitive tip smearing it around your tummy. Your chest heaves as your try to catch your breath, his crimson eyes raking over you. How delicious you looked out of breath–covered in his seed.

After wiping you down he lays next to you, resting his back against the headboard.  You turned onto your side, gaze tracing the lines of your boyfriend's face. His gaze fixed on you with tired eyes. Even now, in the quiet aftermath, that world tugged at him, pulling him away from you, bit by bit. You could feel it in the way he looked at you, a mix of weariness and resignation as if he knew this moment was fleeting, a brief respite before he had to dive back into the chaos that always seemed to follow him.

You reached out, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. For a brief moment, his gaze softened. His hand covered yours, warm and reassuring.

“You checkin’ my vitals doc?” he teased, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. But even that couldn’t mask the exhaustion in his voice.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You question softly, he would never tell you the truth–you knew this. But all the late nights, the endless grind—it would catch up to him eventually. He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, his larger hand tightening over yours.

And as if on cue, the buzz of his phone shattered the fragile peace, pulling him away from you once more. He let out a sigh, grabbing the phone from the nightstand.

“I’ve got to go,” he muttered, voice flat as he moved to the edge of the bed.

You blinked, the sudden shift jarring. “What? Why? It’s the middle of the night.”

He sighed, grabbing his jacket. “Uraume needs me to make an appearance. Some sponsor event they couldn’t reschedule.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him to stay, but the words caught in your throat, weighed down by exhaustion. You were so tired—tired of fighting, tired of being second to everything else in his life. Instead, you just watched him get dressed, the silence between you stretching thin.

“Go, do what you have to do.” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. ”

Sukuna paused, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual, as if he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded and turned away, leaving you alone with the cold emptiness that settled in his absence.

It was never going to work. That’s what you kept telling yourself.

𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ

The memory faded, leaving behind a dull ache in your chest. You blinked, pulling yourself back to the present. Ryomen looked up at you from the examination table, his crimson eyes still holding that same piercing intensity.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you focused on his injury, your hands moving with practiced precision. Despite your efforts to detach, to keep things strictly professional, you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze followed your every move or the subtle tension in his jaw.

“You must be loving this, huh? Seeing me like this.” His tone was harsh, almost daring you to pity him, his arrogance a brittle shield against the humiliation gnawing at him.

“I know you better than those people out there–you’re gonna be fine.” You say calmly.

He chuckles dryly. “You might be the only one that thinks that right now.”

A moment of quiet settled over the medical suite as you continued your examination. The soft hum of the lights overhead and the occasional shuffle of your movements were the only sounds breaking the tense silence. You carefully touched his shoulder, feeling for the extent of the damage.

Sukuna winced, his face momentarily contorting with the sharp flare of pain. His breathing grew shallow, and he looked away, clearly trying to mask his discomfort behind a mask of indifference.

“You've torn your rotator cuff,” you said, your voice steady despite the weight of the news. You could see the frustration in his eyes, the pride that struggled to keep his embarrassment at bay.

“Rotator cuff?” he repeated, his tone a mix of irritation and disbelief.

“Yes,” you confirmed, examining the area with a practiced touch. “It’s a significant injury, but with proper treatment and rehabilitation, you’ll recover. It’ll take some time and effort, but it’s manageable.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, and he clenched his teeth, trying to hide the strain. “Great,” he muttered, his voice taut with frustration. “Just what I needed.”

He looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration.

“I was… an ass to you.” He mumbles.

“You were.” your tone matter-of-fact.

“Alright...” He warned, taking a deep breath.

“If I’m going to be stuck with this damn injury, I might as well have someone who knows what they’re doing handling it.”

He gave you a sideways glance, a mix of challenge and an unspoken request in his eyes. Despite his bravado, there was a trace of acknowledgment in his words, an unspoken plea for your help.

As you nodded, accepting his challenge with a wry smile, a familiar ache settled in your chest. You knew, deep down, that no matter how many times you tried to distance yourself, you could never really be done with him. The stubborn part of you that cared too much, that felt the pull of his presence like gravity, couldn’t quite let go.

“Let’s get you back in the ring.”

[bunji-enthusiast]

hello Benji , first time requesting and I wanted to ask if you could please do a peni parker from marvel rivals inspired reader in the invincible. Peni parker!reader as mark grayson superhero friend .and just anything really about her in the invincible universe.

𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍

Peni-Parker!Reader

Summary || hero friend to Invincible himself, technological genius and your this universe’s one and only spider-woman!

Note // I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that Peni is very precious to me and deserves a good life. wrote it from second person this time around.

Let’s just say "Invincible" is no longer flying solo.

Ever since [Name] joined the roster, Mark's chaotic, high-stakes, punch-first-ask-later lifestyle has gained a layer of tactical brilliance and cyberpunk finesse. Together, they balance each other out—Mark brings the raw strength, emotion, and overwhelming power of a Viltrumite, while [Name] delivers methodical strategy, defensive control, and precision takedowns with her Cyber-Web tech and SP//dr.

Mark might barrel through starships, but when he’s grounded—literally or emotionally—[Name] holds the line. She doesn’t just back him up; she orchestrates the battlefield. Her Cyber-Webs control the flow of combat, slowing enemy movement and giving Mark time to strategize or recover. And when he’s overextending himself (again), she’s right there snaring enemies mid-charge or unleashing a Bionic Spider-Nest to create a killzone.

While Mark punches holes through buildings, [Name] is crawling up the walls—vertical wall-running at 90°—flanking, sniping from odd angles, and setting up Arachno-Mines in his wake. If a fight’s about to go nuclear, she pulls him out of danger using her Cyber-Bond web-strand. Mark calls it “getting yanked by Spidey-Sis,” which she rolls her eyes at but secretly finds kind of sweet.

Mark’s powers are boosted by emotion, but they also cloud his judgment. He goes too far. Pushes too hard. [Name] doesn’t just patch up the battlefield—she patches up Mark. She sees his grief. His doubt. She’s lost a father too. So when the weight of being “Invincible” nearly breaks him, she reminds him he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

During a mission against a rogue Viltrumite using echo-frequency tech, Mark was grounded, screaming in pain. [Name] singlehandedly web-snared the enemy mid-air using a trick shot with her Cyber-Web Snare, then surrounded them with a Cyber-Web zone laced with hidden Arachno-Mines. The explosion? Minimal. The impact? Lethal.

After Mark was critically injured fighting Conquest’s backup clone, [Name] activated her SP//dr’s emergency override, placed a Bionic Spider-Nest to deter enemies, and web-slung Mark out of a collapsing space station. She didn't say a word. She just saved him. And he’s never forgotten it.

During a cross-reality incursion, they defended the Web of Life and Destiny from multiversal threats. Mark, for once, wasn’t the one calling the shots—[Name] led the charge, weaving strategies like her webs. She even inspired Mark to call her the “Webwarden.” She kind of liked that one.

What Mark thinks of [Name]:

“She’s not just smart—she’s brilliant. And tough. And scary in the best way. I’ve seen her stand toe-to-toe with things that made even me flinch. She doesn’t flinch. Not for anyone. I might be ‘Invincible’... but I’m only alive ‘cause she’s got my back.”

And yeah, Atom Eve gave her the stamp of approval too. That’s not easy to get.

From a villain's perspective?---

“If you see a cyber-web at your feet, pray it's just her. If Invincible’s flying in behind it? You’re already done.”

So yeah, with [Name] Parker by his side, Mark’s not just a powerhouse anymore—he’s a tactical nightmare for anyone dumb enough to mess with Earth, the multiverse, or the people they love.

Mission Log: "Threadline Protocol"

Date: April 11th, Earth-Time Location: Sector 019 | Interstice between Earth-616X and Webworld Prime Subjects: Agent Invincible (Mark Grayson), Cyber-Operative [Name] Parker (SP//dr Unit Alpha) Mission Objective: Prevent the unraveling of the Web of Life and Destiny due to a multiversal breach by rogue Viltrumite dissident factions allied with Angstrom Levy.

[MISSION START - AUDIO RECORDING]

MARK: (breathing hard) "Okay. I’m here. I got eyes on the breach. Or, uh... the ripping hole in reality the size of Texas. You seeing this too, [Name]?"

[NAME]: (calmly) "Confirmed. It’s a quantum destabilization spiral. Webline fibers are detaching. If it expands further, we’re talking multiversal collapse. And it’s not just a tear—it’s a trap."

MARK: "Of course it is."

[NAME]: (typing rapidly into SP//dr’s HUD) "Tracking three hostile Viltrumite signatures… wait—scratch that. Five.They’re masking their presence through Levy’s tech."

MARK: "He just had to show up again..."

[MISSION PHASE ONE: Breach Defense]

As Mark launches into the air, five Viltrumites emerge from the rift. Meanwhile, [Name] deploys from a vertical surface, crawling 90° up a fractured monolith, Cyber-Web Cluster primed.

[NAME]: "Mark—dive right! Now!"

A Cyber-Web Snare lashes through the air, catching the lead Viltrumite mid-charge. He’s immobilized instantly, crashing into a building-sized thread of Webline.

MARK: (grinning) "That never gets old."

[NAME]: (smirking through the comm) "Try not to get disemboweled this time."

MARK: "No promises!"

[MISSION PHASE TWO: Crowd Control / Nest Deployment]

As chaos erupts, [Name] drops a Bionic Spider-Nest at the rift perimeter. The glowing device anchors itself and spins a wide Cyber-Web dome. Hidden Arachno-Mines skitter out and vanish into the surface of the Web.

[NAME]: "Perimeter secured. Engage but pull hostiles into the web zone—I’ve turned the battlefield into a minefield."

Mark crashes two Viltrumites through the web line. Seconds later—click… boom. They vanish under a precision detonation.

MARK: (laughing over the comm) "You seriously scare me sometimes."

[NAME]: "Good."

[MISSION PHASE THREE: Mark Down]

A surprise ambush hits Mark from above—another Viltrumite, enhanced with Levy’s tech, drives him into the ground hard enough to crater the Webfield. He’s bleeding, coughing, barely conscious.

MARK: (strained) "Took… a hit. That one’s faster."

[NAME]: (tone shifts instantly—urgent but focused) "SP//dr—tactical override. Deploy rescue strand."

A Cyber-Bond web-line fires, latching to Mark’s armor and pulling him out of the blast radius. [Name] swings in mid-air, body spiraling like a silk thread in wind, grabbing him mid-pull.

[NAME]: "Told you: no disembowelment today."

MARK: (choking on a laugh) "I owe you… like... a thousand burgers."

[MISSION PHASE FOUR: Finale — “Threadline Protocol”]

As the rift begins destabilizing further, Angstrom Levy himself appears, surrounded by ghost-versions of Earths destroyed by alternate Marks. The Web shudders.

LEVY: "Too late. The collapse has already started. The Web of Life unravels now."

[NAME]: (voice low) "No. It won’t."

She activates the Threadline Protocol, fusing her SP//dr core with the breach’s epicenter, becoming a living conduit of cyber-web strands across realities.

[NAME]: "Mark—fly. Push the rift closed. I’ll hold the lines."

MARK: (furious) "No! You’ll be torn apart!"

[NAME]: (softly) "So were our fathers. This is our fight now."

Mark’s power surges, eyes glowing. Rage. Grief. Love. All of it. He flies harder than ever before, punching through the collapsing rift. Meanwhile, [Name] is a storm of webs, strands, code, and resolve, her SP//dr glowing like a spider-star.

[MISSION END]

Status:

Rift sealed.

SP//dr intact.

Mark sustained 2nd-degree internal trauma.

[Name] offline for 8 minutes post-merge, recovered at 93% functionality.

Final Notes (via Mark):

"She’s more than a teammate. She’s the net that keeps me from falling. You ask me what it’s like fighting beside [Name] Parker? It’s like having a second heart. One made of steel, silk, and stubborn fire. And I’d follow her into any reality."

MISSION LOG: "Web of Stars" Date: April 11th Location: Earth-919 / Outer Expanse of the Life Thread Conduit Operatives Deployed: Invincible (Mark Grayson), SP//dr Pilot [Name] Parker, Atom Eve (Samantha Eve Wilkins) Mission Directive: Investigate and contain anomalies in the Life Thread Conduit—a cosmic artery of the Web of Life and Destiny intersecting unknown galactic ley lines. Reports indicate a hostile biosynthetic consciousness consuming molecular threads from multiversal anchors.

[MISSION START - MULTI-CHANNEL RECORDING]

[NAME]: (sliding along a sheer crystal wall with that clean 90° crawl) "Looks like our weird thread-snake problem just got friends. I'm counting at least three biomatter distortions wrapped around the conduit… feeding off it."

MARK: (hovering, fists up) "Guess we’re interrupting dinner."

EVE: (descending in a swirl of pink light, calm but sharp) "Let’s make them choke."

[PHASE ONE: Coordinated Strike]

Eve extends both hands—matter around her vibrates, shimmers, and instantly reconstructs into massive crystalline pillars slamming through the feeding nodes of the anomaly. It shrieks, recoiling. Mark rushes in, his punch detonating shockwaves through the exposed neural core.

[NAME]: (drops a Cyber-Web Snare on the left flank) "Snared the neural tendril! Mark—go!"

Mark shoots past Eve, launching a meteor-blitz uppercut into the core’s heart. Eve’s constructs encase it, locking it down like a glittering cage of molecular bonds. Behind them, Arachno-Mines crawl silently across the now glowing web.

[PHASE TWO: The Hive Wakes Up]

Suddenly, the conduit pulses—and the feeding anomalies split. The three become fifteen, glitching and reforming like broken digital gods. They surge toward Eve.

EVE: (calm despite the chaos) "Yeah, no. That’s enough."

She lifts both hands—and instantly reconfigures the broken asteroid field around them into a massive energy-based ecosystem, complete with defensive flora and terrain made of restructured carbon.

[NAME]: (in awe) "Did you just build a living terrain during a fight?"

EVE: (grinning) "I multitask when I’m mad."

[PHASE THREE: SP//dr Unleashed]

As Mark tank-brawls the biggest hive-entity, [Name] deploys her Bionic Spider-Nest inside Eve’s crystallized environment. The entire battlefield becomes a maze of glowing cyber-webs and invisible mines.

MARK: (throwing a bleeding tendril into the web) "[Name], now!"

[NAME]: (from above, voice cold) "Weblock engaged."

The nest pulses. Dozens of mines detonate in chain precision, ripping apart the swarm. Glowing fibers snap together midair like fangs sealing a trap. Eve reorients all matter into a bio-lock cocoon, and Mark hurls the remaining core into the cage.

[FINAL PHASE: Web Singularity Detected]

Just as they begin to regroup, a deeper hum resonates. The anomalies weren’t attacking randomly—they were installingsomething. A dark sphere begins forming. Time dilates.

EVE: (a bit breathless) "They’re seeding a singularity into the Web’s backbone. If it ruptures, this reality will fragment."

[NAME]: (focused) "Mark, fly. Eve—back me up. I can link SP//dr to the webline. We might… rethread it. But I need you both to cover me."

SP//dr’s chest opens. The Cyber-Bond cable fires out and hits the core web—[Name] jerks as the suit lights up like a neural star.

MARK: (teeth gritted, shielding her) "You better not die, Parker."

[NAME]: (grins through the surge) "Only if you let anything touch me, Grayson."

EVE: (hovering behind them both, eyes glowing) "Try and stop me."

Eve ignites. Her powers shimmer to near godhood, her constructs fractalizing space itself—redirecting gravity, rerouting energy. Mark flies loops around them, punching anomaly cores out of the air like a cosmic wrecking ball.

SP//dr floods the webline with stabilizing pulses. Slowly, the singularity folds inward, sealed beneath layers of matter-energy coding woven by Eve and solidified by [Name]’s cyber-architecture.

[MISSION END - DEBRIEF]

Status:

Conduit sealed

Singular anomaly terminated

Mark exhausted, hair singed

Eve elevated energy saturation; temporary power cooldown initiated

[Name] stable; SP//dr at 87% system load

POST-MISSION VOICE CLIP — Mark Grayson

"How did I get so lucky? Two of the smartest, strongest, most badass women in the multiverse watching my back? I don’t know. But I’m not letting either of them go. Not now. Not ever."

It was a rare moment of peace, the kind that didn’t come often for people who routinely saved cities—or timelines. The backyard of the Grayson house had become a makeshift recovery zone, with Mark flipping pancakes on a griddle that clearly wasn’t cooperating, and [Name] reclining upside-down in a lawn chair like gravity was optional. Eve hovered lazily a few inches above the grass, sipping coffee, looking as serene as ever—until the topic of conversation took a sharp turn.

“I still can’t believe you, Eve,” [Name] said, tapping her smoothie with a straw like it owed her answers. “You, of all people, Ms. Rewrite-Reality-With-Your-Brain, prefer fantasy over sci-fi?”

Eve raised an eyebrow without breaking her meditation float. “Because dragons have soul, [Name]. They have personality. You can bond with a griffin. Try having a heart-to-heart with a neural interface.”

[Name] gasped dramatically. “You take that back. Sci-fi has stakes, consequences. You build a giant spider mech and earn your victories. Fantasy just... chants gibberish and wins.”

Mark, hunched over a plate of increasingly burnt pancakes, muttered, “Still better than these pancakes obeying the laws of physics.”

“Fantasy is hope,” Eve said, now gently lowering herself to the grass to retrieve a fork. “It’s about becoming more than what you are. It defies logic on purpose.”

“Sci-fi is imagination with a brain,” [Name] countered. “It says, ‘what if?’ and actually answers it. The multiverse is real, I have a psychic bond with a radioactive spider, and you're telling me elves are cooler than that?”

Eve took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Your giant spider mech couldn’t even get us out of that web singularity without my ‘fantasy nonsense,’ remember?”

“That was a team effort, and my emotional support stat carried us,” [Name] said, sticking her tongue out.

Mark finally sat down between them, his plate full of charcoal-scented regret. “Can’t we all just agree the best genre is one where both of you exist and somehow still talk to me?”

They both turned to him in unison.

“No,” they said flatly.

Silence fell for a moment. Then a gentle chirp came from the SP//dr parked nearby, the cockpit lights flashing as it projected a small holographic speech bubble:

“QUERY: Why not cybernetic dragons with neural-linked magic cores?”

Eve squinted. “Okay... that’s actually pretty cool.”

[Name] smirked, sipping her smoothie like it was a victory toast. “That’s called science fantasy, and guess what side that leans toward.”

Eve rolled her eyes, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she nudged Mark’s plate. “You really gonna eat that?”

“...I tried my best.”

[Name] gave a sympathetic pat to his shoulder. “At least in fantasy, the food magically turns out edible.”

Later that afternoon, Mark sat cross-legged on the garage floor, surrounded by scattered tools, half-disassembled power cables, and the ever-present aroma of engine grease and strawberry smoothie. SP//dr stood idle in the corner, its eight sleek legs tucked neatly beneath it like some industrial-grade arachnid in meditation mode. Its single eye pulsed softly with cyan light. [Name] was half inside a maintenance hatch, her legs kicking lazily behind her while synth-pop music played faintly from a speaker that may or may not have been jury-rigged to a toaster.

Mark squinted at SP//dr. “Okay, so I’ve got to ask—how exactly do you two talk?”

A quiet whrrp came from SP//dr. A small digital heart emoji appeared on its outer display. [Name] snorted from inside the hatch.

“We just do,” she said, voice echoing slightly as she reconnected a few neural relays. “It’s a psychic link. Thought-based. Emotion-coded. Intuition-forward. Kinda like... feeling in full sentences.”

“That means nothing,” Mark said, genuinely confused but trying not to sound defeated. “Is it like... telepathy?”

“No,” [Name] said, sliding out on her back and blinking up at the ceiling like it owed her rent. “Telepathy’s like listening to someone in your brain. This is more like... feeling what they’d say before they do. It’s real-time understanding. Like an instinct you trust.”

SP//dr emitted a soft hum of agreement, its eye blinking twice in a way that [Name] immediately interpreted as “Yep, he’s lost.”

Mark stared. “So, what, you’re telling me you can look at that thing”—he gestured vaguely toward the glowing mech—“and know when it’s mad at you?”

“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation, now wiping grease off her hands with the leg of her suit. “And it gets verymoody when I ignore its diagnostics for too long. You ever been guilt-tripped by a spider mech? It’s brutal.”

SP//dr rotated slightly and projected a tiny hologram of a sad face with big sparkly eyes and the words:

“❤️CHECK MY COOLANT LEVELS, I AM DYING INSIDE❤️”

“Oh my god,” Mark said, slowly turning back to [Name]. “You trained it to be dramatic.”

“I didn’t train it. It inherited that,” she said, smirking and patting the side of SP//dr’s chassis affectionately. “My dad coded the emotional response matrix before I even bonded with it. SP//dr’s always been... expressive.”

“And this is what counts as normal for you two?”

“Normal’s a sliding scale. You should see what SP//dr thinks of your sense of fashion.”

SP//dr chirped again, this time projecting a low-res animation of Mark’s yellow-and-blue hero suit, now with added glitter, an oversized bowtie, and a cape that said “STYLE ICON.”

Mark groaned. “I saved the galaxy in that.”

“Exactly,” [Name] said. “You peaked.”

Mark leaned back on his hands, watching the banter bounce between girl and machine like it was the most natural thing in the world. He still didn’t get how it worked—how two beings so completely different could move in perfect sync. But he figured that’s what made them a great team. They didn’t need words. Just trust, instinct, and a little sarcastic flair.

“Okay,” he said at last, “but if SP//dr ever starts talking in my head, I’m moving to Mars.”

SP//dr slowly rotated to face him. A digital graphic of a rocket taking off appeared.

“🚀Bags packed.”

[fandomfucker]

I WANT TO BE MANHANDLED BY RHEA PLEASEE

WARNINGS: SMUT!!! (thigh riding, fingering, hickies, nicknames, slight degradation, spanking, oral, rough)

Word count: 1,771

Reader's POV

"Oh shit."

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

It was the mantra repeating in my head as I hurried down the nearly empty corridor of the back of whatever arena Raw was taking place in tonight.

My girlfriend, Rhea, had told me to meet her at her locker room twenty minutes ago so we could grab a cab and leave a bit early since we were both done for the night and she had told me that she had something planned for us.

I, however, had gotten a little caught up in something and just about busted my ass trying to get there before she got too mad.

Skidding around the corner to where her dressing room was located I slammed face first into what felt like a solid brick wall.

The impact sent stumbling back but before I could land flat on my ass a hand as familiar as my own wrapped around my waist, keeping me upright.

"I'm so sorry babe," I apologized to my girlfriend as I wrapped my arms around her neck. Her grip on my waist tightened as her eyes flared at me in anger.

"I lost track of time and then I was running backstage and tripped and Rhea, I ate shit, and I'm so so sorry." I panted, trying to catch my breath as I clutched the back of her t-shirt in my fist.

Her jaw clenched as she looked at me, and I could tell she was choosing her next words carefully.

"Are you okay?" She asked me.

I nodded carefully in response.

She gave a curt nod before going back into the room, coming back only a second later with both of our bags in her hands.

"Lets go." She said before brushing past me and making her way down the hallway, leaving me to close the door behind us and scurry after her.

I waited beside her silently until our cab arrived, only looking over at her when she grabbed our bags to put in the trunk, her ordering me to get in the car instead of helping.

Hopping into the back, I buckled in and waited for her to join me. Once she was in and ready, we took off towards our hotel.

The whole ride back was spent in a thick silence. I could feel Rhea's anger pulsing off of her in waves as I trembled nervously in my seat. The only real assurance I got that she wasn't mad mad was her hand squeezing my inner thigh.

Wasting no time, as soon as the car pulled to a stop in front of our hotel, Rhea was up and out of the car getting our luggage. She met me at the front door and I followed her in as we made our way up to our room.

The second the hotel room door closed behind me I was roughly pushed up against it, one of my thighs brought up to her hip as she cradled the back of my head to keep it from hitting the door too hard.

"You were late, Sweetheart. You didn't listen to me, and you know what happens when you don't listen to me." She growled at me before attacking my throat with her lips.

She bit and sucked her way up and down my throat, from the bottom of my ear to the top of my breasts, leaving her mark along the way.

A guttural moan escaped me as she explored my body with her tongue. She bit my throat harshly, a sign to shut up, causing me to whimper as I bit my tongue to stop any further noises from escaping.

Once she was satisfied with her work on my neck, she pulled away, bringing me with her by the hand holding the crown of my head.

Walking us backwards toward the bed, Rhea unleashed her signature devilish grin on me as she licked her lips, her piercing glinting in the moonlight streaming in from the open windows.

She maneuvered us so that she was now behind me as we both faced the bed in front of us.

My face then hit the plush comforter as she pushed me down roughly from behind. And my shirt was ripped in two as she clawed it off my body, her nails leaving little red lines down the length of my back.

Grabbing my shoulder, she turned me over so that I now laid on my back. She removed the remain of my shirt off the front of my body before shimming my jeans over my hips and down my legs.

I now laid before her in nothing but my underwear, having forgone a bra this morning knowing that this is exactly where I would later end up.

"You slut. No bra and a thong?" Giving me another devilish grin she lightly traced a finger down my clothed core, making me shiver from her cool touch. "Only for you, Mami."

My comment received an firm slap on my pussy, making me suck in a large breath as Rhea tore into my underwear, ripping them to shreds just like my shirt.

Her pointer and middle finger were harshly shoved up into my vagina and began pumping in and out of me at a quick pace. She held my hip down with her free hand to keep me from riding her fingers.

She suckled my neck as she finger-fucked me. Her thumb began to draw circles on my clit as her fingers slowly down but ever thrust came harder and harder.

"I can feel you're almost there, babydoll. Tell me what you want." Her voice was low and sultry as she spoke down to me, her amused smirk never leaving her face.

I immediately complied, both dying to come and to appease her. "Please, Mami, I want to come. Mami, I want to come please."

Satisfied with my answer she gave me a small nod, picking the pace back up and hitting my g-spot with every thrust as she simultaneously rubbed my clit.

The pressure finally sent me over the edge. I shook with pleasure, coming all over Rhea's hand as she slowed down and helped me ride it out.

A loud moan escaped from my mouth as Rhea removed her hand before gripping the underside of my knees, and forcing them up to my chest for better access.

My pussy glistened with my slick, bared wide before my goddess of a girlfriend as she kept me folded in half and bit her lip in excitement as she kept her eyes trained on my body.

Her head bent down, her tongue coming out to lick up the mess she'd made. My legs trembled and goosebumps prickled my flesh when her piercing grazed my clit, all the while her hands massaged the back of my thighs, keeping them up in the air above her head.

Once she deemed me clean enough, she stood back up and threw my legs to the side, much like she would her opponents before pinning them.

Finally stripping off all of her own clothes, I was ordered to sit there on the edge of the bed with my hands laid on the bed beside me.

Admiring her naked body before me I sat and waited just as she had told me to.

She slowly stalked up to me, her eyes trained on mine and she stood in front of me, both of my legs between hers. She kicked one of my legs away, spreading my legs apart, before slowly lowering herself to straddle one of my thighs.

I could feel how wet she was on my leg, especially once she grabbed my neck and shoulder for leverage and started to grind herself on my leg.

Moaning at the feeling, she closed her eyes, completely at the mercy of the bliss she was feeling.

Wanting to give her the most pleasure possible, I began to move my thigh against the pace she had set for herself, doubling what she was already feeling.

The hand that was holding onto my shoulder moved down to my breast squeezing it as she rode me. Finally opening her eyes she addressed me. "Touch me, slut."

My hand immediately found one of her breasts, teasing her nipple, as my mouth found the other, sucking and biting until she was frantically grinding herself against my thigh.

Loving when she came undone, I continued to suck at her nipple, being careful not to irritate her piercing too much, and brought my other hand down to her pussy.

She was so soaked she had me moaning but I quickly found her hole and inserted three fingers into her, pumping hard as she continued to grind on what was now the palm of my hand.

Not a minute later she was crying out and coming all over my hand. She laid her head on my shoulder as I helped her ride out her high.

Once she stopped shaking as much I removed my hand from underneath her.

"Lick it up." She ordered as she lifted her head, her cheeks flushed and forehead sweaty.

Happily, I sucked the cum off of each finger, preening at the hungry look in her eyes as she watched.

Standing up and backing away from my thigh, I could see not only the puddle Rhea had left on my thigh that was now dripping down both sides, and onto the floor, but the strings of cum that stretched from her pussy to my leg as she stood up.

Putting her hands under my thighs and around my waist, she picked me up bridal style and threw me further up on the bed, immediately grabbing my side and flipping me over onto my stomach.

My breath left me for a second after being flipped around so quickly. Her hands slid under my thighs and brought them up to her, leaving me on my knees in front of her.

Without warning, I felt her hands on my ass, spreading my cheeks wide open just before her mouth was on my core. Moaning loudly, I leaned into her face, resulting in a smack on my ass as she began to tongue-fuck me.

She was rough and soon began sucking on my clit again as she fucked me with her fingers. In no time at all I was a shaking, moaning mess again, begging to come.

Rhea rode me down from the high, flipping me back onto my stomach before crawling over me and laying down on top of me with her head resting on my breast, her right hand splayed across my stomach and tracing the tattoo on my ribcage.

"I'm sorry I was late, Rhea." I apologized as I brushed her hair out of her face. She snuggled closer into me and held me tighter. "'s okay, babe. You should be late more often." Laughing, I closed my eyes as we fell asleep together.

[dragonridersandhighlords]

Chasing Shadows | F I V E

masterlist | CS Masterlist

Summary: Xaden’s POV of Ch 4 up until the ‘Battle Brief’ with Mira.

Notes: Surprise! Have another update!

Warnings: Violet is still a bitch (no I can’t off her but I wish I could), thats it

Word Count: 3.8k

previous part

X A D E N 

I hammered my fists into the training post in the farthest corner of the gym, a sanctuary of shadows where the harsh lights couldn’t penetrate. The wooden post shuddered with each strike, splinters threatening to break free, but the pain I inflicted on it was nothing compared to the turmoil raging within me. My mind churned, relentless, replaying Wrenley’s words from the other night like a haunting melody I couldn't escape.

We should just call it now, Xay. We weren’t going to survive after graduation.

You wouldn’t be doing it because you love me. You’d be doing it to prove a point.

I do still care about you. I just can’t in the way I always have.

“You always did choose pain over answers,” Garrick's voice broke through the haze, flat and devoid of sympathy as he approached. 

I refused to look up, my fists moving rhythmically against the post, the dull thud echoing in the hollow gym. “Didn’t ask for company,” I muttered.

“Good,” Garrick replied coldly, his words slicing through the tension. “I’m not here to keep you company.”

As I stilled, the silence draped over us like a thick fog, the air charged. Garrick's boots echoed against the stone floor, drawing closer, each step a countdown to the inevitable confrontation. 

“Why did you do it?” he finally asked, a question heavy with accusation.

My shoulders tensed, a visceral reaction to the sharpness of his inquiry. 

“You think I wouldn’t find out? She’s been closed off for days. Desa’s threatening to scorch anyone who even walks near her.” His exasperation crackled in the air, thickening the silence. 

“It’s better for her this way,” I replied, my voice tinged with a desperation I couldn’t quite hide.

“That’s bullshit,” Garrick spat, the venom in his words hitting me like a physical blow. “You don’t get to play with her heart like that. Not after everything. Not after she trusted you with the parts of herself she won’t even show me.” 

The truth of his words clenched around my heart, but I steeled myself. “You think I wanted this? You think this is easy for me?”

“No, I think you’re a goddamn coward,” Garrick shot back, his tone sharp as glass. “Because that girl loved you like you were the very oxygen she breathed. And you dropped her like it didn’t mean anything.”

“She was going to get hurt!” I shouted, my voice raw, bleeding like my fists against the post. “Every day she was around me, she was more at risk. You know what’s happening out there, what we're trying to do. She’s safer without me.”

Garrick stepped closer, an unyielding force of emotion that crackled in the stillness of the gym. The shadows clung to him as if they recognized the weight of his fury and hurt, painting his features with a grim determination. “You think she wanted safety?” His voice trembled, bitter with the grief that hung in the air like a storm cloud poised to unleash its wrath. “She wanted you. And now? She thinks she’s disposable.”

The words felt like another strike against my chest. I flinched, the imaginary impact forcing me to look away, my breath shallow and ragged as if I had been the one struck down. In that moment, I felt the icy grip of guilt coiling around my heart, tightening with each heartbeat.

“You think she’s better off without you?” Garrick pressed. “You don’t get to decide that for her. That’s not protecting her. That’s control, fear.” He paused, letting the silence settle, a heavy shroud that threatened to suffocate me. “And you don't get to say you love her and then destroy her to keep her safe.”

The words hung in the air, laden with truth, and the weight of them pressed down on my shoulders, threatening to crush me. I was lost in the echo of my failures, the shadows of my choices swirling like smoke around me.

“I trusted you with her,” Garrick continued, the raw edge of betrayal seeping into his tone. “And yeah, that’s on me.” With that, he turned, the silence stretching between us like an unbridgeable chasm. But before he could walk away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, his voice iron-hard and resolute.

“You ever want to fix what you broke, you better start with telling her the truth. Because the version you left her with? It’s killing her.”

I’ve been avoiding Violet whenever possible. Jack nearly killing her during her challenge today wasn't helping that. Each time I glanced in her direction since we got to the infirmary, I felt the weight of guilt pressing down harder, especially after Wrenley witnessed me scoop Violet out of Ridoc’s arms in a panic. 

I fidget with one of the daggers Wrenley had gifted me just before we were separated after the executions. The cool metal felt reassuring in my grip, a tether to a time when I felt more in control. The dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls, mirroring the turmoil within me. It was then that Violet stirred, her eyelids fluttering open, revealing a confusion that quickly morphed into recognition.

“Oranges?” I ask her.

“How many stitches?” she asked, concern weaving through her words as she propped herself up, a subtle wince betraying her pain.

“Eleven on one side and nineteen on the other,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light as I leaned in closer. “You turned oranges into a weapon, Violence?” 

“I worked with what I had,” she shrugged, a flicker of pride glimmering in her eyes even amidst the hurt.

“Seeing as it kept you alive—kept us alive—I can’t really argue,” I said, leaning back in the chair, the wood creaking under my weight. “Telling Ridoc allowed Emetterio to get him here in time. Unfortunately, he’s five beds down from you, and he’ll live, unlike the second-year a row over. You could have killed him and saved us all a lot of drama.”

“I didn’t want to kill him,” she replied, her voice steady despite the pain etched on her face. She rolled her shoulder, a grimace crossing her features. “I just wanted him to stop killing me.”

“You should have told me.” The accusation tore from my lips in a snarl, fueled by frustration and fear.

“And you could have done nothing about it besides make me look weak. And you haven’t exactly been around to talk about anything in weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that kiss scared you.” My heart sank at her words, an uncomfortable truth I wished I could erase from everyone’s memory. 

“That’s not up for discussion.” I stated, trying to deflect, but the tension between us crackled, thick and suffocating.

“Seriously?” she pressed, and I could feel the ground shifting beneath us, the fragile lines we had drawn beginning to blur.

“It was a mistake.” I snap. “Not only are we going to be stationed together for the rest of our lives, never able to escape the other, but I am—was—in a serious relationship. What we did, even under the influence of our dragons, was wrong.” A cold weight settled in my chest as I realized the gravity of my actions; I can’t take it back, but I will make it right now.

Violet scoffs, a sound laced with disbelief, her expression a mixture of defiance and hurt. “This is because Wrenley broke up with you?” The mere mention of her name sends a sharp pang through me, and I fight the urge to lash out, to silence her before she digs deeper into the wounds that still throb beneath the surface. I can feel the tension coiling in my muscles, the instinctual urge to snap her neck so she'd shut up rising like bile in my throat.

“Getting involved—even on a physical level—is a colossal blunder.” The weight of my voice presses down, a finality that echoes within the small room. “You were a mistake that I will not repeatedly make. So there is no point talking about it.”I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind, the memory of our shared kiss—how I pulled her into my arms—taunting both of us with its undeniable intensity.

“What if I want to talk about it?” Her challenge is quiet, yet fierce, as she shifts to the edge of the bed, an instinctual movement that suggests she’s already plotting her escape.

“Then feel free, but it doesn’t mean I have to be a part of the conversation. We’re both allowed our boundaries, and this is one of mine.” My tone hardens, and I can sense her discomfort, the way her resolve falters at the finality of my words. 

“I’ll agree that keeping my distance didn’t work out so well, and if today’s little stunt was about getting my attention, then congratulations. It’s yours.” I glance away, the admission weighing heavy in the air, a reluctant acknowledgment of the truth that I had tried to deny.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She deflects, but I know she’s searching for the boots so she can get as far away from this conversation as possible.

“Apparently I can’t trust Liam to report deadly situations or Rhiannon to train you on the mat, seeing how easily Barlowe had you pinned, so as of this moment, I’m taking over.” The words feel like an ultimatum, and I know deep down that this isn’t going to help me at all. But if I want to live long enough to convince Wrenley that it’s only ever been her, this is what I need to do.

“Taking over what?” Violet’s curiosity mingles with skepticism, and I brace myself for what’s to come.

“Everything when it comes to you.”

The bitter chill of the wind whips through the training grounds, biting at my skin, as I stare out over the distant horizon from the parapet. The last remnants of winter linger in the air, but it’s more the weight of the past weeks that settles heavily on my shoulders. Since the moment Wrenley learned about my intentions to train Violet, I felt a rift begin to carve its way between us. It was subtle at first, a fleeting glance turned away, a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. But now, it’s an expansive gulf, and I’m not sure how to bridge it.

February slipped by in a blur of early morning training sessions and late-night sparring matches, each one punctuated by Violet’s persistent attempts to close the space between us. The thought of crossing that line again clawed at my insides, a constant battle between desire and the guilt that held me captive. Would Violet ever understand why I had to keep her at arm's length? 

With March now drifting towards its end, I find myself alone, my thoughts swirling like the clouds above me. It’s my birthday, a day that should be filled with laughter and camaraderie, yet I’m isolated in my own head, wrestling with the choices that have led me here. Garrick, my best friend, barely acknowledges my existence outside of class. 

Bodhi, ever the silent mediator, hovers nearby, but I can see the inner turmoil reflected in his gaze. He’s been forced to choose between his best friend and his last living relative, and I can’t help but feel like a shadow hanging over their friendship. If he ever asked me, I'd tell him without hesitation to choose Wrenley. I don’t deserve their loyalty, not after the way I’ve let everything spiral out of control. Wren deserves better than the mess I’ve made of our lives.

After what feels like hours of brooding, I make my way back to my room, the familiar walls closing in as I reach for the door. But the moment I open it, my heart skips a beat. There, on my desk, a single slice of chocolate cake sits, accompanied by a simple note:

Happy birthday. - Wren

The air hums with tension as cadets line up for the next Squad Battle challenge, the charged atmosphere thick with a mix of excitement and the sharp tang of fear. As I lean against the cool stone wall, my gaze sweeps over the sea of faces, each one a tapestry of anxiety and determination. 

Then my focus is drawn, like a moth to a flame, to a familiar figure amidst the throng—a head full of auburn waves that glisten in the sunlight, my favorite shade. Wrenley shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her posture attempting nonchalance, yet the fidgeting of her fingers tells a different story. The little details—the way her brow furrows and the subtle quiver of her hands—betray her nerves.

“She looks like she’s gonna puke,” Garrick mutters beside me, his voice laced with a blend of concern and sarcasm.

“She’ll be fine,” I reply, though my eyes remain glued to her. I watch as she steadies her grip on the blade, taking a deep, grounding breath, and I reach for the area of the Aretian Cliffs in my mind where our connection usually resides, but I find nothing like usual.

And then Emettario calls for the match to begin and she moves like she was born for this, every motion fluid and instinctive, yet it’s not merely her physical prowess I’m observing—it's the strategic decisions she makes in the heat of battle. Her attacks are quick and calculated, her movements sharp and sudden, sending her opponent reeling. She plays them, baiting them into underestimating her, appearing weak while she strikes with fierce precision.

I feel my jaw tighten as her opponent fakes a drop and lunges toward her blind side. In an instant, Wrenley drops, spins, and connects with a kick to his ribs that sends him sprawling to the ground. My heart races, but I refuse to let my worry show. 

When Emettario declares her the winner, I can’t help but notice the way her shoulders drop in relief, a weight lifted from her. I suppress the urge to smile, though warmth blooms in my chest, betraying my carefully maintained facade.

“She fought like she had something to prove,” Garrick remarks, breaking the silence.

“She does,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. 

To herself. To me.

She doesn’t need saving. She never did. But I’ll be damned if I don’t burn the world down for her, anyway.

Then I watch her run from the crowd, the jubilant cheers and claps fading into a distant hum, and my breath catches in my throat like a stone lodged deep within. Her movements are fluid and electric, every stride echoing her triumph, until she collides with Dain, their bodies connecting with a soft thud that feels like an eruption in my chest. 

She lands against him, her momentum carrying her into his chest with a grace that suggests it’s the most natural thing in the world. He catches her effortlessly, a broad grin splitting his face like he’s the one who won. My heart sinks as I watch, arms instinctively clenching at my sides. His hands slide around her waist, the intimacy of the gesture sending a surge of something sharp and unsettling twisting in my chest. There it is, that radiant smile—so bright and unrestrained—that she once reserved solely for me.

I feel frozen in time, every instinct screaming to surge forward, to break through the thrumming crowd that separates us, to pull her back into my orbit, to explain the unbearable truth behind my silence. But I stand paralyzed, rooted to the spot, because I promised myself she’d be safer without me—and now, standing here, I have to confront the agonizing proof that she doesn’t need me at all.

Wrenley leans into him, head tipped back, the flush of victory painting her cheeks a vivid rose. She laughs at something Dain says, the sound ringing clear like a bell, slicing through the last vestiges of my resolve. They begin to walk together like it was always meant to be just them.

Beside me, Garrick watches the scene unfold, his expression a mask of contemplation, his jaw ticking rhythmically in a way that tells me he’s grappling with his own thoughts. “She’s allowed to be happy,” he finally says, breaking the thick silence that envelops us.

“She is,” I reply, though the words leave a bitter taste on my tongue, as if tainted by the very reality I’m struggling to accept. 

As they disappear down the corridor, laughter trailing behind them, I remain in the shadows of the arena, grappling with the hollow ache inside me, wondering if this is what it feels like to win a war but lose the reason you fought it.

I’m pissed at Sgaeyl for dragging me to Montserrat just three days after Flame Section Second Squad departed to claim their prize for winning the Squad Battle last week. The air is thick with the salty tang of the sea, a bitter reminder of the excitement I’m missing. Each breath feels heavy with unspent adrenaline, and I can’t shake the feeling that I should be among my comrades, celebrating their victory instead of lurking in the shadows of this outpost.

As I make my way through the dimly lit halls, I stumble upon Violet and Rihannon sneaking back in with Mira. Before I can retreat to my own room, a cascade of hushed laughter wafts from the gates, pulling me closer, curiosity piquing my senses.

Wrenley slips in first, her bare feet soundless against the cool stone. Drops of water glisten in her hair, catching the light and shimmering like tiny stars trapped in the strands. She wears a jacket that swallows her whole, the fabric sagging at her shoulders. The sound of her laughter is soft and sweet, the kind of melody that wraps around the heart like a warm blanket, yet it stings to hear it aimed at someone else.

Dain follows closely behind her, both of their boots cradled in their hands like trophies, their faces alight with the thrill of rebellion. They look like teenagers, caught in a moment that feels both innocent and reckless, a stark contrast to the rigid expectations of marked cadets.

They don’t see me until it’s too late.

“Interesting choice of company,” I say, stepping from the shadows, the tension crackling in the air around us. 

Wrenley freezes mid-step, her laughter evaporating like mist. Dain’s head snaps up, his entire demeanor shifting, a predator caught off guard in enemy territory. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she stammers, blinking, her voice stripped of its usual steel, revealing a vulnerability that tugs at something deep within me. Guilt dances in her eyes, and I seize the opportunity.

“And you’re supposed to not be sneaking around at an outpost that you’re visiting.” My tone is even, each word a calculated jab. “What kind of leadership are you considering when I caught two of your cadets doing exactly the same?” Silence envelops us, heavy and charged. My gaze zeroes in on Wren. “Really? With the son of your father’s murderer?” Dain tries to interject, but I cut him off. “Don’t defend it.” 

Wrenley steadies herself, her breath a deep inhale that seems to anchor her. She takes a step forward, and I can see the strength in her resolve, even as it wavers. “You don’t get to ambush me and throw my father’s death in my face, Xaden.” 

“No?” I challenge, closing the distance between us. “Then explain it to me, Wren. Explain how the same girl who used to flinch at the name Aetos is now barefoot and grinning with his son.”

Wrenley’s jaw clenched, her emotions flickering behind her eyes like lightning across a stormy sky. “Because I realized I was being hypocritical when it came to Violet. And she’s done worse to me than Dain did.” The words hung in the air, heavy and jagged.

“That’s rich coming from you,” I retorted, my voice a low rumble of disbelief. “When your entire adult life has been built on hating what his family did to yours.” 

Dain stood there, caught in the crossfire of our confrontation, the tension thrumming around him like a taut string ready to snap. He sensed this was no longer a conversation he belonged in, yet his presence added a different weight to the moment—one that wavered between uncomfortable and necessary.

“This isn’t about his father,” Wrenley declared, her voice firm, but I could see the cracks forming in her facade. “This is about Dain.”

“Exactly,” I hissed, my patience unraveling like thread pulled too tight. “And he’s not some neutral player. He is who he was raised to be. You think he doesn’t carry the same loyalty? The same blind obedience? You think you’re safe with him just because he’s nice to you now?” My words lashed out, sharp and cruel, and I watched as Wrenley flinched at the truth of them.

She stood her ground, her resolve hardening in the face of my aggression, but I could see the hurt playing across her features. “At least he chose me,” she said, her voice steady.

I stepped back, feeling as if she had pushed me with a force I couldn’t contest. The air between us crackled, charged with all the unsaid things that swirled like a tempest.

Dain cleared his throat, the sound awkward and misplaced amidst the palpable tension. “We should go.” His words felt like a lifeline, but they were also an admission of defeat.

Wrenley looked at me one last time, her eyes unreadable, a storm of emotions swirling just beneath the surface. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

“I don’t care how I found out,” I replied, my voice slicing through the lingering silence like a blade. “I care that you forgot.” 

“Forgot what?” she whispered, confusion mingling with hurt, and I felt the weight of the moment press down on us like a heavy fog.

“That you’re not just choosing him. You’re choosing his name. And everything it cost yours.” My heart ached as I watched her, a fierce battle waging behind her eyes. 

Without another word, they left, the space between us widening like a chasm, filled with unspoken feelings and uncharted regrets. I stood alone in the empty corridor, the echoes of our exchange reverberating through me like a haunting melody. I felt like a ghost, lingering in a place where warmth had just departed, wondering if I was losing her for good—or if she had just lost herself in her desperate attempt to forget me.

I hoped she realizes that Dain is up to something. I don't know what it is yet, but I will figure it out. Because I won't let her slip through my fingers, and get burned in the process.

next part

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[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1964 Chevrolet Cheetah

Also known as ‘Killer Cobra’

The 1964 Chevrolet Cheetah – a name that evokes both exhilaration and trepidation, whispered in hushed tones as “the Killer Cobra.” This ferocious feline wasn’t your average Corvette; it was a fire-breathing, lightweight monster built to slay Ford’s Shelby Cobra on the racetrack, and its story is as wild as its performance.

Born from Rivalry:

In the early 1960s, the Cobra was tearing up tracks and stealing headlines. Chevrolet couldn’t stand the sting of defeat, so they turned to Bill Thomas, a legendary Corvette expert with a reputation for tinkering. Thomas’ mandate was simple: build a car that could devour Cobras whole.

Unleashing the Beast:

The Cheetah was a radical departure from the curvy Corvette. Forget rounded fenders; this beast was all sharp angles and aerodynamic efficiency. A lightweight fiberglass body clothed a modified Corvette chassis, powered by a monstrous 375-horsepower small-block V8. Independent suspension and NASCAR-inspired brakes promised razor-sharp handling and brutal stopping power.

Taming the Cat:

But the Cheetah was a fickle beast. Its lightweight construction and raw power made it unforgiving at the limit. Steering was twitchy, and the unforgiving suspension demanded a skilled hand on the wheel. This wasn’t a car for Sunday drives; it was a high-wire act on four wheels, reserved for experienced racers with nerves of steel.

A Taste of Victory:

Despite its wild temperament, the Cheetah tasted victory. A few privateer teams managed to outmaneuver and outrun Cobras on smaller tracks, proving Thomas’ concept had merit. But factory support fizzled out due to high costs and safety concerns, and only 25 Cheetahs were ever built.

Leaving a Legacy:

The Cheetah’s life was short, but its impact is undeniable. It proved that American manufacturers could build serious race cars to rival the best Europe had to offer. It pushed the boundaries of design and performance, even if it wasn’t always easy to control. And it cemented Bill Thomas’ reputation as a master car builder with a penchant for the audacious.

More Than a Machine:

Today, the Chevrolet Cheetah is a coveted collector’s item, a piece of automotive history frozen in time. Owning one is like owning a piece of racing DNA, a reminder of a time when cars were raw, brutal, and exhilarating. The “Killer Cobra” might have a reputation for being untamable, but for those brave enough to handle it, it offers an unmatched experience, a chance to dance with a legend on four wheels.

So, the next time you hear the name “Cheetah,” remember it’s not just a car. It’s a roar of defiance, a testament to innovation, and a reminder that sometimes, the greatest rewards come from taming the wildest beasts. Remember, the Cheetah might be gone, but its spirit lives on, a fire-breathing phantom on the racetracks of our imagination.

[porcalinecunt]

Hello! Ur writing is so amazing!❤️❤️ may I request brat tamer levi ackerman🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️

𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄!

🪽 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ wanna be a brat? brace the consequences ! ʚ♡ɞ

·˚ ◌༘͙[featuring] ! ˊ 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐗 𝐆𝐍! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

cw — reader’s genitalia is not specified. mean dom! levi spanking. impact play. manhandling. hair pulling. anal fingering(?). edging. some degrading.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ author’s note! : hi nonie! tysm for the compliment! you’re too kind :’3 levi is a hard character for me so i hope i did him justice. 🤍 anyways, this will be my last fic before i start grinding on my batfamily fics! so please enjoy! <3

₊˚ෆ BRAT TAMER! LEVI is a rarity you have to seek out for yourself, as unfortunately for your cute little head, the man holds more patience then normal. most annoyances you cause like obnoxious whining or prying at his belt often results in him either brushing you off or a slight chuckle at your feble attempts (not that you’re complaining about the last one..)

₊˚ෆ BRAT TAMER! LEVI however, has his own limits. he won’t tolerate you misbehaving in public or in front of mutual friends nor will he handle you disobaying explicit rules he grounded you in. it’s a constant game of how far you can go just to see levi snap and unleash his pent up frustration onto your poor body. luckily for you, it happened to be one of his more..stressful evenings. despite the crystal clear warning, you pressed and pressed just for a drop of attention. you pouted, begged and touched the crotch of his pants, anticipation his reaction while his eyebrows twitched and his jaw clenched.

₊˚ෆ BRAT TAMER! LEVI finally reached his fucking limit, dragging you by the wrist while you bite back a smile. levi is not a forgiving man, commanding you to strip out of those loose pijamas until you had nothing but your frilly socks on. not only is he pissed, but his strength is near frightening, effortlessly manhandling you like a ragdoll until you were bent over his knee. you whined like a bitch in heat, only for levi to yank you by the hair and force your head towards him. “you keep you mouth shut or i’ll fuck it raw, got that?” safe to say, your lips were pressed tightly together.

₊˚ෆ BRAT TAMER! LEVI is a spanker, period. with your ass high up and your knees held down, levi raised his hand high and struck down on the sensitive flesh. no counting, no breaks, only continuous slapping and squeezing in a painful rhythm. a loud twack! jolted you upwards, only for you to be forced back down as tears stained your face. you could only cry and moan pathetically, weakly saying his name like a mantra you can’t let go of. twack! twack! twack! pain became arousal as you began to rub your thighs together, something levi caught onto in a heartbeat.

₊˚ෆ BRAT TAMER! LEVI scoffed, forcing your thighs apart until he pressed a finger against your asshole. you looked back with a gasp as he brought two fingers into his mouth, lubricating them with his own spit, then rubbing circles around your wet hole. levi was no stranger to anal, yet it never failed to have you tense in anticipation. “mmm..levi..” you moaned. “fuck me..please! i-i can’t wait any lo—AH!” the lingering pleasure was ripped away, only to be replaced with another sting of levi’s strikes. the one time he allowed mercy, you already went back to being a mindless brat in a fucking heartbeat. pathetic.

“want me to fuck you? tear this pretty ass open? then hold the fuck still, minx. until you learn, you aren’t getting shit.”

© porcalinecunt 🪽ᯓᡣ𐭩ྀི do not steal, translate, or use my work and claim as your own.

[novaursa]

The Second Daughter (endless skies)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for dragon battles)

- Previous part: the line

- Next part: legacy of fire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @l3thal-l0lita @alkadri-layal @ninihrtss @barnes70stark

The sky was alight with the fire of dragons, the heavens torn apart by the fury of beasts long thought untouchable by time. The setting sun bathed the battlefield in a deep orange glow, but it was not the sun that filled the air with heat—it was Vhagar’s fire, a monstrous wave of destruction that seared the sky, just missing Valyros by a breath. The young dragon twisted wildly, his golden-streaked scales glinting in the last light of the day, his wings beating furiously as Aemerys struggled to keep control. His sisters clung to him, their small hands fisted into his riding leathers, their terrified cries barely heard over the roar of dragons and the howling wind.

Above them, Vhagar was relentless, her sheer size dominating the sky, her shadow swallowing the land below. Aemond sat tall in her saddle, his single eye gleaming like amethyst in the firelight, his lips curled in grim determination. He was a warrior, a dragonlord, and a man who had known war since boyhood. He would not relent. He would not let them escape. The prince pulled at the reins, guiding Vhagar into another dive, her jagged wings slicing through the air, her great maw opening once more as she prepared to unleash another torrent of fire that could consume Valyros whole.

But before she could strike, another force slammed into her side, knocking her violently off course.

The sky shuddered with the impact, the world tilting in chaos as Silverwing crashed into Vhagar, talons raking into ancient scales, teeth snapping at the hardened hide of the great war dragon. Vhagar let out a thunderous, furious shriek, her massive body twisting mid-air, her tail lashing dangerously through the sky. You held tight to the reins, every muscle in your body straining as Silverwing fought against the force of her much larger opponent. The silver dragon was swift, her movements honed by centuries of flight, but Vhagar was strong, old, and filled with fury.

The moment of impact sent Aemerys and his sisters lurching in their saddles, their dragon veering sharply away to avoid being caught in the melee. Aemerys' voice rose over the wind, startled and desperate, his call piercing through the chaos. "Mother!" His cry was raw with disbelief, as if he had not dared to hope you would come, but you had. You had felt his fear through the bond, through the unbreakable connection between mother and child, and nothing in this world would have stopped you from reaching him.

Vhagar was momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected attack, her massive head jerking to the side as Silverwing clung to her with claws buried deep into thick scales. But Aemond was quick to react, yanking the reins, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Dracarys!” he commanded, and Vhagar obeyed without hesitation.

A blast of flame erupted from the beast’s throat, the heat scorching the sky, but Silverwing had already twisted away, her speed saving her from the worst of it. The ancient silver dragon was a creature of grace, built for agility rather than brute strength, and you guided her into a sharp roll, avoiding another vicious snap of Vhagar’s fangs. The air itself felt charged with rage, the clash of dragons sending shockwaves across the battlefield in the sky.

Aemerys had not hesitated once his mother entered the fray. His heart thundered in his chest, but his grip remained firm, his instincts sharper than ever. "Valyros! Strike now!" he called, and his dragon answered without fear, a silver-gold blur darting toward Vhagar’s unguarded side. The young dragon was fast, so much faster than Aemond’s great beast, and his claws raked across the old dragon’s flank, drawing fresh blood that dripped like molten rubies from the sky.

Vhagar’s screech was deafening, a sound of rage, of pain, of battle, and her massive wings flapped wildly, trying to throw off both attackers. You saw Aemond’s posture shift, his grip tightening, his anger radiating through the very air. “You should have stayed in your keep, sister,” he spat, his voice sharp as a dagger even from across the battlefield.

Your jaw clenched, your own grip on the reins never wavering. “So you could kill my children?” Your voice rang clear over the roar of dragons, a mother’s fury woven into every syllable. "You will not touch them, Aemond!"

But Aemond was not a boy playing at war—he was a warrior, a killer, and he would not falter. He pulled hard at the reins, and Vhagar roared once more, her great wings lifting her higher, forcing you and Silverwing to follow. The higher they went, the thinner the air became, the colder it turned, but Silverwing was used to such heights—Vhagar, too. The two dragons twisted and clashed in the fading sunlight, their bodies circling, striking, dodging, roaring.

Aemerys was still there, hovering below with his sisters, waiting for the next move, knowing they could not escape while Vhagar remained in pursuit. He wanted to fight, but this was not a battle to win—only to survive. You knew this too.

You tightened your grip. This had to end.

"Valyros!" you called, your voice carrying through the wind. "Aemerys, take your sisters and fly—now!"

Aemerys’ heart lurched at the command, but he did not argue. He saw the chance, the narrow window of escape his mother had carved for him. "Hold on!" he barked to his sisters, his body leaning forward. "Valyros—go!"

The young dragon obeyed, diving hard and fast, wings tucking in as he sped toward the treetops below. Vhagar roared in protest, her massive form jerking to pursue, but you would not allow it. You did the only thing you could.

You steered Silverwing directly into Vhagar’s path, blocking her, forcing Aemond to choose—

Follow the boy, or face you.

Aemond’s face twisted into a snarl, his lips curling as he made his choice.

He pulled hard at the reins, Vhagar banking sharply, focusing on you instead of your fleeing children.

It worked.

The moment of hesitation was all Aemerys needed—Valyros disappeared into the distance, his sisters safe upon his back, their small forms fading into the horizon as Vhagar let out a frustrated roar.

And then, you pulled away.

Silverwing’s wings snapped wide, her body twisting through the sky, breaking free of the battle before Vhagar could sink her teeth into her flesh. The battle was done—the only thing that mattered was that your children were safe.

Vhagar let out one last, furious roar, but you did not look back.

The only sound you focused on was the rushing wind, the pounding of your heart, and the thought that your children have survived.

The wind ripped past Aemerys' face, the cold bite of the high air cutting through his leathers as Valyros sped toward the ground, the dragon’s wings straining from the furious pace. His sisters clung to him, their small hands fisted into his tunic, trembling with the aftershock of what had transpired in the skies above. Rhaelya sobbed into his shoulder, her usually fearless voice reduced to shaky gasps, while Alysera’s arms remained locked around his waist in an iron grip, her face buried against his back.

"Hold on," Aemerys muttered, more to himself than them, his grip tightening on the reins as Valyros dove hard. His heart hammered like a war drum, every beat a reminder that their mother was still up there, facing Vhagar alone. The thought twisted something deep inside him, but he couldn't turn back—she had commanded him to flee.

He forced his gaze downward, through the thick rush of wind, and his stomach lurched at the sight below.

A river of Lannister men thundered across the valley, banners snapping wildly in the wind, their steel glinting in the last light of the sun. At the head of them rode Jason Lannister, his crimson cloak billowing behind him, his face set in grim determination, his golden hair gleaming like a lion’s mane.

For the first time since the battle began, Aemerys allowed himself to breathe.

His father was here.

"Valyros, now!" he ordered, guiding his dragon into a sharp descent. The young beast let out a deep-throated rumble, his wings folding inward as he hurtled toward the earth, sending ripples of dust and dirt into the air as his claws met the ground.

Jason saw him the moment he began his descent.

"Hold!" Jason commanded his men, yanking hard on the reins of his warhorse, pulling it to an abrupt halt as Valyros landed before them. The soldiers behind him slowed, their formation staggering at the sight of the great silver-gold beast, its nostrils flaring, its tail whipping against the ground as it settled protectively around the children it carried.

Jason swung down from his saddle instantly, his heart thundering, relief and fury warring within him.

The moment Aemerys dismounted, Jason seized him by the shoulders, his grip firm, grounding, his voice a growl of mixed emotions. "What in the seven hells were you thinking?!"

Aemerys barely had time to breathe before Jason gave him a firm shake, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made his son flinch.

"Flying off without a word? Taking your sisters into the sky against Vhagar?! Do you know what could have happened?! Do you understand the risk you took?"

Aemerys gritted his teeth, anger flickering in his own eyes, but it was not anger at his father—it was at himself.

"I—I had to ride," he said, his voice raw, shaking. "There was something happening near the border, I thought—I didn’t think—"

"No, you did not think!" Jason snapped, his hands tightening for a brief moment before he forced himself to release him, to take a step back before his fury consumed him whole.

The boy was safe.

That was what mattered.

Jason exhaled, his body tense with the weight of too many emotions all at once. His hands shook, but not with rage—with the sheer overwhelming relief of seeing his children alive.

Then, his gaze shifted.

He spotted his daughters, both still perched in the saddle, wide-eyed and pale, their small bodies shaking.

"Girls." His voice softened instantly, the warmth of a father overtaking the fury of a lord.

"Father!"

The moment Rhaelya heard his voice, she let go of Aemerys and all but flung herself from the saddle, her sobs escaping in full force as she threw herself into Jason’s arms.

Jason caught her immediately, his hand cradling the back of her head, his other arm wrapping securely around her as she sobbed into his chest.

"I’ve got you," he murmured, pressing a firm kiss to her golden curls, his grip never faltering. "I’ve got you, sweet girl."

Alysera, still silent, remained frozen in the saddle, her wide lilac eyes staring blankly at nothing, her fingers curled so tightly into the leather that her knuckles had turned white.

Jason reached for her next, lifting her gently from Valyros’ back, his touch softer now, more careful, more patient. "Come here, little lioness," he said, his voice low and reassuring.

She didn’t speak—not until her forehead was pressed against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his neck.

"I—I thought we were going to fall," she whispered against him, her voice small, fragile.

Jason closed his eyes, pressing another kiss into her hair.

"Not today," he whispered back. "Not today, my love."

For a moment, all was still.

And then—

"Where is your mother?"

Jason’s eyes lifted to Aemerys once more, his voice low but demanding.

Aemerys stiffened.

The boy’s jaw locked, his shoulders tensing, his hands clenching at his sides.

Jason felt the shift in the air—the cold rush of fear returning in full force, twisting inside his gut like a knife.

He took a step forward, his hands still resting protectively on his daughters, but his focus now locked onto his eldest son. "Aemerys, where is your mother?"

Aemerys swallowed hard, his voice coming out hoarse, uneven. "She… she stayed behind."

Jason stilled.

"She what?"

The weight of those words pressed against his ribs like iron, suffocating, crushing.

Aemerys met his gaze then, and Jason saw it—the raw panic, the helplessness, the desperation.

"She stayed to hold off Aemond," Aemerys whispered. "She… she told me to take the girls and go."

Jason’s heart stopped.

His breath caught, his vision narrowing, the world tilting violently around him.

No.

No, no, no.

His hands clenched into fists, his teeth grinding together as the weight of reality hit him all at once.

She had stayed to fight. Stayed to protect their children. Stayed to face the largest, deadliest dragon in the world alone.

His mind screamed.

Jason’s hands trembled.

And before anyone could stop him, before anyone could say another word—

"Ride. Now!"

Jason turned abruptly to his men, his voice thunderous with command.

The sky was alight with war, filled with the roars of dragons and the howling of the wind as the chase pressed on, a deadly dance of fire and fury across the heavens. You could feel Silverwing's heart pounding beneath you, her great muscles flexing as she cut through the air with powerful strokes of her wings. Vhagar was relentless behind you, her shadow swallowing the sky, her massive form blotting out the dying sunlight like an omen of doom.

You had spent years riding Silverwing, learning the way she moved, the way she breathed, the way she felt the air shifting beneath her wings. But never had you flown like this—never had you been forced into a battle where the only way to survive was to keep moving, to keep running, to stay ahead of the great beast that hunted you.

And Vhagar was hunting.

Aemond was relentless.

"Run as fast as you like, sister!" Aemond’s voice rang out across the sky, sharp as a blade, the cruel edge of amusement laced with cold fury. "There is no escaping me!"

You clenched your jaw, pulling hard on Silverwing’s reins, urging her forward, higher, faster. The wind ripped at your hair, your body pressed tightly against the saddle as you rode low, feeling the raw speed of your dragon beneath you.

"Did you think you could steal away my prey?" Aemond snarled, and you knew he meant Aemerys and your daughters. "Did you think I wouldn’t come for you?"

You did not answer, your focus entirely on the air ahead, on the shifting currents, on the world spinning wildly below you as you climbed higher and higher.

But Aemond was not finished.

"Aegon will be pleased to have you back, no matter the state I return you in!" he called, his voice thick with malice. "Even broken from a fall, you’ll serve him well enough!"

You had heard enough.

A chill ran through you, not from fear, but from pure fury.

"Silverwing!" you called, your voice carrying through the wind.

Your dragon responded instantly, her body twisting in the air, pulling into a sudden, bone-snapping turn that sent you careening to the side, forcing Vhagar to lurch mid-flight to keep up. The old beast was powerful, monstrous in size, but she was not as quick, not as nimble. Silverwing had the advantage of speed.

And so you struck. "Now!"

Silverwing dove without hesitation, wings folding as she plummeted, gaining momentum, her body turning in a spiral of silver scales and flashing talons.

Vhagar was not fast enough to react.

Silverwing slammed into her side with the force of a falling star, claws raking deep into Vhagar’s ancient hide, teeth snapping toward her throat, aiming for the soft flesh beneath the heavy plates of scales.

The impact sent a shockwave through the sky, the great she-dragons tangling together mid-air, wings flailing, tails lashing, their roars shaking the world.

You gritted your teeth, gripping the saddle as tightly as you could as Vhagar tried to shake Silverwing loose, her massive body twisting, bucking, jerking wildly. The force of it nearly ripped you from your seat, but you held on, feeling the raw, unrelenting rage in Silverwing’s movements as she fought to hold her ground.

Aemond was furious now, his shouts lost in the chaos as Vhagar twisted violently, finally breaking free of Silverwing’s grasp. The moment she did, Aemond yanked hard on the reins, pulling her around, preparing to attack once more.

But before he could—

The sky split apart with a sound unlike anything you had ever heard.

A sound of rage. Of vengeance.

A sound of another dragon.

A piercing, ear-splitting scream ripped through the heavens—high and sharp, a cry of pure fury and raw power.

Vhagar hesitated.

Aemond’s head snapped to the side—

And then, like a crimson nightmare, Caraxes emerged from the clouds.

The Blood Wyrm fell upon Vhagar like death incarnate, his elongated, sinewy body twisting through the air, his mouth opening wide to let out another haunting shriek, his wings spread like a shadow of war.

Daemon was upon them.

The sight of him, the realization that this was no longer a one-sided battle, sent a new wave of rage through Aemond, his voice cracking through the sky like a whip. "No!"

He had been so close.

His anger was palpable, his grip tightening on the reins as he wheeled Vhagar around, trying to regain control of the battle.

But it was too late.

Caraxes lunged forward, his talons sinking into Vhagar’s back, his fanged maw snapping viciously at her wings, his weight pressing her downward as he forced her into a sharp dive.

Silverwing hovered at your command, circling above the carnage, watching.

This was no longer your fight. This was Daemon’s.

And he was going to make Aemond pay.

Vhagar thrashed, her monstrous wings beating furiously, her ancient strength refusing to bow to even the most ferocious of opponents. But Caraxes was fast, his snake-like body twisting around her, his talons locking into her flesh, his powerful wings pushing her down, down, down.

Aemond was still fighting, still trying to break free, trying to turn the tide back in his favor.

But for the first time, you felt something in his stance—something that had not been there before.

Fear.

He had never feared anything before. But now, he was afraid. And he should be. Because Daemon was smiling.

Even from a distance, even through the chaos of war, you could see it in your mind—the glint of dark amusement, the thrill of the kill, the satisfaction of knowing that for the first time Aemond was on the backfoot.

And the prince knew it too.

He would not win this fight.

Not against both of you.

Not against two dragons.

Not against Daemon.

Aemond let out a furious, frustrated roar, yanking hard on Vhagar’s reins, forcing the massive beast to break away, to retreat.

And he knew it.

The battle was over.

Not because you had killed him, but because he had lost.

With a final, furious glare, Aemond turned his dragon toward the east, her massive form disappearing into the clouds, vanishing into the distant sky.

You sighed, body still taut with battle, with rage, with adrenaline.

Silverwing hovered beside Caraxes, their great wings beating against the wind, their scales shining in the light of the dying sun.

And then, finally—Daemon turned toward you, his voice steady, but amused.

"Little star," he called. "Are you hurt?"

You let out a breath again, your hands steadying on the reins, your heart still hammering.

"No," you answered, your voice firm, but hoarse from the fight.

Daemon hummed, tilting his head as Caraxes let out a low, guttural growl of satisfaction.

"Good," Daemon murmured. "Then let's get you home."

The battlefield stretched out before them, a land of rolling hills and golden fields now shadowed by the storm of dragons waging war above. Jason sat rigid in his saddle, his golden hair damp from sweat, his jaw locked tight as he watched the battle unfold in the heavens, his heart pounding like a hammer against his ribs. Around him, his men sat motionless, their gazes lifted to the sky, their swords forgotten in their sheaths, their warhorses restless beneath them, feeling the tension in the air. The roars of dragons echoed like thunder, rattling the very bones of the men below.

But none were as restless as Jason’s children.

Aemerys stood beside Valyros, his dragon perched on the crest of the nearby hill, tail lashing, wings flexing, the young beast’s eyes locked onto the war in the sky. Aemerys’ hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white, his body trembling—not with fear, but with helpless rage. He had never felt so small, so powerless, watching his mother locked in battle with the largest dragon in the world, knowing there was nothing he could do to help.

His sisters, Rhaelya and Alysera, stood close together, their small hands gripping each other, their eyes wide with worry. Alysera let out a soft, shaky breath, the wind catching in her curls as she whispered, "Will she win?"

Rhaelya did not answer. She didn’t know. None of them did.

Jason gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe, forcing himself to watch even as every fiber of his being screamed for him to mount his horse and ride straight into the firestorm if it meant reaching her. But there was no reaching her.

Not while Vhagar was still in the sky.

Then—

A piercing shriek split the air, different from the others, a sound more serpentine, more ruthless.

Jason’s eyes snapped upward—

And then he saw it.

A streak of red, cutting through the golden clouds like a shadow of war.

Jason’s heart stopped.

Caraxes. Daemon had come.

The battle shifted in an instant. The great Blood Wyrm tore through the sky like a blade, his elongated body twisting, his claws outstretched as he fell upon Vhagar with fury unmatched. From the ground, Jason could see Aemond yank hard on his reins, struggling to regain control, struggling to command the ancient war dragon beneath him. But it was too late.

Silverwing and Caraxes attacked together, a storm of silver and crimson, weaving through the air with deadly precision. Jason could see the shape of his wife, still mounted, still fighting, refusing to fall, her hair a pale banner against the twilight sky as she guided Silverwing into another deadly arc.

The battle had turned.

And Aemond knew it.

Jason saw it—the shift in his posture, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way Vhagar reared back in frustration, beaten but not broken, bloodied but still strong. But the battle was over. Aemond pulled harshly at the reins, jerking Vhagar into a sharp turn, her massive wings beating as she retreated, fleeing eastward, her great shadow shrinking into the horizon.

For a moment, everything was still.

And then—

The sky broke apart once more, but this time, not with battle—

With victory.

Silverwing and Caraxes banked sharply, their great forms twisting as they turned toward the waiting Lannister army below. The roars of dragons no longer carried the sound of war, but of triumph.

Jason exhaled, long and slow, his hands gripping the reins so tightly his knuckles ached. He barely noticed the way his men around him let out their breaths, how some even cheered in stunned relief.

His focus was only on the sky.

He watched as the two dragons descended, their mighty wings beating against the wind, stirring the earth as they came lower and lower. The ground trembled beneath their landing, a great gust of wind kicking up dust and scattering dry leaves as Silverwing’s claws struck the earth first, followed by Caraxes, his elongated body curling into a tight coil, his wings folding against his crimson hide.

Jason was already off his horse before Silverwing fully settled, his feet hitting the ground hard as his gaze locked onto you.

You had barely slipped from the saddle before Jason was upon you.

He did not wait. He did not hesitate.

His hands grasped your arms, his touch firm, grounding, as if he needed to feel you, to know you were real, to know that you were here. His green eyes, usually filled with pride and confidence, were now shining with raw emotion, with relief, with something he couldn’t quite put into words.

And then, before you could speak—

He pulled you into him.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you against his chest, his breath warm against your hair. His hold was not gentle, not light—it was desperate, unyielding, as if he was afraid that if he let go, you would vanish into the wind.

"You reckless woman," he muttered, his voice hoarse, thick with something dangerously close to a sob. "You—" He sighed, pressing his forehead against yours, his fingers curling against your back. "Don’t you ever do that again."

Your breath hitched, your hands coming to grasp the front of his tunic, your body still thrumming with the remnants of battle, of adrenaline, of fury. But here, in his arms, you could finally feel the weight of it all settling into your bones.

"I had to," you whispered. "They were going to kill Aemerys, Jason. They were going to take our daughters—"

His grip tightened at your words, his breath shuddering, his jaw clenching. "I know," he whispered back, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips brushing against your temple. "I know, my love."

And then, before you could say another word—

He kissed you.

It was not gentle. It was fierce, consuming, a collision of relief and anger and desperation, his hands cupping your face, his lips pressing against yours with a force that left no room for hesitation, for doubt, for anything other than the raw, aching truth of it all.

You were alive. You had come back to him.

The sound of your children stirring behind you, their soft, stifled cries of relief, was the only thing that made Jason finally pull away.

He turned his head slowly, his arms still holding you close, his gaze locking onto the other man standing beside you.

Daemon stood just beyond Caraxes, watching the scene with his usual smirk, though there was something sharper behind his gaze, something unreadable. He rolled his shoulders lazily, as if the battle in the sky had been nothing more than a sport to him.

Jason’s grip on you loosened only slightly as he finally turned his full attention to your uncle, his expression shifting.

The moment of reunion was over.

Now—

Now there were things to be said.

The silence that stretched between Jason and Daemon was thick with years of unresolved tension, a gulf that had only grown wider since their last, heated confrontation two years prior. The last time they had stood face to face, Daemon had been a guest at Casterly Rock, urging Jason to raise his banners for Rhaenyra before the storm came, warning him that when war arrived, there would be no remaining neutral. Jason had refused him then, and he would refuse him now.

But Daemon had saved his wife. For that alone, Jason owed him acknowledgment, if nothing else.

With his arm still resting securely around you, Jason turned to face Daemon fully, his green eyes focused, his expression stone-cold despite the lingering heat of relief still coursing through his veins.

"I owe you my thanks, Prince Daemon," Jason said at last, his voice even, measured, though laced with something unspoken. Reluctance. Distrust. Wariness. "Had you not come, my wife might have fallen this day."

Daemon tilted his head slightly, as if studying Jason, as if weighing how much his words were truly worth. "Indeed," he murmured, his voice silken, yet edged with something Jason couldn’t place just yet.

Jason knew this game.

Daemon had not come simply to save his niece. He had come because he wanted something.

Jason narrowed his gaze. "And I suppose you didn’t fly all this way just for the pleasure of seeing me again," he said, voice dry. "So tell me, Daemon—what is it that you want?"

Daemon's smirk curled at the edges, more wolf than dragon, as his dark violet eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to Jason.

"What I want?" Daemon mused, tapping his fingers idly against the pommel of Dark Sister. "I would think that would be obvious, my lord." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his stance casual, but his presence suffocating. "It is time for the West to decide where it stands." His voice was quiet but unyielding, like the distant rumble of a storm yet to break.

Jason felt his blood heat, his grip on you tightening instinctively.

"You mean to say," Jason said slowly, "that you have come once again to demand I raise my banners for your wife?"

Daemon’s smirk remained, but there was no amusement in his gaze now. "I would not call it a demand," he replied. "A request, perhaps. A necessary one." He gestured up toward the sky, where Aemond had fled just moments ago. "Or do you need further proof of where your enemies stand?"

Jason exhaled harshly through his nose, the sharp edge of his temper beginning to rise once more.

"And what of my enemies?" Jason countered, his voice cool, measured, but laced with iron beneath. "Should I take up arms for Rhaenyra and add fuel to a war that should never have come to pass?" He took a step forward, standing firmly between you and Daemon now, his expression hard as steel. "Tell me, Daemon—do you hold no fault for what has come to pass? Does Rhaenyra hold no fault?"

Daemon’s jaw ticked.

Jason saw it—the briefest flash of something in his gaze, the smallest flicker of something unspoken, something that Daemon Targaryen would never admit aloud.

A silent acknowledgment.

Jason pressed on.

"You would have me fight for a cause that has already been lost in part," Jason said, voice lower now, more dangerous, each word carefully measured. "You would have me throw my men into a war that serves neither my house nor my people. A war that will leave nothing but ashes behind it." His eyes burned, his next words quiet, but unyielding. "I will not."

Daemon’s lips pressed into a thin line, the amusement that so often danced behind his eyes now completely gone.

"And what will you do, Jason?" Daemon asked, his tone no longer laced with mockery or provocation, but something else. Something unreadable. "Will you stand idle as war sweeps across the realm?" He gestured toward your children, who were still standing a ways off, watching with cautious, wary eyes. "Will you tell them, years from now, that you did nothing? That you let the Seven Kingdoms bleed around you while you stood aside?"

Jason’s eyes darkened.

"I will not stand idle, nor will I kneel. The West will stand for itself and defend itself against this madness." His voice was strong, final, unyielding, each word spoken with the weight of a man who had made up his mind. "And should anyone—anyone—come for my family again, there will be a reckoning."

Daemon’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before settling once more on Jason.

But Jason knew that he was not finished.

"Y/N," Daemon said then, his tone softer, an attempt at something almost affectionate. "You know what Rhaenyra is fighting for. You know what Aegon is."

Jason’s temper flared. Daemon was trying to reason with you. Trying to turn his wife against him.

Jason’s body went taut, his breath quick, his patience now hanging by a thread.

Jason saw red.

Daemon lifted a hand, as if to touch you, as if to offer some sign of kinship, of comfort—

"Enough," Jason snapped, stepping sharply in front of you, blocking Daemon’s reach entirely, his voice no longer measured but seething. "You will not speak to her about where we should stand, nor will you attempt to sway her against me."

Daemon lifted a brow, clearly amused at Jason’s possessive reaction, but Jason did not let his temper slip further.

Instead, he turned his head, leveling Daemon with a cold, final stare. "You have worn out your welcome, Prince Daemon. I will see you off my lands."

Daemon’s smirk returned, but it was thin, laced with something displeased, frustrated.

But he did not fight the words.

He simply let out a long, slow breath, rolling his shoulders lazily before tilting his head. "Very well," Daemon murmured.

His gaze flicked once more to you, and Jason felt his hands curl into fists.

Daemon’s voice was almost teasing when he spoke next, though Jason could see the way his jaw was still tense, still displeased. "Until we meet again, little star."

Jason did not wait for him to turn away—he grabbed your hand firmly in his own, his grip strong, grounding, his gaze burning as Daemon finally strode back toward Caraxes.

And as Jason watched the dragon take flight, his lips curled into a quiet, biting whisper: "Let us hope we never do."

The moment Daemon’s crimson beast disappeared over the horizon, the war in the sky truly ended, but the turmoil on the ground was far from over. Jason watched as you dropped to your knees, arms open, waiting, and in the next instant, your children were upon you.

Aemerys reached you first, his arms wrapping around your shoulders so tightly it was as if he feared you would vanish if he let go. His breath was ragged, his body trembling, his face buried against your neck.

"You scared me," he whispered against your shoulder, his voice thick, shaking with everything he had just witnessed.

Before you could answer, Rhaelya and Alysera threw themselves into your embrace, their small arms locking around your waist, their tiny fingers grasping at your gown as if to anchor themselves.

"Mother," Alysera whimpered, her breath coming in short, hitched gasps, and you felt her small body trembling against you.

Rhaelya said nothing, but you could feel her silent sobs, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face against your chest.

You held them all tightly, cradling them, feeling their warmth, their life, their beating hearts pressing against yours.

"Shh, my darlings," you whispered, voice thick but steady, running a soothing hand through Aemerys’ silver-gold curls, pressing your cheek against his temple. "I’m here. I’m safe. It’s over now."

Jason stood a few paces away, his green eyes locked on you and the children, his expression unreadable. He had never been a man given to overwhelming displays of sentiment in public, but at this moment, even he looked shaken, as if the weight of the day was finally pressing down upon him.

His gaze flicked back toward the sky, toward the rapidly fading form of Caraxes as Daemon flew eastward, leaving behind nothing but the embers of his presence. Jason’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides.

The dragonlord was gone. For now.

A shift in movement to his left caught Jason’s attention. His general approached—Ser Ronart Westerling, a hardened commander of the Westerlands army, his dark eyes shadowed with concern.

"My lord," Ronart began, voice deep, his gaze still locked on the horizon where Vhagar had vanished, where Daemon had departed. "The Targaryens may have settled their quarrels for today, but we still have unfinished matters of our own."

Jason turned his gaze toward his general, nodding, refocusing his thoughts.

"House Reyne," Jason muttered, the name falling from his lips like a curse. His eyes burned with new resolve as he shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders, as if shedding the weight of what had just transpired.

Ronart gave a short nod. "Yes, my lord. Their men were gathered in numbers too large for simple border patrols. This was a provocation—an open act of defiance against you."

Jason’s expression darkened, his features sharp as steel.

"Then we ride to Castamere," Jason declared, his voice unwavering, absolute. "Lord Allard will answer for this. He will hand over every man responsible for this treason—every knight, every foot soldier, every commander who raised arms without my command."

Ronart's expression did not change, but there was a glint of approval in his gaze. "And what shall be done with them, my lord?"

Jason did not answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze shifted—not toward the army, nor toward his gathered knights, but toward the distant hill where Valyros sat, wings half-spread, golden-silver scales catching the afternoon light like molten steel.

Jason’s son’s dragon had been born in the shadow of a crib. Perhaps it was only fitting that he would take his first true flight in fire and blood.

Jason turned back to Ronart, his decision final. "We burn them."

Ronart did not flinch. He had fought under Jason Lannister long enough to know that when his lord spoke like this, there was no room for argument, no space for mercy.

He simply inclined his head, silent acceptance.

Jason turned away then, walking toward you, toward his children, his eyes now set with something unyielding, something resolute.

The war had not yet reached the West. But Jason Lannister would not wait for it to come to his doorstep.

If war was inevitable, then let it be on his terms.

And let it begin with fire.

[lila-lou]

✨ His only exception - Pt. 31/? ✨

Summary: 12 months ago, Butcher went above and beyond to have you join his team. You had a simple office job at Supe Affairs. The same thing every day, working from 9 to 5 and watching Butcher and his team defeat one renegade after another. One evening, however, something changed.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 5827

A/N: This is part 31 of “His only exception”.

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Meanwhile, Ben was consumed by a storm of emotions, his anger simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment. As he made his way downstairs, his thoughts were a tumultuous whirlwind of regret and frustration.

When Butcher crossed his path, his snide remark pushing Ben over the edge, something inside him snapped. Without a second thought, Ben lashed out, his fist connecting with Butcher's face with a sickening crunch.

The force of the blow sent Butcher staggering backward, blood gushing from his broken nose, a few bones cracking under the impact. Ben stood there, panting heavily, his knuckles bruised and bloodied.

In that moment, the veneer of control that had kept Ben tethered to reality shattered, leaving nothing but raw, unbridled fury in its wake. The consequences of his actions mattered little as the red haze of anger clouded his vision, consuming him whole.

As Butcher's face began to heal in seconds, the shock of the rapid regeneration only fueled his fury further. With a snarl of rage, he launched himself at Ben, his own fists swinging wildly in retaliation.

The two clashed in a violent whirlwind of punches and kicks, the sound of bone against bone echoing through the hallway as they exchanged blow after blow. Each strike brought with it a symphony of pain, but neither man showed any sign of backing down.

With each passing moment, the fight grew more brutal, the intensity of their rage fueling the relentless assault. Bones cracked and blood spilled, staining the floor beneath their feet as they fought.

Annie and A-Train rounded the corner just in time to witness the brutal brawl unfolding before them. Reacting quickly, they rushed forward, attempting to pull Ben and Butcher away from each other, but their efforts were met with resistance.

"Ben, stop it!", Annie shouted, her voice laced with desperation as she struggled to break through the haze of his rage.

But Ben was beyond reason, his fists still flying as he fought against A-Train's grip. Blood streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat and grime that coated his skin, but he showed no signs of relenting.

A-Train's muscles strained against the force of Ben's resistance, his expression a mixture of frustration and concern. "Come on, man, calm down!", he urged, his voice barely audible over the din of the fight.

But Ben's fury was unyielding, his mind consumed by a single-minded determination to unleash his pent-up rage. It took all of Annie and A-Train's combined strength to finally pry him away from Butcher.

Annie's voice cut through the chaos like a beacon of clarity, her eyes searching Ben's battered face for any sign of recognition. "Ben, where's (Y/N)?", she asked, her tone gentle yet insistent, hoping to break through the haze of his rage by mentioning someone he cared about deeply.

The mention of your name seemed to pierce through the fog of anger clouding Ben's mind.

Ben tugged harshly his arms away, his frustration still evident in his movements. But Annie refused to let him retreat into himself, her grip firm as she gently tucked his wrist again, her gaze unwavering as she searched his eyes for any sign of vulnerability.

Sensing that something was amiss with you, Annie gestured for the others to leave her and Ben alone, a silent plea for privacy as she sought to unravel the mystery of your absence.

"Let go of me", Ben growled, his voice low and dangerous, a warning simmering beneath the surface. "If you want to fucking live, you'll let go of my wrist right now".

Annie held his gaze steadily, unflinching in the face of his anger. "Ben, I'm not your enemy", she said calmly, her voice soft yet firm. "But something's wrong, and I need to know what it is. Please, talk to me".

Annie maintained her grip on Ben's wrist, her expression a mix of concern and determination. "Ben, I need to know where (Y/N) is", she insisted, her voice steady despite the tension between them.

Ben’s jaw tensed as he wrestled with his emotions, the turmoil of his inner conflict written across his face. “She’s downstairs… in the hospital”, he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Annie’s brow furrowed with worry as she processed the revelation. “What happened? Is she alright?”, she pressed, her concern for you overriding any other considerations.

Ben pulled his arm away from Annie's grasp for good, his movements sharp with frustration. "It's none of your fucking business", he snapped.

"Ben, I'm just trying to help", she pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation.

But Ben's resolve remained unyielding, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "I said it's none of your fucking business", he repeated, his voice cold and cutting.

As Ben left the building without another word, Annie wasted no time in springing into action. She hurried downstairs to the Vought hospital.

Every step felt like an eternity as she raced through the corridors, her mind racing with a thousand different possibilities.

Finally, she reached the entrance to the hospital. With a quick glance around, she spotted the reception desk and wasted no time in making her way over.

"Excuse me", she said breathlessly to the nurse behind the desk, her voice urgent. "I need to know if (Y/N) (Y/L/N) is here. Can you please tell me if she's okay?".

The nurse bit her lip, her expression filled with sympathy as she regarded Annie. "I'm sorry", she said softly, her voice tinged with regret. "But I'm not authorized to share any information about Ms. (Y/L/N) without proper clearance".

Annie's heart sank at the nurse's words, frustration bubbling up inside her like a tidal wave. "Please", she pleaded, desperation creeping into her voice. "I just need to know if she's okay".

The nurse hesitated, torn between her duty to uphold patient confidentiality and her desire to help. "I understand", she said finally, her tone gentle yet firm. "But I'm afraid I can't make any exceptions. You'll need to contact Ms. (Y/L/N)'s next of kin or legal representative for any updates on her condition".

Annie nodded, her determination unyielding despite the setback. With a subtle shift of her gaze, she scanned the surroundings, searching for any opportunity to bypass the hospital's strict protocols.

Excusing herself to use the restroom, Annie slipped away unnoticed, her footsteps quick and purposeful as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital.

Annie began to search for your room.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of searching, Annie found your room. With a silent exhale of relief, she slipped inside.

As her eyes fell upon you sleeping peacefully on the bed, a wave of relief washed over her. You didn't seem hurt or in any immediate danger, just a bit rough around the edges and tired.

Annie approached your bedside with cautious steps, her gaze softening as she took in the sight of you. Despite the shadows of exhaustion that lingered beneath your closed eyelids, there was a sense of tranquility about you that eased the knots of worry in her chest.

Annie's heart skipped a beat as she noticed the medical report at the foot of your bed. With trembling hands, she reached out and picked it up, her eyes scanning the contents with growing horror.

As she read the words "first pregnancy with a supe baby", her breath caught in her throat, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of what she had just discovered. It was impossible, unthinkable, something that defied all logic and reason.

Her ears went numb as she grappled with the implications of the revelation. Never before in the history of supes had there been a documented case of someone being pregnant with a supe baby. The very idea seemed like something out of a nightmare, a cruel twist of fate that defied all understanding.

Annie's mind raced with a thousand questions, each more terrifying than the last. How was it possible? What did it mean for you and the baby? And most importantly, what would happen if anyone found out?

Thats when Ben stepped inside, a large bag from the nearby pharmacy store and a huge bouquet of roses clutched tightly in his hand, his eyes immediately landed on Annie and the medical report in her hands. His jaw clenched with a force that seemed to echo through the room, his expression darkening with a potent mix of anger and betrayal.

Annie's heart sank as she felt the weight of his gaze, the tension in the air palpable as the gravity of the situation hung heavy between them. She knew that Ben was beyond mad.

But instead of backing off, Annie's eyes also flared with intensity, her own anger matching Ben's as she held her ground. "You really knocked her up?!", she growled, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and outrage. "Are you out of your damn mind?!".

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, the weight of their accusation reverberating through the room. Annie's fists clenched at her sides, her entire body tense with frustration as she stared down Ben, daring him to deny the truth that lay before them.

Ben's jaw tightened even further, his fists trembling with restrained fury as he struggled to find the words to respond. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension, as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

Ben's muscles tensed with barely-contained rage as he slammed the bag anf the flowers onto the table. Without a word, he grabbed Annie by the throat and forcefully pulled her out of the room, his grip firm and unyielding.

Outside the room, Ben pushed Annie against the wall, his expression twisted with anger as he glared down at her. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!", he demanded, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the hallway.

His patience wearing thin as he fought to control his temper. "(Y/N) is not your fucking concern. Stay the fuck away from her", his voice louder than intended as he struggled to keep his anger in check.

Annie managed to pull herself free from Ben's grasp, her chest heaving with exertion as she stared defiantly back at him. "Do you even know how dangerous this fucking pregnancy probably is?", she hissed, her voice laced with frustration and concern.

But Ben remained unmoved, his expression hardened with resolve as he met her gaze head-on. "I said stay away from her", he growled, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This is none of your business. So stay the fuck out of it".

Annie's frustration boiled over at Ben's stubborn refusal to acknowledge the gravity of the situation. "What the fuck are you gonna do if she dies?", she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion. "You think you can just ignore the risks and pretend like everything's gonna be fine?".

Ben's jaw clenched with anger at Annie's words. Without a word, he surged forward, gripping her by the throat once more with a force that made her gasp for breath.

"Watch your fucking mouth", he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "You have no idea what you're talking about".

Annie's eyes blazed with defiance even as she struggled to break free from Ben's iron grip. "I know enough to know that you're putting her life at risk", she spat, her voice filled with righteous indignation. "And if you think I'm just gonna stand by and let that happen, then you're even more of a fucking idiot than I thought".

As Annie and Ben's argument reached a fever pitch, a low rumble echoed from within your room. Startled by the noise outside, you attempted to sit up, but the dizziness that gripped you proved too overwhelming. With a gasp, you tumbled out of the bed, your limbs weak and unsteady as you hit the ground with a soft thud.

The sound of your fall cut through the tension between Annie and Ben, their argument momentarily forgotten as they rushed to your side. "Shit", Ben muttered, his concern evident in his voice as he knelt beside you, gently helping you into a sitting position.

Annie's expression softened with worry as she hovered nearby, her hands trembling with the urge to help. "Are you okay?", she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern as she reached out to steady you.

You nodded weakly, the world still spinning around you.

As your stomach churned with nauseating intensity, you found yourself unable to utter a single word, the queasiness overwhelming your senses. By now Ben was used to this look, knowing what´s going on. He scooped you up in his arms, his movements swift and decisive as he carried you to the bathroom.

Gently setting you down beside the toilet, Ben supported you as you collapsed against it, your body wracked with involuntary heaves as you emptied the contents of your stomach. The sensation was agonizing, waves of nausea crashing over you in relentless succession as you clung to the porcelain bowl for support.

Annie hovered nearby, her hands wringing with worry as she watched the scene unfold before her. "Is she going to be okay?", she asked, her voice tinged with fear as she looked to Ben for reassurance.

Ben nodded grimly, his jaw set with determination. "She'll be fine", he replied, his tone steady despite the gravity of the situation. "We just need to get her through this".

As you leaned weakly against the bathroom wall, the concern etched deeply into Ben's features was unmistakable. Despite his attempts to reassure Annie, a nagging sense of doubt gnawed at him from within. It had only been a few weeks since the discovery of your pregnancy, but already he could see the toll it was taking on you.

You had lost a noticeable amount of weight, and now, weakened by the flu and constant vomiting, you seemed more fragile than ever. The thought of you suffering like this filled Ben with a sense of helplessness that he struggled to push aside.

To be honest, he was more than worried. The weight of responsibility bore down on him heavily as he grappled with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The fear of losing you, of failing to protect you and the baby, threatened to consume him whole.

Annie brought you a glass of water to rinse your mouth, her expression filled with concern as she offered you a small measure of comfort. As you leaned against Ben's solid chest, seeking solace in his embrace, a sense of guilt washed over you.

"M'sorry", you mumbled weakly, your voice barely above a whisper as you buried your face against Ben's shoulder. The weight of your apology hung heavy in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the fact that you hadn't told him about the conversation with the doctor.

Ben's arms tightened around you, his embrace offering a sense of warmth and security that you desperately needed in that moment. "It's okay", he murmured, his voice soft and reassuring against the tumult of your thoughts. "We'll figure this out".

With a deep sigh, you allowed yourself to relax into Ben's embrace, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.

Ben held you close, his chin resting gently atop your head as he pressed you tightly against himself. His eyes stared off into the distance, a myriad of emotions flickering across his features. Concern, fear, and determination mingled in the depths of his gaze as he grappled with the weight of the situation.

Annie stood nearby, her heart heavy with concern as she watched the two of you. The sight of your weakness tugged at her heartstrings, filling her with a sense of helplessness that she struggled to shake off.

With a heavy sigh, Annie approached, her gaze filled with empathy as she reached out to gently touch your shoulder. "Is there anything I can do to help?", she offered softly, her voice tinged with genuine concern.

Ben's jaw clenched again, his frustration bubbling to the surface as he listened to Annie's offer of assistance. "Keep your fucking mouth shut", he growled, his voice low and harsh. "No one can know about the pregnancy".

Annie recoiled slightly at the force of his words, the gravity of the situation hitting her with renewed intensity. She nodded solemnly, understanding the severity of the situation. "I won't say a word", she assured him, her voice barely above a whisper. "I promise".

With a curt nod, Ben turned his attention back to you. He carefully lifted you up again, cradling you gently in his arms as he murmured, "Let's get you back in bed".

His voice was tender, filled with a quiet reassurance as he carried you back to the hospital bed.

Annie followed close behind. Despite the tension that lingered in the air, there was a sense of unity in that moment, a shared commitment to ensuring your well-being above all else.

As Ben carefully laid you back down on the bed, he tucked the blankets around you with gentle hands.

Ben watched you fall back asleep within seconds. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, the weight of exhaustion settling upon his shoulders. With a weary groan, he sank onto the couch, his muscles tense with pent-up tension and worry.

Annie observed him from across the room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she studied him. "You both look beyond exhausted", she remarked softly, her voice tinged with empathy.

Ben rubbed his face with a tired hand, his movements slow and deliberate as he tried to push back the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him.

"I'm fucking fine", Ben muttered defensively, his voice strained with exhaustion as he brushed off Annie's concern. "We're both fine".

But Annie wasn't convinced, her brow furrowing with worry as she refused to let Ben off the hook so easily. "What do the doctors say?", she pressed, her tone gentle yet insistent. "They must have some idea of what's going on".

Ben hesitated, his jaw tightening with frustration as he struggled to find the words. "They think it's the flu adding to her weakness", he admitted reluctantly, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"But it´s not just that", Ben continued, his voice low and troubled.

Annie's concern deepened at Ben's cryptic words, her heart pounding with a sense of foreboding. "What do you mean?", she pressed.

Ben took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to reveal. "They're worried that (Y/N)'s body might be too weak for the baby", he confessed, his voice heavy with guilt. "No one knows if she'll be able to continue the pregnancy without… help".

"But what kind of help?", she asked, her voice trembling with fear. "Is there anything they can do?".

Ben shook his head, his expression haunted by the uncertainty of the situation. "The doctors are working on some kind of V medicine to make (Y/N) stronger", he explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "But… there are no guarantees".

Annie leaned back against the wall, her eyes fixed intently on Ben as she processed the weight of his words. "Do you love her?", she asked softly, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Ben's eyes narrowed slightly at the question, his expression guarded as he met Annie's gaze. He rolled his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "What kind of fucking question is that?", he grumbled, his tone defensive.

Annie sighed softly, recognizing the familiar defensiveness in Ben's response. She knew that he was not one to open up about his feelings, especially not to her. But she couldn't help but wonder about the depth of his emotions towards you, especially in light of the challenges you were facing together.

"It's just… she means a lot to you. I can tell, but.. ".

Ben's jaw tensed with frustration at Annie's probing, his walls rising higher as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. "She knows how I feel", he muttered evasively, his gaze drifting away from Annie's probing stare. "That's all that matters".

"If you love her, you wouldn't allow her to suffer like this", she insisted gently, her voice tinged with sadness. "She's counting on you to protect her, Ben".

Ben's jaw clenched tighter at Annie's words, a pang of guilt twisting in his chest as he looked upon you, so fragile and vulnerable in that moment. "I'm doing everything I fucking can", he muttered defensively, his voice thick with emotion.

But Annie shook her head. "She's suffering, and you know that", she murmured.

With that, Annie left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway as she disappeared from view. Left alone with his thoughts, Ben felt a wave of anguish wash over him, the weight of his responsibilities bearing down upon him like a leaden weight.

Ben's hands trembled slightly as he pulled the bag from the pharmacy closer to himself. He began to carefully arrange the small boxes of vitamins for pregnancy on the table, each one a beacon of hope in the midst of uncertainty.

He knew that he loved you more than anything in this world, and that his heart ached at the thought of seeing you suffer. But at the same time, he couldn't shake the overwhelming desire to protect the life growing inside of you, to ensure that your child had the chance live.

As he glanced over at you, still lost in peaceful slumber, a wave of tenderness washed over him, mingled with a fierce determination to do whatever it took to keep you both safe. His heart clenched with indecision, torn between his love for you and his desire for the baby that symbolized your love.

By midnight you were awake again, the soft shuffle of footsteps drew your attention to the doorway, where the nurse entered the room, her presence a comforting reminder of the watchful care surrounding you.

You watched from your bed as she approached, her gentle demeanor a balm to your weary soul. With a warm smile, she checked on you, her eyes filled with genuine concern as she assessed your condition.

Meanwhile, Ben lay sound asleep on the small couch nearby, his form bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, the lines of tension that had etched themselves into his features during the day softened in the gentle embrace of sleep.

"The fever seems to have gone down a bit", the nurse remarked with a gentle smile, her voice soft and reassuring as she checked your vital signs.

You offered her a weak smile in return, grateful for the small reprieve from your symptoms. She administered the new infusion. But the nurse's expression turned more serious as she turned her attention to the untouched dinner plate resting on your bedside table. "You need to eat something", she insisted firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she gestured towards the meal with a determined nod.

You nodded obediently, understanding the importance of nourishing your body, especially in your weakened state. With a weary sigh, you reached for the plate, determined to do whatever it took to regain your strength and vitality, if only for the sake of your unborn child.

After the nurse left the room, you turned your attention to the plate of food before you. As you ate, you found yourself sinking one hand down onto your belly. Slowly, you began to rub small circles over the swell of your abdomen.

With each gentle stroke, you felt a sense of connection to the tiny being nestled within your womb, a bond that transcended words and filled you with a profound sense of peace.

As Ben stirred from his slumber, his eyes slowly blinked open, heavy with exhaustion. His gaze drifted around the room, taking in the dimly lit surroundings before settling on you, sitting on the bed, quietly eating your vegetables.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he watched you, a sense of relief washing over him at the sight of you awake and seemingly feeling a bit better. Pushing himself up from the couch, he made his way over to your side, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approached.

"Hey", he murmured softly, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to gently touch your shoulder. "How are you feeling?".

You looked up at him, a tired yet genuine smile gracing your lips as you met his gaze. "Better", you replied softly, the words carrying a weight of gratitude for his presence by your side.

Ben's heart swelled as he looked down at you, his hand lingering on your shoulder. "I'm glad", he whispered, his voice filled with warmth and tenderness.

With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, he settled down beside you on the bed. His arms holding you close against his chest. With a heavy sigh, he murmured softly, "I'm sorry for losing my shit… Again".

His heart still ached with the memory of seeing the fear in your eyes, a painful reminder of the impact his anger had on you. Despite his outward strength, inside, he felt a sense of guilt and regret for causing you any distress.

"I would never lay a hand on you.. Not like that", he added, his voice filled with sincerity as he held you tighter, as if seeking reassurance that you believed him.

You felt a wave of warmth wash over you at his words, knowing deep down that Ben would beat you or something. You nestled closer to him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, a comforting reminder of his love and devotion.

"I know", you whispered softly as you reached up to gently stroke his cheek. "I trust you, Ben. I always will".

Ben's heart ached with a profound sense of remorse, knowing that despite your words of reassurance, you had still flinched away from him earlier.

With a tender touch, he squeezed you even closer against his chest. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there as a silent apology for his earlier outburst.

As Ben’s hand gently guided you towards his car a week later, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of relief at the prospect of finally leaving the confines of the hospital behind. Your body still felt weak and fragile, but the promise of fresh air and freedom beckoned on the horizon.

Just as you approached the car, Annie’s voice pierced through the air, her tone filled with urgency as she called out to you. “Hey, wait up!”, she yelled, her footsteps quickening as she hurried to catch up with the two of you.

You glanced at Ben, a flicker of surprise crossing your features at Annie’s sudden appearance. It had been over a week since she found out about your pregnancy, yet she hadn’t reached out to either of you during your time in the hospital. Her sudden presence now left you feeling uncertain and apprehensive.

Ben's jaw clenched slightly as Annie's unexpected presence grated on his nerves, his annoyance palpable as he struggled to maintain his composure. Despite his irritation, he forced himself to remain outwardly calm, knowing that any outburst would only escalate the tension between them.

Annie's eyes flickered over to you, her gaze lingering on the small bump that adorned your abdomen, a mixture of curiosity and concern flashing in her eyes. "Are you feeling better?", she asked softly, her voice laced with genuine concern.

You nodded slowly, offering her a small smile of gratitude for her concern. "Yes, I am", you replied, your voice soft yet sincere. "Thank you for asking".

Ben's grip on your lower back tightened imperceptibly, a silent reminder of his protective stance. Despite his lingering annoyance, he couldn't deny the sincerity in Annie's voice, nor could he fault her for showing concern for your well-being.

Annie quickly reassured the both of you, her voice tinged with sincerity as she spoke. "I haven't said a word to anyone, and I won't", she insisted firmly, her eyes meeting yours with earnestness. "Your secret is safe with me".

You offered her a small nod of gratitude, appreciative of her commitment to keeping your pregnancy confidential.

But Ben's expression remained guarded. "Forgive me if I don't exactly fucking trust you", he muttered, his tone laced with a hint of bitterness. "Cause you've already proven that you can't be trusted".

Annie's brow furrowed with frustration. "I understand that you're upset", she replied. "But I'm telling you the truth. I haven't told anyone, and I won't".

Despite Annie's assurances, Ben remained skeptical, his distrust of her lingering like a shadow between them.

Annie's voice broke through the silence, her tone soft yet tentative as she broached the topic that had been weighing on her mind. "Do the doctors have any idea how your pregnancy will proceed?", she inquired gently, her eyes flickering between you and Ben. "Will the baby need any special treatment or care?".

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond to Annie's questions. Part of you still felt a lingering sense of resentment towards her for the role she had played in the team's actions against Ben, yet another part of you couldn't deny the longing you felt for her friendship.

"We're still waiting on some test results", you replied carefully, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "But so far, everything seems to be progressing kinda normally".

Annie's gaze shifted towards Ben as she spoke. "You need to be careful (Y/N)", she said softly, her voice tinged with urgency. "To not get hurt. You're important too, not just the baby".

Ben's jaw tensed slightly as he absorbed Annie's words, his expression guarded. "We'll be careful", he replied curtly, his voice firm with determination. "We know what's at stake".

You couldn't help but mumble under your breath, the overwhelming desire to just go home and find solace in the familiar comforts of your own space tugging at your heartstrings. "I really just want to go home", you whispered.

With a heavy sigh, you slid into the car, the worn leather seats enveloping you in a sense of familiarity and warmth. As Ben settled into the driver's seat beside you, you spared a fleeting glance towards Annie, a pang of guilt tugging at your conscience as you left her standing alone.

As the car rumbled along the familiar streets towards home, your hand found its way to your belly, instinctively seeking comfort in the gentle swell that cradled your unborn child. Despite the lingering weakness that still clung to your limbs, you couldn't help but feel a sense of peace wash over you as you felt a subtle vibration beneath your palm.

A weak smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you marveled at the tiny life growing within you.

Feeling Ben's hand squeeze your thigh, you turned to him with a curious expression, the gentle pressure of his touch anchoring you in the present moment. "What's up?", you asked softly, your voice tinged with curiosity as you met his gaze.

Ben's eyes softened as he glanced at you, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I talked to your doctor about the V medication", he explained, his voice filled with a quiet sense of optimism. "He said they're making great progress".

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a surge of hope flooding through you as you processed the implications of his statement. The prospect of a medication that could strengthen both you and your unborn child filled you with a renewed sense of optimism, easing the weight of uncertainty that had been looming over you in recent days.

"That's amazing news", you murmured, your voice filled with gratitude.

As you and Ben settled onto the couch, the aroma of the takeaway food filling the air, you snuggled up against him, seeking solace in his comforting embrace. However, as you nestled closer, a wave of pain shot through your back, causing you to tense up involuntarily.

Sensing your discomfort, Ben's expression softened with concern as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer to his chest. "You´re okay?", he murmured as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You winced slightly, the pain in your back intensifying with each passing moment. "It's just my back", you whispered, trying to downplay the discomfort. "I think I pulled something".

Without hesitation, Ben channeling his power into his hand to generate warmth. He then carefully pressed his heated hand against your lower back, the soothing heat radiating through your muscles and easing the tension.

As the warmth seeped into your aching muscles, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, the pain gradually subsiding under Ben's comforting touch. Leaning back against him, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to relax, grateful for his unwavering support and care.

When Ben's heated touch eased the pain in your back, a soft moan escaped your lips. Unbeknownst to you, the sound of your moan had a powerful effect on Ben, instantly arousing him and sending blood rushing to his groin, making him hard.

Feeling the sudden shift in his body, Ben's cheeks flushed with heat as he tried to suppress the rising desire that threatened to overwhelm him. With a shaky breath, he focused on maintaining his composure, his hand still resting gently against your lower back as he tried to ignore the growing ache between his legs.

Ben couldn't help but grumble under his breath, his voice strained with pent-up desire. "It's been a fucking while since I heard you making those sounds", he muttered, his words laced with a mixture of frustration and longing.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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Part 32

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Taglist: @deangirl96, @thatgirljayy, @suckitands33, @deans-spinster-witch@mimaria420@kaz11283@uncle-eggy@jackles010378@vxnilla-hxrddrugs @meowmeowyoongles@sarahgracej @zemosdarling228 @leila22rogers @mostlymarvelgirl@emily-winchester @blacknoirr @onlyangel-444@seasonofthenerd@staple-your-mouth@artemys-ackles@selfdestructionandrhum@mystic-mara @kat-nee @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @star-yawnznn @me1501 @CheyNovaK

[yanderestarangel]

"𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍" | 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈

TW: afab reader, vaginal sex, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, painkink, sexual punishment, dom!kenshi.

SYNOPSIS: You were dating Kenshi, and your sex was always vanilla, so you decided to tease him a little, bringing out the worst/best in Kenshi.

As the door closes, sealing you and Kenshi away from prying eyes, the intensity between you escalates rapidly. He wastes no time, his lips crashing against yours in a passionate, desperate kiss, the pent-up desire finally unleashed. You guide him to your room, anticipation thrumming through your veins as you undress, quickly discarding your shorts, revealing your exposed pussy that glistens with need. The sheer vulnerability and eagerness in your voice only serves to fuel Kenshi's own primal desires.

"-Crawl into bed, (Y/N)" -Kenshi orders, his voice hoarse with desire as he discards his own clothes urgently. He watches you intently as you obey, his movements are a deliciously tempting invitation, Kenshi slowly approaches, his gaze full of hunger and dominance, without hesitation, you position yourself on all fours on the bed, presenting yourself to him, your body ready and Eagerly eager for your touch. His hands hold your hips firmly, keeping you in place as he positions himself at your entrance. With each thrust, he fills your pussy completely. He leans over your back, his rough hands leaving marks on your hips as he bites the back of your sensitive neck.

"-You feel so good honey." -Kenshi growls, his voice full of desire. "-Take all of me, let me feel your tight pussy gripping my cock."

But then, you decided to provoke him, calling him the nickname he hated "old man", a clear challenge to Kenshi's authority. Then a dark, dominant fire flickering in his gaze. He wastes no time responding to his challenge, quickly changing position and flipping you onto your back, tightly pinning your wrists above your head. A raw, primal growl escapes Kenshi's lips as he thrusts into your pussy with an intensity that takes your breath away. His movements become even more vigorous, his hips slamming against yours with a magnetic force, pleasure surges through you, mixing with the thrill of teasing your boyfriend's dominant side.

"-Asking for it, huh, you brat?" -Kenshi hisses, a hint of reprimand. He lowers his head, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss that leaves you gasping for air, he lets go of your wrists, hands finding purchase in your hair as he pulls your head back, exposing your vulnerable neck to his insatiable hunger. Kenshi's teeth sink into your skin, his grip on your hair tightens, ensuring you can't move as he plunders your pussy.

"-Is this what you wanted you damn brat? Teasing me To feel me fucking you, dominating you? You are mine, and I will show you how much control I have over you."

You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor, savoring the numbing pleasure that consumes you. As your bodies move in perfect synchronization, Kenshi's grip on your hair loosens, his hand traces a path of fire through yours body, reaching for your hardened nipples, the world becomes a blur of sensations, every touch, every thrust propelling you on a rollercoaster of pleasure that threatens to consume you entirely. Without a word, he pulls out of your throbbing pussy, leaving you empty and wanting more. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as his hand descends on your overstimulated pussy, the pain mixing with waves of pleasure coursing through your body. The sound of impact echoes in the room, the mixture of pain and pleasure sending you over the edge. But Kenshi doesn't stop there.

He continues his attack, his hand returning repeatedly to give hard, painful slaps to your ass, You writhe beneath him, your body shaking, His attack on your ass leaves it red and tender, extremely painful.

"-Is that all you fucking got? Calling me an old man? I'm going to show you how much this 'old man' will fuck you up and leave you unable to walk." -His hand slaps your ass again, the pain radiating throughout your body, but with each blow, the tingling pain consumes you. His grip on your breasts tightens, fingers digging into your flesh possessively as he resumes his relentless thrusts into your wet, throbbing pussy, amplifying the sensitivity of your overstimulated clit.

"-You're a fucking naughty little whore, You want to be filled with my cum? What a slutty thing... you're such a patheticcum whore aren't you?" -His thrusts become faster and more aggressive, his hips slamming into yours with an undeniable force. Pleasure builds within you like a volcanic eruption, his thrusts become faster and more aggressive, his hips slamming into yours with an undeniable force, a lust builds within you like a volcanic eruption, With a primal groan Kenshi pulls out of your pussy at the very last moment, his hand taking over where his cock left off. He strokes himself with urgency, his eyes locked onto his trembling form, he aims his release at your ravished pussy, string after string of hot, sticky cum coating the swollen flesh, mingling with his own slick juices.

"-Never call me old again... otherwise I'll do much worse, fucking every hole of yours until you become a stupid, brainless mess, only thinking about my dick."

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023

[reveryfics]

Physical

Frank Castle "The Punisher" x Male Reader

Summary: Frank insists on teaching you to defend yourself.

A/N: Three posts in one day as I try to motivate myself to finish all the requests (7). Barking for this man.

TW: Blood - Fighting - Slightly suggestive

The downpour was relentless, each fat drop hammering against the corrugated iron roof of the makeshift gym like a tiny, furious fist. Thunder cracked overhead, a guttural roar that seemed to vibrate through the very concrete beneath your worn sneakers. Jagged streaks of lightning split the bruised twilight visible through the open doorway, momentarily illuminating the swirling dust motes dancing in the humid air. The sharp, clean scent of rain mingled with a heavier, cloying sweetness – the metallic tang of dried blood that clung to your split knuckles and the coarse, sweat-darkened leather of the heavy bag swaying gently before you.

Your breath hitched in your chest, ragged and uneven, each inhale a shallow burn. Sweat plastered your thin t-shirt to your back, a cold, clammy film against your skin. It dripped from your forehead, stinging your eyes and matting the hair at your temples. Every muscle screamed in protest, a dull, throbbing ache that spoke of the relentless assault you’d just unleashed on the unyielding canvas.

Frank stood a few feet away, leaning against a rust-streaked support beam, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the dim light. His gaze was intense, unwavering, boring into you with an almost palpable weight. Every twitch of your muscle, every flicker of exhaustion in your eyes seemed to be silently cataloged, scrutinized. Occasionally, his voice, a low rumble that could suddenly explode into a booming command, sliced through the rhythmic drumming of the rain. A constant mantra, pushing you beyond the limits you thought you possessed.

"Harder!" Frank’s voice boomed, echoing in the confined space. His weight shifted against the beam, the metal groaning softly. He pushed himself off, his large frame moving with surprising agility as he closed the distance. He settled directly behind you, his body heat radiating off him in a palpable wave. His hot breath ghosted across the exposed nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the lingering chill of the rain.

"You're soft!" Frank’s voice was a low growl, right in your ear. "Look at you, barely tapping the damn thing. What happens when someone comes at you for real? Are you going to politely ask them to stop while you catch your breath?" His words were like jabs, sharp and precise, aimed not at your body but at the fragile edges of your resolve. "They won't wait. They'll see the weakness, the hesitation, and they'll exploit it. A swift kick to the groin, a knee to the gut when you're doubled over, a broken nose blinding you before they finish the job. You think they care about your pretty face?"

His words burrowed under your skin, insidious whispers amplifying the doubts that already gnawed at you. The endless nights in this stifling gym, the countless times your knuckles had split and bled, the dull ache of bruises blooming across your ribs – it all felt futile in the face of his relentless criticism. You were drowning in the echo chamber of your own exhaustion and self-doubt, the rhythmic thud of the bag a distant, muffled sound.

A raw fury, hot and sudden, ignited in your chest. You snarled, a guttural sound escaping your throat, and unleashed a brutal right hook. The force behind it was born not just of muscle, but of weeks of frustration, of the burning desire to prove him wrong. The worn leather of the punching bag groaned under the impact, the already weakened seams finally giving way with a sharp rip. A cascade of sand and shredded fabric rained down, a small cloud momentarily obscuring your vision.

You stumbled back a step, your chest heaving, and finally looked down at your hands. Your knuckles were a mangled mess. The delicate scabs from previous sessions had been ripped open, the raw skin beneath weeping crimson droplets that mingled with the sweat and grime. Each inhale was a searing lance of pain in your lungs, as if they were filled with hot coals. You gasped for air, the metallic taste of blood now more pronounced in your mouth.

Frank watched you, his expression unreadable. There was no satisfaction, no softening in his gaze. It was the same assessing look, the same silent judgment that seemed to perpetually find you lacking. He stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips, a small, almost imperceptible smirk playing on the corner of his lips. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, the movement surprisingly casual amidst the charged atmosphere. Then, he pointed a thick finger at you. "Not bad. Finally showed some teeth."

You wiped a hand across your sweaty brow, leaving a streak of grime. You reached for your water bottle, the plastic cool against your burning skin, and took a long, slow sip. "I get you want me to protect myself," you muttered, your voice still thick with exertion, "but is all of this really necessary?" You subconsciously followed Frank as he turned and walked towards the worn boxing ring in the far corner of the gym, the canvas stained and patched.

Frank shrugged out of his sweat-soaked t-shirt, the movement revealing the thick cords of muscle in his back and shoulders. He tossed it carelessly onto a nearby bench. You hesitated for a moment before pulling your own shirt over your head, the cool air raising goosebumps on your clammy skin. Once inside the ring, the slightly springier surface felt oddly unsteady beneath your feet. Frank’s gaze flickered over the faint, pale scars that crisscrossed your torso before locking onto your eyes.

"I won't always be there," he said, his voice losing some of its harshness, becoming almost gruff. "Just like I wasn't there that night." A shadow flickered across his features, a hint of something you couldn't quite decipher. He sighed, stepping into a loose fighting stance, his weight balanced, his hands held low. You mirrored his position. "But you need to be ready. I know what you're capable of. Sometimes… sometimes the only way I know how to get it out of you is to push."

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words while your eyes tracked his every subtle shift. You understood his concern, the underlying fear that fueled his relentless training. "I understand," you said quietly, "but I don't exactly plan on putting myself in situations where I need to fight."

"Life doesn't care about your plans," Frank retorted, his voice hardening again. And with that, he lunged.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and exertion. Frank didn't hold back, his powerful punches and swift kicks aimed with precision. But you had spent countless hours sparring with him, each session a brutal lesson etched into your muscle memory. You had practically memorized the subtle tells in his stance, the slight shift of his weight that telegraphed his attacks. You weaved and ducked, countering his jabs with sharp blocks and returning with quick strikes of your own. A few of his blows still connected – a jarring thud against your ribs that stole your breath, a stinging slap against your cheek.

You watched as Frank telegraphed a right hook, the slight tensing of his shoulder a familiar sign. You swiftly countered, deflecting the punch and simultaneously sweeping your leg low. His balance was momentarily compromised, and he landed on the worn canvas with a muffled thud, the air rushing from his lungs. In an instant, you were on top of him, straddling his chest, your knees pinning his arms to the mat.

A triumphant smirk stretched across your face, the coppery taste of blood finally registering on your tongue – a trickle from a split lip you hadn’t even noticed in the heat of the exchange. "Getting predictable, old man," you purred, a cocky edge to your voice that felt surprisingly good.

Frank only grunted, his eyes narrowed. With a sudden surge of strength, he bucked, his hips lifting you momentarily. He used the momentum to roll, reversing your positions with practiced ease. Now, your bare chest was pressed against the rough canvas, his weight heavy as he straddled your waist. He pinned both your wrists above your head with one powerful hand, his other resting possessively on your bare hip. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "You get predictable when you think you've already won."

His lips trailed down the sensitive curve of your spine, each fleeting touch sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. You let out a soft hum, the tension in your muscles momentarily easing. He traced a path back up, pressing warm kisses across your shoulders and the sensitive skin of your neck before finally turning your head with a gentle hand. His lips met yours, a bruising kiss that ignored the metallic tang of blood.

Just as the kiss threatened to deepen, to ignite a different kind of heat, you pulled away, pushing against his chest. You scrambled to your feet, putting a few feet of distance between you. Frank’s gaze softened, a hint of something vulnerable flickering in his eyes as he watched you. He let his guard down, taking a step towards you, his arms reaching out as if to pull you close.

A knowing smirk played on your lips. You saw the opening, the momentary lapse in his focus. With a swift, fluid movement, you lunged forward, using his own momentum against him. You twisted, hooking your leg behind his and pulling him off balance. He landed on the mat with a surprised grunt, his chest hitting the canvas with a thud. Before he could react, you were on top of him again, twisting his arm behind his back until a low groan escaped his lips. "I win," you purred, your voice laced with a newfound confidence. "Perhaps next session you'll do better."