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[neometaliks]

Technological Advancements In Pig Iron Production

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[vedantametalbazaar]

Pig Iron Manufacturers in India of Nodular Grade-SG03 | Vedanta Metabazaar

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[ravenna-reid]

A BLOODY PRICE

[ Part 2 to Crimson Red ]

TW: swearing, violence (bones breaking and shooting, nothing too intense though), brief mention of attempted assault

˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖ ݁

He had her cornered.

The dim street lights were making the tears that rolled down her cheeks glisten, but no one would hear her cries or come to her aid. Not in the alley ways of Gotham City.

As she continued to tell him; "No, I don't have any money, no please," it only seemed to make him angrier. He had her by the wrists now. Rage contorted his features. She closed her eyes.

"Listen here you bitc-" He was cut off by the sound of his own bones breaking. Both of his wrists snapping forward before his hands hung low. Mock horror spread across his face as the most agonising yell left him.

As he tumbled away from the girl and fell to his knees, something else grabbed at his attention. The pair suddenly looked in the direction the slow footsteps were coming from. Heels on the wet cement. And once you stepped out of the shadows and he saw the mask. The lipstick. The lace...he realised.

"No." Weeps escaped him as he feebly attempted to get away. "No, please."

You looked over at the terrified woman as she held her wrists and watched you in anticipation. "How ironic." You scoffed, "Now he's begging. 'No, no, please.'" You mocked with a wicked smile.

"Who are you?" She asked, voice quivering.

Your eyes settled onto her and remorse began to stir in your stomach. "A friend." You said, "Now, how far away is your home?"

"It's just across the street."

"I'll watch you. Go."

She didn't hesitate, quickly moving past you and heading towards an apartment building. When the door closed behind her you looked back down at the man.

"You know, I don't think that's going to be enough to teach you a lesson." That playful glint left your eyes and was soon replaced with a deadly intent.

He began to beg again, until the sound of a gunshot split the air in two. His body hit the ground with a loud thud. Shocked, you turned, moved to the side hoping the shadows would conceal you, but another gunshot echoed through out the city as the bullet found its home in your shoulder.

In that moment, something wrapped around you and brought you down to the ground with them.

The two gunshots simmered in the air before disappearing, and everything became eerily still as Gotham continued on like nothing had happened.

"Shit." The voice said. You turned to see the Red Hood on the ground with you, arms holding on as though you were precious cargo before he quickly let go.

"Red." You breathed. A faint smile spread across your face until the pain of the gunshot began to finally kick in. You winced, and Jason began cursing himself for not reaching you in time.

"Where did he hit you?" His voice was deeper and a little robotic with his helmet on.

"My shoulder." You managed, gripping onto the upper part of your arm as if it would help with the pain. "Who-?"

"A sniper. I couldn't figure out if he was gunning for you or that pig."

You both instinctivly looked over at the man sprawled across the ground.

"Come on, can you walk?" He began to guide you up from the ground, a tender hold on your elbow and lower back.

"Yeah, my house isn't far."

Lies. And it was as though he could tell you were lying.

"I bet mine is closer. Come on, I can stitch you up."

"No, really. It's fine-" Another wince cut you short, and if Jason wasn't wearing a helmet, you'd see the concern embedded onto his face.

"You helped me," He pointed out, a little eager. "Now let me make it even."

So the Red Hood managed to convince you to go back to his place. A dark apartment filled with take-away, old books, and large windows in the lounge room, only lit up by one warm lamp.

"When I find that asshole, he's no longer going to have a spine." You said through grit teeth as he laced the stitchings through your skin.

"I wonder who it was." He said, focused on your wound. "Probably Two-Face."

You shook your head. "Sneaky son of a bitch. He knew I wouldn't be able to sense a sniper."

Suddenly, your hand flew on top of his and tightly held onto it. Jason's body stilled as his eyes darted up to you. You were squinting, until you finally let out a breath and said, "Sorry, that one had a little kick to it."

You were trying your best, but the burning sensation was beginning to get to your head. Jason nodded before apologising, his eyes on yours and his enclosed hands. You moved your hand back into your lap. Jason paused for a second before continuing on and a strange sort of silence enveloped the room.

You couldn't stop the small smirk. His hand was unexpectedly warm. And soft, even if it had a few scars on it. A blush crept onto your face and you hoped the mask was hiding it.

"I thought someone like you would handle pain a little better." He teased, cutting the string and moving to grab a bandage.

You scoffed as you stared at the bloody bullet that sat on his table.

"Well, I didn't really have to deal with pain growing up."

Jason raised a brow at you as he continued wrapping your arm.

"My sister was a healer." It was the first time you looked away from Jason, a sad, distant memory gleaming in your eyes.

"A healer and a pain inflictor?"

"Mmhm."

Watching you and how your usual confident expression melted away made him drop the topic. But his mind continued to wonder. 'My sister was a healer.' Past tense. He bit the inside of his mouth as he wondered what happened. Wondered if that was why you did what you did.

He clipped the bandage and sat back to look at his work. "All done."

You looked down and scoffed. "I didn't think I'd have to make the arms of my suit bullet proof too."

Then you looked back up at him and sent his head reeling. No snarky remarks or sarcastic comments. Jason was silent. You gazed back at one another in a comfortable silence, and he found that he really wanted to take that mask off. See who was hiding underneath. But the thought left his mind and his stomach dropped as soon as your eyes widened.

This time...you could hear a heartbeat.

As quick as a whip you were out of the chair and had your hands gripping onto his suit. Much to his shock and surprise, you were shoving Jason back, and in that split second a plethora of bullets began to shoot through the windows.

The loud gunshots mixed with the smashing and clinking sound of glass breaking as the shards scattered across the floor. You and Jason were pressed against the wall at the end of the room, your face buried into his chest and his arms around your head. The shooting continued on for what seemed like forever before coming to a sudden halt.

The floor of his apartment was nothing but glass shards and wooden splinters from the window frames. His table, chairs, and the wall opposite of the windows were decorated with deep bullet holes. It seemed the sniper had returned with a gun that had a little more kick to it. And now, he was gone.

You finally looked up at Jason as he stared back at you. You still had him pinned against the wall, your body pressed against his as you both continued to breath heavily. But the shock of what just happened wouldn't allow either one of you to move. All you could do was stare at each other before he looked over your head at his apartment and the windows.

A slither of guilt crept into your bones. Now he would have to move. You looked over your shoulder at the mess before looking back at him.

"That fucker is dead." He said, voice deadly and low.

"Seems we both have a common enemy now." You said.

Stupid enough, you felt your face become hot as you took in the position you were both in, and little did you know that Jason was thinking the same thing too. Except you had much more of an effect on Jason. Faces inches apart as you held him against the wall, your hands gripping onto the fabrics of his suit. Surprisingly enough, he found he didn't mind the position he was in. At all.

[pricegouge]

Don't mind me, just thought too long about keeping Price on a leash while he fucks you from behind 🫠

John Price x gn SAS captain reader oneshot | explicit

cw: Light pain play. Unsafe gagging practices. Praise kink. John isn't so much a masochist in this one, as just very enthused with reader's anger.

It's never easy working so closely with another captain, but John Price was perhaps the worst. Cocky, arrogant, brimming with the kind of self-assurance only a man who looked like him in a field like this could have.

A league all his own, really; a fact which he never let you forget, of course.

"Should give a horse its head when it knows where it's going, love," he'd murmur after you'd send your lieutenant away with detailed instructions on a task he could surely handle without your input. Ironic, that, seeing as John never seemed to tire of micromanaging you.

You hate him; tell him as much every time weeks of frustration in the field and no options other than lower ranking officers who'll get you discharged combine to find the two of you tangled up against the nearest sturdy surface. 

He only ever laughs at you. "Show me, then," he goads, and you'll scoff in disgust and slap him, or dig your nails into his flesh so hard you can feel the heat welling beneath your grip. "Just like that, love," he'll hiss, "harder, fuck," and you're never certain if he means riding or hurthing, so you do both.

Most times, he likes when you keep his hands pinned over his head as you sink onto him. He could probably break out of it easily enough (this is John Price, after all), but he never does; just lets you lean across his unreasonably long torso and plant too much of your weight on the delicate bones of his wrists. It makes for an awkward angle, but you don't mind so much when it gives you great access to his neck. This might be his favorite, and while part of you is loathe to give him anything he wants, the other part is deeply satisfied with the knowledge that you could embarrass him in front of his men just by ripping off his keffiyeh at the next strat meeting if he pisses you off too much.

Too bad you don't actually want anyone else seeing him like this, all marked up. It's not that you care about him, but there's an undeniable rush that comes with getting John Price all laid out under you, asking for your hands, your fists, anything. That's the part you're not eager to share any facet of.

He makes it hard to keep quiet, though, grunting and groaning like a pig as he does.

"Could you be any more obvious?" you hiss down at him, and his mustache twitches ominously.

"I can use my mouth some other way," he offers. You hum, considering, but when he opens his mouth again, it is not in pliant offering of his tongue.

"Saw your spar with Ghost earlier. He let you grapple him, that last time. Get him in the ribs first, next time, and -."

"I'm gonna fucking gag you." His laugh, loud and obvious, lets you know exactly what he thinks of that idea, and far be it from you to deny any opportunity to shut him up.

With your knickers in his mouth, your belt holding them in place, it should probably occur to you that this is a bit too much for casual sex. You should probably notice how eagerly John pulls you onto his lap. You definitely should have noticed the pattern of events which always lead you back here by now. You never do though, just as eager to get him hilted inside you as he is to be there. 

He groans when you sink onto him, neck cording with the effort to be heard.

"Should keep you like this all the time," you suggest, digging a thumbnail into his nipple. He arches a bit, lays back flat when you swat his pec.

"Christ, Price," you mutter as you wiggle on his long cock. It's a shame something so intuitively designed was wasted on such a right shit, you think, notching him impossibly deeper. Price swallows thickly when you squeeze around him, work him within yourself for a moment. He's content to watch you until he's not, heavy hands climbing up your thighs to encourage you to move properly. 

You swat them away. "Greedy," you admonish, but you're ready to move anyway so you do, fucking yourself onto him with long rolls of your hips. You forget most times, when gear's back on, and perfectly professional (unsettlingly self-assured) masks are back in place, what exactly keeps you stumbling back into his tent time after time. But like this, when he waits until the grip you have on his thighs gets dire and the pinch of your brow combines with your slack jaw to betray your pleasure to get his hands properly on you; like this, you remember.

John's hands are heavy and warm, coaxing and guiding. He's like this always, some squirmy little bug that's made a home of your ear likes to remind you, but it's only here - where the judgemental eyes of your officers can't follow - that you allow yourself to be guided; let him pet at you, reward you. Here, it's all justified. Honors owed. Tomorrow, surrounded by the best soldiers in the world and expected to stand on a pedestal as his equal, the doubt will set in and his praise will draw your teeth.

"Shit, John," you huff when his big palm stretches flat against your tummy and the way he pushes into you, you know he can feel himself there. He grunts, rocks up and tries to squeeze himself through the wall of your abs. You help, constricting around him, and the thick material of your belt folds under the pressure of how hard he grits his teeth, the needy thing. 

"Want you to fuck me," you tell him, and smirk when his eyes drag up to your face from where they'd been trained on your chest. He grunts, a little dazed, and follows automatically when you climb off him. You don't let go of the tail of your belt, keeping it trained over your shoulder as you settle on hand and knees. He follows, of course, unable to do much else, and hums excitedly as he climbs in behind you. 

"Hands to yourself," you warn, but he just hums again and slides his palms up your thighs like you knew he would. You yank on the belt, sending him sprawling over top of you. You only realize it was a mistake when he catches himself easily with a fist planted above your head and he chuckles darkly against your ear. You forget how big he is sometimes, how he's only here because he wants to be. He waits until you turn towards him and only pushes back into you when your eyes are locked on his.

You'd be ashamed of the way your mouth falls open if you had the capacity for it, but the way John fills you leaves room for little else. 

He knows, damn him. Fucks you so good you forget you're supposed to be in charge. He leans heavily onto you, gets your elbows to fold under you and follows you down, keeps his forearm planted on the mattress above your head. He took the belt tail out of your hand at some point, set himself free so he could murmur praises in your ear with ticklish lips. You swat at him half-heartedly but he just chuckles, holds your hands in his free one once he gets his arm tucked up under your chest. When you cum, he's still right there, panting the same air as you, mumbling about 'Go on, show me how much you fuckin' hate me.'

 You get yourself sorted enough to thread your fingers through his short hair and tug and that's all it takes. He groans deep and guttural, nips at your ear lobe so delicately it's as if he's afraid to hurt you, even after everything.

He sighs eventually, sits back on his haunches to look down at you. "So pretty, love," he murmurs and you sigh, doubt creeping in already.

"John -."

He swats your ass to shut you up and you glare back at him, any post-coital affection you might sometimes feel for him long gone. "Said you look fucking pretty like this." The words are honeyed, the tone is threatening. "Gotta fuckin' gag me cause you don't wanna hear it, huh? Well too bad, love. Not done with you yet."

You can't even complain when he buries his face in the seam of you.

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (8)

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

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts to this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

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

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 7

- Next part: 9

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

The night is amassed with shadows, the kind that seem to creep from every corner, swallowing the light, until only a faint glimmer of moonlight filters through the cracks in the curtains. The air in your chamber is heavy, stifling, clinging to your skin like a second layer, and you toss restlessly in your bed, caught between sleep and wakefulness. The events of the day have left a mark deeper than any wound, a scar on your very soul, and even in sleep, you find no escape from them.

The dream begins innocuously enough—an echo of familiar places and faces. The Red Keep looms before you, its towers stretching into a sky darkened with storm clouds. You walk through its halls, but something is wrong. The walls seem to shift, to warp around you as if the castle itself were alive, breathing, watching. You pass a mirror, and in it, you see yourself, but your reflection's eyes are not your own—they are molten gold, like the eyes of the dragon that hatched from your blood.

Then the voices begin, disembodied whispers that slither into your mind like vipers.

"Make the tallow from the fat of a hangman."

You spin around, searching for the source, but the corridor is empty, save for the flickering shadows that dance along the walls. Your heart pounds, a drumbeat of fear, as the whispers grow louder, more insistent.

"Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words curl around you, filling your ears, your head, until they are all you can hear. They are followed by images—horrifying, grotesque images that sear themselves into your mind. You see a man, faceless and featureless, his body twisting and contorting as if consumed by fire, and beside him, a grotesque beast with the head of a pig and the wings of a dragon.

"Whishes and words sprout from the same seed."

The final whisper is the most haunting, carrying with it a truth you cannot yet comprehend. You feel a pull, a deep, visceral pull, towards something—or someone—just beyond your reach. The air around you crackles with heat, with the scent of burning flesh, and you realize with a start that you are no longer in the Red Keep but in the throne room. The Iron Throne looms before you, and at its base lies the dragon, your dragon, with its golden eyes fixed on you. There is a chain around its neck, heavy and cruel, and as you step closer, you see that it is not just a chain—it is a part of you, binding you to the beast, to the throne, to your father’s madness.

You try to scream, to pull away, but the chain tightens, digging into your flesh, and the dragon roars, a sound that shakes the very foundations of the dream. 

With a gasp, you wake, bolting upright in your bed. Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as if it might burst free at any moment. Your skin is slick with sweat, your hands trembling as they clutch the sheets. It takes a moment for the familiar surroundings of your chamber to come into focus, for reality to assert itself over the lingering terror of the dream.

But the fear does not dissipate; it clings to you, wrapping around your bones like a cold, suffocating shroud. You cannot shake the feeling that the dream was not just a product of your mind, but something more—a premonition, a warning. You fear that you are now bound to your father’s madness in ways you cannot yet understand.

The door to your chamber creaks open, and you instinctively reach for the dagger hidden beneath your pillow. But it is only Arthur, his face drawn with concern as he steps into the room, the soft glow of a candle casting shadows across his features. 

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice a balm to your frayed nerves. He crosses the room in a few long strides and kneels by your bedside, reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair from your face. "You cried out in your sleep. What happened?"

You stare at him, struggling to find the words. How can you explain the horrors you witnessed in your dream? How can you tell him of the chain that binds you, of the dragon’s eyes that haunt you?

"It was just a dream," you say finally, though the words feel hollow, a poor attempt to convince yourself more than him. "But it felt… so real."

Arthur’s hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. There is something in his eyes, a sadness, a fear that mirrors your own. He knows the weight you carry, the burden of your bloodline, and it tears at him as much as it does you.

"You are stronger than any dream, Y/N," he says, his voice firm yet gentle. "Whatever darkness your father has unleashed, it will not claim you. I won’t let it."

His words should comfort you, but the fear lingers, gnawing at the edges of your mind. You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, drawing strength from the warmth of his hand, the steady beat of his heart. But even as he holds you, a part of you cannot shake the feeling that something has changed, that the dragon now bound in chains is not the only one tethered to the Iron Throne.

"And the dragon?" you whisper, your voice barely audible. "What of him?"

Arthur hesitates, and in that moment, you see the truth in his eyes. He knows as well as you do that the dragon is not just a creature born of fire and blood, but something more—something that ties you inexorably to your father’s will.

"He is strong," Arthur replies after a moment, his voice laced with the same uncertainty that plagues your own thoughts. "But he is yours, Y/N, not your father’s. Remember that."

You nod, though doubt still lingers in your heart. You can feel the pull of the dragon, the bond forged in blood, and you wonder if it is a bond you will ever truly break.

Arthur pulls you close then, wrapping his arms around you as if he could shield you from the darkness that stands on the horizon. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for a moment, you allow yourself to believe that he might be right, that you might be able to defy the fate that seems to be tightening its grip around you.

But deep down, you know that the dragon has awakened something within you, something that cannot be so easily silenced. And as you drift back to sleep in Arthur’s arms, you can’t help but wonder if that something is the same madness that has consumed your father—or if it is something far, far worse.

The echo of Rhaegar’s footsteps resonates through the darkened corridors of the Red Keep, each step a reminder of the burden weighing heavily on his shoulders. The scent of wildfire still lingers faintly in the air, mingling with the stale, musty odor that always seemed to cling to the throne room and its cursed Iron Throne. Rhaegar pauses before the door, taking a moment to steady his breath, knowing full well the volatility that could await him on the other side.

The door creaks open, revealing King Aerys II sitting at a large wooden table, papers strewn about, and a goblet of wine in his hand. His hair, once silver like the moon, now hangs in greasy strands, framing a face etched with madness but, at this moment, unusually calm. His eyes, however, still gleam with the dangerous fire that had consumed him over the years, a fire that now burned brighter with the hatching of the dragon.

"Father," Rhaegar begins, his voice soft, measured. He steps into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Aerys does not immediately acknowledge him, his gaze fixed on the flames crackling in the hearth. Rhaegar can feel the tension in the air, the precarious balance of his father’s mind. He must tread carefully.

"Rhaegar, my son," Aerys finally speaks, his voice surprisingly even. "Have you come to see our child? My dragon... our creation?" The king's voice carries an unsettling blend of pride and possessiveness, his eyes shifting to meet Rhaegar's with an intensity that makes his son’s heart tighten.

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. "I have, Father. The dragon is a magnificent creature, a symbol of House Targaryen’s strength, of our blood." He chooses his words carefully, keeping his tone respectful. "But it is not just the dragon that concerns me."

Aerys narrows his eyes, suspicion flickering across his features. "What concerns you, my son? The dragon is ours by right. It will be the weapon that ensures our enemies bow before us."

Rhaegar takes a breath, steadying himself. "It is Y/N that concerns me, Father," he says, his voice steady but laced with concern. "She is still weak from the ritual, and Pycelle says her wounds will take time to heal. She needs rest, care. We cannot risk her health, not when she is so important to us… to you."

Aerys’s gaze sharpens at the mention of you. "She is important, yes. More important than any of them realize," he murmurs, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "She brought forth the dragon. She is its mother, its rightful queen. No harm must come to her, do you hear me?"

Rhaegar nods, carefully concealing his relief that, for now, Aerys seems focused on your well-being. "Of course, Father. No harm will come to her, I swear it. But she needs time away from the chaos of the court, away from prying eyes and those who might seek to use her or the dragon for their own ends."

Aerys frowns, suspicion clouding his features once more. "What are you suggesting, Rhaegar? That she be hidden away? That she be kept from me?"

"No, Father," Rhaegar says quickly. "I would never suggest such a thing. Only that she be allowed to recover in peace. Perhaps at Dragonstone, where she can be close to her dragon but away from the eyes of those who might seek to control her... or it."

The mention of Dragonstone seems to catch Aerys’s interest, and Rhaegar seizes the opportunity. "Dragonstone is a place of power, a place where our ancestors ruled and raised their dragons. It would be fitting for Y/N to be there, with the dragon, away from the prying eyes of the court. There, she can grow stronger, and the dragon can be raised in the safety and secrecy it deserves."

Aerys considers this for a long moment, his eyes flickering with the flames of the hearth. "Dragonstone," he muses, the word rolling off his tongue as if tasting its possibilities. "Yes… yes, it is a place of power. She will be safe there. But I must see the dragon, must know that it is truly ours."

Rhaegar bows his head. "Of course, Father. The dragon will be brought to you, but it must be done carefully, slowly. It is still young, still growing. It needs time, as does Y/N."

Aerys nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. "Yes, yes, you are right, my son. But remember this, Rhaegar," he says, his voice suddenly cold, his eyes locking onto his son's with a ferocity that makes Rhaegar’s blood run cold. "She is mine. The dragon is mine. They are my legacy. Do not forget that."

Rhaegar swallows, his throat dry. "I will not forget, Father."

Aerys's gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before he turns his attention back to the fire, dismissing Rhaegar with a wave of his hand. "Go now. Ensure that my dragon is well cared for. And see to it that Y/N is taken to Dragonstone, where she will be safe... and where she will remember her place."

Rhaegar bows low, retreating from the room with a sense of urgency. Once outside, he allows himself a breath of relief, though the weight of his father's obsession with you and the dragon still presses heavily on his chest. He must speak with Arthur, ensure that you are protected, hidden away from the madness that now grips Aerys.

As he walks back through the dimly lit corridors, his mind is consumed with thoughts of you—of your safety, of the secret you share with Ser Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar knows he must act swiftly, for the shadow of his father’s madness is long and ever-reaching, and it is only a matter of time before it threatens to engulf you both.

The salty breeze tugs at your hair as you stand on the edge of the harbor, the morning sun glinting off the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay. The sight of the ship bobbing gently at anchor fills you with a sense of unease, the iron cage being carefully loaded onto its deck a pogient reminder of the strange and terrible events that have led you here. Inside the cage, your dragon, the one born of death, lets out a low, restless growl. His golden eyes, now a little larger, still burning with the same fierce intelligence that haunts your dreams. You feel a strange pull in your chest, as though something within you is tethered to the creature, a bond that tightens with every beat of your heart.

Your hand instinctively rises to your chest, pressing against the spot where you can feel the faintest echo of warmth, as if your own blood still burns with the wildfire that hatched the dragon. The world around you seems distant, your focus narrowing to the creature in the cage, to the strange connection you share. A soft, persistent whisper at the back of your mind urges you to draw closer, to reach out and touch the iron bars that keep him confined, but the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you back to reality.

"Y/N," Rhaegar’s voice is gentle but firm, grounding you. He appears beside you, his presence solid and reassuring amidst the swirling chaos of your thoughts. His arm slips around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting embrace. The warmth of his touch dispels the strange pull you felt toward the dragon, anchoring you firmly in the present.

"You will be safe at Dragonstone," Rhaegar murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. "I wish I could go with you, but I will see you again soon. I promise." He pulls back slightly, his violet eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. "And I will make sure our father remains... distracted for as long as possible."

You nod, though words seem to fail you in the face of all that has happened. The sight of the dragon, your dragon, being locked away, the very creature that should have been a symbol of your family's strength, instead treated as a dangerous secret to be hidden away—it all weighs heavily on your mind.

Before you can voice your concerns, another presence joins you. Queen Rhaella, your mother, approaches, her face pale but composed, as if she has steeled herself for what is to come. Her gaze is tender as she looks at you, though it is clouded with the same sorrow that has shadowed her for years. "Y/N, Rhaegar," she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of a mother’s love and the pain of long-endured suffering.

"Mother," Rhaegar greets her with a bow of his head, stepping back to allow her to stand beside you.

Rhaella’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. "Aerys has allowed me to accompany you to Dragonstone," she says, her voice tinged with both relief and resignation. "He... he sees no use for me here any longer."

The words hang in the air, a bitter reminder of how far your father has fallen, how little regard he holds for those who were once dearest to him. Rhaella’s gaze flickers to the dragon in its cage, a flash of fear and sadness passing over her features before she turns back to Rhaegar. "Take care of yourself, my son," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "You carry the hopes of our house."

Rhaegar nods, his expression softening. "And you carry its future," he replies, his gaze lingering on you. "This is likely temporary, as you well know. Father will not be content to let you remain away from him for long. And when the time comes... the small council's debate may soon become more than mere words. Our marriage may no longer be just a possibility, Y/N."

Your heart tightens at his words. The idea of marrying Rhaegar has always been one tangled with duty, obligation, and the preservation of your house. Yet, there is another side to this—a secret part of you that yearns for someone else, for Ser Arthur Dayne, whose presence you can feel even now, standing at a respectful distance near the Queen’s retinue.

Your gaze drifts to where Ser Arthur waits, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his helm, though his eyes—those familiar, intense eyes—never leave you. Beside him, Ser Lewyn Martell stands ready, prepared to accompany you and your mother to Dragonstone. The two of them, Arthur especially, have been your protectors in more ways than one, and you feel a sense of calm knowing they will be by your side during this exile.

But before you can take a step toward them, a sudden shift in the atmosphere halts you. The harbor grows quiet, the bustling activity of sailors and dockworkers falling away as Aerys, your father, arrives with the Kingsguard and his entourage. The sight of him makes your blood run cold, the sharp contrast between the man he once was and the mad king he has become all too clear in the daylight.

Aerys’s presence is unsettling, a mix of unpredictability and danger that makes everyone around him tense, as though they are all walking on the edge of a knife. You straighten your posture, reminding yourself not to show any sign of weakness, any sign that might provoke him into changing his mind about letting you go.

Your mother, however, is less successful in hiding her fear. As Aerys approaches, she takes a small step back, her eyes lowering to the ground, her entire demeanor shrinking as though trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. You sense her anxiety, feel it in the way her hand trembles in yours before she quickly releases her grip, folding her hands in front of her as she stares at the ground.

"Y/N, you are my daughter, my blood. The mother of my dragon.” Aerys croons, his voice unexpectedly warm, though there is a manic edge to it that makes your skin crawl. He steps closer, his eyes—once sharp and clear—now filled with the flames of his own madness. Without warning, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, the touch of his lips cold and unsettling.

As soon as his lips make contact, a voice—a dark, twisted whisper—echoes in your mind, repeating the words from the nightmare that has plagued you ever since the ritual: "Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words send a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the world seems to tilt, the harbor, the ship, the dragon, all fading into the background as the voice reverberates through your thoughts. But you force yourself to remain still, to show no sign of the terror that grips you.

Aerys pulls back, his smile unsettling as he examines your face as though searching for something only he can see. "Remember, my child, the dragon is ours—yours and mine. We are bound by fire and blood."

You manage a stiff nod, your voice catching in your throat. "Yes, Father," you reply, keeping your tone as even as possible.

Before Aerys can say anything further, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his eyes gleaming with that cold calculation that always unnerved you. "Safe travels, my lady," he says, offering you a bow that seems more like a formality than a genuine gesture of respect.

As he straightens, the voice in your mind returns, louder this time, dripping with malice: "It has two mouths to lick from."

The words almost make you recoil, but you manage to keep your composure, nodding at Tywin in acknowledgment. The tension in the air is suffocating, the weight of all that is unspoken hanging between you and everyone present. But you know this is not the time or place to question the meaning of these strange, disturbing messages. Not when so many eyes are upon you, waiting for any sign of weakness, any reason to doubt your loyalty to the crown.

Finally, with a nod from Aerys, the entourage begins to withdraw, allowing you, Rhaella, and your escorts to make your way toward the waiting ship. Rhaegar lingers for a moment longer, his gaze meeting yours, filled with a mixture of worry and determination.

"This will not be forever," he says quietly, his voice meant only for your ears. "I will do everything in my power to protect you, to bring you back safely."

You nod, though the certainty in his words does little to quell the unease that churns within you. As you turn to follow your mother and the Kingsguard toward the ship, your gaze once again finds Arthur. His presence, as always, brings a small measure of comfort, even as the weight of the future presses heavily on your shoulders.

But as you step onto the gangplank, the whisper in your mind returns once more, a final chilling reminder of the darkness that shadows your path: "Two mouths, one kiss."

You force the voice back, focusing on the solidity of the wooden planks beneath your feet, the sound of the waves against the hull of the ship. Soon, you tell yourself, you will be at Dragonstone, far from the madness of King.

The wind fills the sails of the ship as it cuts through the waves, the rhythmic rise and fall of the sea a steady backdrop to the tension that hangs in the air. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting the waters in a warm, golden hue, but the beauty of the scene does little to calm the storm within you. You stand on the deck, your gaze fixed on the iron cage where your dragon, your bond, waits restlessly.

The creature paces within the confines of its prison, its golden eyes flicking toward you with an almost knowing look, as if it can sense your inner turmoil, the conflict between duty and the strange, irresistible pull that has been growing ever stronger since you first laid eyes on it.

Beside you, Ser Arthur Dayne stands silently, his presence a comforting weight, a reminder that you are not alone in this. His silver armor gleams in the fading light, the sword at his side a symbol of the protection he has always offered you, even in the most dire of circumstances. Behind you, your mother, Queen Rhaella, stands with Ser Lewyn Martell and a handful of retainers, all of whom have chosen to accompany you and the queen on this journey to Dragonstone. Their expressions are a mix of concern and uncertainty, none of them quite sure what will happen next.

Arthur’s voice breaks the silence, soft but firm. "Are you sure about this, Y/N?"

You turn to him, meeting his gaze. The concern in his eyes is evident, but there is also a trust there, a belief in you that gives you strength. You nod, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "Yes, Arthur. This is something I must do."

He studies you for a moment longer, as if searching for any sign of hesitation, but when he finds none, he nods, stepping back slightly to give you space. You take a deep breath, feeling the salt air fill your lungs, the cool breeze against your skin. The moment has come, and you know there is no turning back.

With slow, deliberate steps, you approach the iron cage. The dragon inside, still young but already formidable, stops its pacing and watches you, its golden eyes locking onto yours. The connection between you flares to life, that strange bond you share surging with intensity. You feel it in your blood, in your very soul, a pull that goes beyond words or reason.

You reach out, your fingers brushing against the cold iron bars. The dragon shifts, lowering its head slightly, as if in acknowledgment. Your heart pounds in your chest, but there is a sense of rightness in this moment, a clarity that cuts through the fear and uncertainty.

Slowly, you unlatch the cage, the metal clanging softly as you pull the door open. The dragon hesitates for just a moment, as if testing the air, before it steps out, its movements fluid and graceful. The others on the deck watch in stunned silence, the anticipation is visible as they wait to see what will happen next.

As the dragon emerges fully from the cage, it spreads its wings, shaking them out as if testing their strength. It lets out a low, rumbling growl, more a sound of satisfaction than threat, and then it turns to you, its eyes glowing with that same golden light.

You feel the bond tighten, that pull in your chest growing stronger until it is almost overwhelming. And then, suddenly, you hear it again—that voice in your mind, the one that has haunted you ever since the ritual, the one that whispered dark and terrible things. But this time, the voice is different. It is clearer, more certain, and it speaks a single word: Terrax.

The name echoes in your mind, filling you with a strange sense of completion, as if something that was always meant to be has finally fallen into place. You whisper the name aloud, your voice trembling slightly. "Terrax."

The dragon’s eyes flash, and you feel a surge of recognition, a deep, primal understanding that passes between you. This is his name, the name that binds him to you, the name that seals the bond.

Arthur steps forward cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though his posture is more protective than threatening. "What did you say?"

"Terrax," you repeat, your voice stronger now. "That is his name."

Arthur’s gaze shifts to the dragon, his expression a mix of awe and concern. "You named him?"

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process the enormity of what just happened. "No... he named himself. I just... I just heard it."

Arthur’s brow furrows, but he does not question you further. He knows better than anyone how deeply intertwined your fate is with this creature, how the ritual that brought Terrax into the world also bound you to him in ways that neither of you fully understand.

Rhaella, who has been silent until now, steps closer, her eyes wide with both fear and wonder. "Y/N... what have you done?" she whispers, though there is no accusation in her tone, only a mother’s concern for her child.

"I’ve released him, Mother," you say, turning to face her. "I couldn’t keep him caged. He... he’s a part of me."

Rhaella’s expression softens, and she reaches out to touch your cheek, her hand trembling slightly. "You are so much like your father, in ways that both terrify and amaze me," she murmurs. "But you must be careful, Y/N. There are forces at work here that we do not fully understand."

"I know," you reply, your voice quiet but firm. "But I can’t ignore this. Terrax is mine, and I am his."

Ser Lewyn, who has been watching with wary eyes, steps forward, his voice calm but laced with concern. "Your Grace, if the dragon is to remain free, we must ensure he is properly guarded. Dragonstone is a place of power, but it is not without its dangers."

"Terrax will not be caged again," you say, your tone leaving no room for argument. "But he will not harm anyone unless provoked. I feel it... he knows who his enemies are."

Arthur exchanges a glance with Ser Lewyn, and then he nods. "We will keep him safe, Y/N. And we will keep you safe, too."

The tension eases slightly at his words, and you offer him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Arthur."

As the ship sails on toward Dragonstone, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, you stand beside Terrax who is perched on taffrail, your hand resting on his small, scaled flank. The bond between you is stronger than ever, a living connection that pulses with the rhythm of the sea and the beat of your heart.

You are no longer just a princess of House Targaryen. You are the mother of a dragon, and your fate is now entwined with his, bound together by the ancient forces of old Valyria.

The streets of King’s Landing are alive with the hum of daily life, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingling with the less pleasant odors of the bustling city. The setting sun casts long shadows across the cobblestones, painting the world in shades of gold and orange. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen walks among his people, his presence alone enough to draw hushed whispers and admiring glances from the smallfolk. His silver hair catches the light, making him appear almost otherworldly, a living embodiment of the storied Valyrian bloodline.

Though he often brings his harp on such walks, today it remains in the Red Keep, for Rhaegar’s mind is heavy with thoughts too dark and tangled to be soothed by music. At his side, Ser Barristan Selmy, the most loyal of his Kingsguard, walks with a steady, measured pace, his watchful eyes scanning the crowd. Even in the heart of the city, danger is never far, and Barristan’s duty is to ensure that no harm befalls the prince.

As they move through the narrow streets, Rhaegar can hear the murmur of conversation, snatches of talk that filter through the air like the wind. The people adore him, even now, when the shadow of his father’s madness looms large over the realm. They speak of his kindness, his wisdom, and, more recently, his possible marriage to you, his sister. The idea of such a union has stirred a mix of hope and curiosity among the smallfolk, who see it as holding true to the old ways, a reaffirmation of House Targaryen’s ancient customs.

Rhaegar’s thoughts turn to you, the sister he has sworn to protect. He pictures your face, the strength you’ve shown despite everything, and the bond you now share with the dragon. One that ties you both to the darkest aspects of your family’s legacy. He remembers Varys’s words, spoken in the shadows of the Red Keep: “If the nature of her relationship with Ser Arthur becomes known, it will not just be Aerys’s wrath you need fear, but the whispers of treason, the seeds of rebellion. Even the gods cannot save her from the court’s judgment if this becomes public knowledge.”

A chill runs through him at the thought. He knows Varys speaks the truth; the court is a nest of vipers, and the truth of your relationship with Ser Arthur would be more than enough to destroy you—and by extension, him. He cannot let that happen. He will do whatever it takes to protect you, even if it means denying his own desires.

As they turn onto a broader avenue, the crowd parts slightly, and Rhaegar catches sight of a familiar figure moving toward them. Cersei Lannister, her golden hair shining like a beacon, approaches with a small entourage of Lannister guards and retainers. She is dressed in rich red and gold, the colors of her house, and she wears a smile that is both charming and calculating.

“Prince Rhaegar,” she greets him warmly, inclining her head with just the right amount of deference. “It is a pleasure to see you out among the people. They adore you, as well they should.”

Rhaegar offers a polite nod, though his expression remains distant. “Lady Cersei. It is always a pleasure to see you.”

Cersei steps closer, her green eyes gleaming with a mixture of ambition and something else—something deeper, more personal. “I heard the most delightful rumor today,” she says, her voice smooth and honeyed. “They say that you may soon be betrothed. To your sister, Y/N. How... traditional.”

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. “Rumors often carry more weight than truth within the walls of the Red Keep,” he replies, his tone noncommittal.

Cersei’s smile widens, though there is a hint of steel beneath the sweetness. “Perhaps. But some rumors hold the promise of great alliances. The smallfolk are not the only ones interested in your future, my prince. There are many who believe a strong union could secure the stability of the realm—especially in these troubled times.”

She moves even closer, her voice lowering so that only Rhaegar can hear her next words. “House Lannister, for instance, has always stood ready to support the crown. We are the wealthiest house in Westeros, and our influence could be invaluable to your father... and to you, when the time comes.”

Rhaegar meets her gaze, recognizing the offer for what it is: a calculated move to entwine her family’s power with his own. Cersei’s ambition is as bright as her beauty, and while he understands the allure of such a match, his heart remains steadfast in its devotion. Not to her, but to you, and to the dangerous game he must now play to protect you.

“I appreciate the loyalty of House Lannister,” he replies, keeping his tone neutral. “The realm benefits greatly from your family’s wealth and influence.”

Cersei’s smile falters for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of frustration crossing her features before she recovers. “And it could benefit even more from a closer alliance,” she presses. “Together, our houses could usher in a new era of prosperity and peace. A union between us would be celebrated across the Seven Kingdoms.”

But Rhaegar’s mind is elsewhere, replaying Varys’s warnings, the weight of his responsibility to you, the unspoken truth that lies between you and Ser Arthur Dayne. He cannot allow himself to be swayed by Cersei’s words, no matter how tempting the prospect of a secure and powerful future might be.

“My duty is to the realm, Lady Cersei,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “And I must consider what is best for it. The future is uncertain, but I will always act in the interest of peace and stability.”

Cersei’s expression tightens, the charm slipping away to reveal a flash of cold determination. “Of course, my prince,” she replies, though the sweetness in her voice has turned brittle. “But remember, peace and stability often require strong alliances. And some alliances are stronger than others.”

Rhaegar nods, signaling the end of their conversation. “I thank you for your counsel, Lady Cersei. I will give it the consideration it deserves.”

She offers him one last smile, though it no longer reaches her eyes. “I hope you do, my prince. For all our sakes.”

With that, she turns and sweeps away, her Lannister entourage following in her wake like a pack of gilded lions. Rhaegar watches her go, a sense of unease settling over him. He knows Cersei will not give up easily, but his heart is resolute. His duty to the realm, to his sister, and to the truth is clear.

Ser Barristan, who has remained silent throughout the exchange, steps closer. “She is not one to be underestimated, my prince.”

“I know,” Rhaegar replies, his gaze distant. “But my path is already set. Whatever the cost, I must protect my sister, and ensure that our house survives the storm to come.”

Barristan nods, his respect for the prince evident in his eyes. “Then we shall be ready, whatever may come.”

Rhaegar resumes his walk through the city, though his thoughts remain troubled. The weight of the crown feels heavier with each passing day, and the future looms uncertain and dark. But he knows that, for now, his course is clear. He must guard the secrets that could destroy his family, even if it means walking a perilous line between duty and desire.

And above all, he must ensure that when the time comes, he is ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead—with or without the support of the lions of Lannister.

The wind whips through your hair as you stand on the balcony of your chambers, the salt air of the Narrow Sea filling your lungs. Below, the waves crash against the rocky shores of Dragonstone, their rhythm a constant reminder of the power and isolation of this ancient seat of your ancestors. The sky is overcast, but the clouds part just enough to allow slivers of sunlight to dance on the waters, turning the sea into a shimmering expanse of silver and gray.

Far in the distance, soaring above the waves, is Terrax. His black scales glisten in the weak sunlight, and his wings beat with a powerful grace that makes your heart swell with a mixture of pride and fear. No longer the size of a hound, Terrax has grown in the past months, now large enough to be mistaken for a small horse. He has claimed the fiery caverns of Dragonmont as his lair, where the heat of the volcano suits his nature. The dragon is fed a steady supply of cattle, and though he still has much growing to do, his presence has already brought a renewed sense of awe and reverence to this ancient fortress.

Yet despite the majesty of the dragon, a shadow hangs over your thoughts. The voices in your nightmares have returned, whispering dark and twisted things that leave you shaken and fearful. You clutch the stone balustrade of the balcony, trying to draw strength from the solidness of the ancient castle, but the whispers are persistent, gnawing at the edges of your sanity.

A soft sound from behind you draws your attention, and you turn to see Ser Arthur Dayne stepping out onto the balcony. His presence is a balm to your troubled mind, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders eases. Here on Dragonstone, away from the prying eyes of the court, you can afford a small measure of relaxation in each other’s presence. But even here, you must remain vigilant; the risk of discovery is always lurking in the back of your mind.

Arthur’s expression softens as he approaches, his lilac-gray eyes searching your face. "You’ve been out here for a while," he says quietly, his voice filled with concern. "Is everything all right?"

You offer him a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "I find the sea calming," you reply, turning your gaze back to the horizon where Terrax is now a distant silhouette against the sky. "But even here, it’s hard to escape... the nightmares."

Arthur steps closer, his hand resting on the small of your back. The touch is gentle, comforting, and you lean into it, grateful for the warmth of his presence. "The nightmares are back?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry.

You nod, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. "Yes. The same voices, whispering in my ear. I... I fear I’m going mad, Arthur. Just like him." You don’t need to say your father’s name; the fear of Aerys’s madness running through your veins is a constant shadow that you’ve never been able to shake.

Arthur’s brow furrows, and he gently turns you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders. "You are not going mad, Y/N," he says firmly, his voice grounding you in the moment. "You’ve been through more than anyone should have to endure, but you are strong. You’ve always been strong."

You shake your head, frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. "But these dreams, these voices... they feel so real. They say things that make my skin crawl, that make me doubt everything I know. Sometimes I think I can hear them even when I’m awake."

Arthur’s hands tighten slightly on your shoulders, a silent offer of support. "You are not your father, Y/N," he insists, his gaze never leaving yours. "Whatever these voices are, they do not define you. They do not control you."

"But what if they do?" you whisper, your voice trembling. "What if I’m losing myself, just like he did? What if Terrax is more than just a dragon to me? What if... what if he’s part of this madness?"

Arthur’s expression hardens, and he cups your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Listen to me," he says, his voice low and intense. "Terrax is not a curse. He is a part of you, yes, but he does not dictate who you are. You have a bond with him, a bond that is forged in something deeper than the madness of your father. It is your strength, not your weakness."

You search his eyes, finding only sincerity and the unshakable belief he has in you. The warmth of his hands against your skin anchors you, and slowly, the cold knot of fear in your chest begins to loosen.

"You’re not alone in this," Arthur continues, his voice softer now. "I’m here, and I will do whatever it takes to help you through this. We will find a way to silence these voices, to banish these nightmares."

A tear escapes the corner of your eye, and you lean into his touch, drawing comfort from the man who has been your steadfast protector, your secret love, in the midst of all the chaos. "Thank you, Arthur," you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath.

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, a gesture that is both tender and filled with unspoken promises. "Always," he replies.

For a moment, you allow yourself to close your eyes and simply breathe, the sound of the sea and the distant cry of Terrax filling your senses. Here, with Arthur by your side, the voices seem further away, their power over you diminished. You can still feel them at the edges of your mind, but they are no longer overwhelming. 

When you finally open your eyes, the fear is still there, but it is tempered by the knowledge that you are not facing this alone. You have Arthur, you have Terrax, and you have your own strength—strength that you will need to draw on in the days and months to come.

"We should go back inside," Arthur says softly, though there is a reluctance in his voice. "It wouldn’t do for someone to see us out here alone for too long."

You nod, though you linger for a moment longer, casting one last glance at Terrax, who is now circling back toward the island, his powerful wings cutting through the air with ease. There is something majestic, something undeniable about the dragon, and despite your fears, you can’t help but feel a deep connection to him, one that transcends the nightmares and the whispers.

With a final sigh, you allow Arthur to lead you back inside, where the warmth of the castle wraps around you like a comforting embrace. The darkness of your fears may still lurk, but here, within these ancient walls, you have found something to hold onto—hope. 

[toshidou]

oddly specific british hcs . . .

characters // the 141 (simon "ghost" riley, john "soap" mactavish, kyle "gaz" garrick, john price)

an // don't ask me what this is, because i really don't have an answer for you. my brain just spat this out at me mid walk and for some reason i decided to post it here. i am so sorry.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

He's scared shitless of Year 7s, despite knowing full well that he was one of those little bastards when he was a kid. Not much puts the fear of god into him, yet something about a group of little shitheads who think they own the world has him crossing to the other side of the street at the sight of them.

Got suspended from school one time for stealing one of the dildo's from the RE classroom and supergluing to the seat of the kid who tried to bully him.

Got good grades at school. Not because he put in the effort, but because he stole all the exam answers from his teachers desk and spent the night before the exam memorising it all. "Work smarter not harder" was his motto.

Once got lost in a Primark. He was only looking for some cheap sleep wear, and ending up somewhere stuck between rows of Disney clothes and screaming children on leashes.

Has an unhealthy obsession with Monster energy drinks, he once drank so many in a row he went temporarily blind in his left eye. Still drinks them to this day.

John "Soap" Mactavish

He once had a full on mental breakdown in ALDI because the cashier was scanning things too quickly and he couldn't keep up.

Has started several fights in pubs because someone insulted Iron-Bru, both Simon and Price have had to drag him out of nearly all of them kicking and screaming garbled Scottish insults.

Used to dip his sherbet dib dab in dirt as a kid.

Once got in trouble in maths class for spelling "80085" on his calculator and laughing so hard he pissed himself.

The only time he laughed that hard again was when the Queen kicked the bucket. Price looked nothing short of disturbed.

If one more person comes up to him and yells "DISGUSTANG" in an exaggerated and shit Scottish accent, he's going to commit serial arson.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Went to private school, and gets bullied for it by the entire 141 as soon as they find out. They rib him even harder after they find out he was head boy.

Got invited to a night out in London by one of his rich acquaintances from school, which ended up being The Box. That night single-handedly gave him more PTSD than any mission he's ever been on.

Has personal beef with Percy Pig after he almost choked to death on one, and to this day he will never live it down that Ghost had to give him the Heimlich.

Has an unhealthy addiction to the Spice Girls. Sometimes he forgets he lives on a military base and still sings "Wannabe" at full volume in the showers. He's had to swear Soap to secrecy on numerous occasions.

His favourite Spice Girl is Scary Spice.

Captain John Price

His biggest guilty pleasure is listening to Take That. He'd first heard them first thanks to his mother being worryingly obsessed, and started mockingly singing along to their songs on brief phone calls from his barracks after he'd first joined. Little did he know that soon he too would unironically love their music. And yes, he cried when Robbie left the band. It's a secret he's taking to the grave.

Hates Waitrose with a burning passion, he once threw a fit over the price of a packet of peanuts and scared the middle-aged woman and her baby two aisles down.

Saw Gaz choking on a Percy Pig, and then proceeded to buy him every available Percy Pig related merchandise for Christmas.

Loves vinegar on his chips from the chippy, and when he found out the smell makes Soap gag, suddenly he loves his chips drowning in it.

[yandere-sins]

Madness

a/n: I saw a dialogue prompt somewhere and this idea came to mind. Please head the warnings.

Characters: Yandere!Dottore x GN!Reader Fandom: Genshin Impact Warnings: Yandere, Extreme Violence (Reader violently killing someone, Reader cutting open someone’s stomach, Majorly implied amputation of reader’s limbs), Desperation, Mentally broken reader, Mention of drugs/medication/syringes/scalpels/blood/vomit(ting)/disfiguration/experimentation, Reader is a human guinea pig

"Ha... haha..."

Finally, you thought. It's quiet. So fucking quiet.

Nothing, not even your laugh or the clattering of the scalpel as it slipped from your hand, falling on the floor, could break the silence around you. It was over. You had no sense of time, no calendar to keep track of the days, weeks, months you must have been locked up for. But it was finally over, the blood on your hand a small price for ending all this madness.

You should have never trusted the Fatui. Their compassionate speeches and warm invitations. They swore to help you out of the poverty you lived in. They promised they'd give you a roof over your head and a warm meal a day if you joined them, but it never turned out like the glorious future they described to your vulnerable self. It had been too damn long, but you'd never forget your first meeting with The Doctor. You'd never forget that shark-toothed smile as he introduced himself with a handshake. Never forget the first time he tied you to a chair and told you it would 'only be a small sting'.

Days after days, he tortured you. One incision cutting out some of your skin here, a syringe with weird substances injected there. Him telling you to toughen up, and subtle threats made behind medical jargon. "You could lose your eye if you moved," and, "Be careful, or I might accidentally cut into the vein. You don't want to bleed out here, right?"

But what felt almost worse were his hands on your body. Gloved, not gloved, always searching and never resting. He treated you like a sculpture he was forming, placing you into positions he liked. Below him. At his feet. Forcing you to look up at him through dazes and nausea. Only then would he be careful with you, brushing sweaty hair from your face, offering to take you to a bath if you behaved in the next experiment. Telling you he never saw something as lovely as your cut-up and delirious self. That you were the best he ever had under his scalpel.

The sentences haunted you even in your dreams. If you could sleep, that is. Most nights, you laid awake, trembling from the drugs, throwing up from your memories, or tearing your hair out in agony after getting your medicine. You never signed up to be a guinea pig for this madman, but you were told someone had to do it. At first, you relented, seeing the much younger candidates they brought into the room instead of you, but eventually, you didn't care anymore. And Dottore ceased asking. He broke you; every day a little more. Never caring for your feelings, no matter how pitifully you begged and pleaded with him to let you go.

But now it was all over.

It took you long enough. Too long. You barely remained human at this point. Perhaps this outburst and attack on the person that did this to you was the most human about you now. The constant, nagging voice in your head was gone. It no longer blamed you for your naivety. Didn't scold you for crying or hurting yourself. Everything was quiet. Peaceful.

Ironic, you thought, looking down at the corpse at your feet. You stabbed him so many times, if not for the clothes—now died red—no one would have recognized him anymore. It only took one death for everything to be set on the right path again. You thought that killing would be harder than it ended up being, feeling like you now understood why it was so easy for Dottore to experiment on you. It got easier after the first time, the first stab. Then, only rage guided what followed, and soon, it was almost second nature.

Stepping back, you avoided glancing at the reflective surfaces. Not wanting to see the kind of monster you had become after all that happened. You'd never be welcome in your community again, though, if you were honest, you hadn't been before, either. Still, with looks this frightful, you'd have to hide somewhere far away for the rest of your life.

If you made it that far.

Surely the Fatui would not be pleased after what you did to their Harbinger. Life on the run wouldn't be very rewarding, but it would be better than what you went through here. Anything would be better—even death.

You didn't bother cleaning up the blood from your hands, clothes, or face. What good would it do? All you wanted was to leave. Leave this place and memories behind, and disappear forever from anyone's sight. You'd figure things out once you were outside. Once you were finally safe again. It couldn't get worse than what happened behind closed doors in this room. It just couldn't.

Except... it could.

Twisting the doorknob, you pulled. Again and again, you twisted, pulled, then tried to push, then banged against it. Even with all your weight thrown into it and used to remove the door from its frame, you made no progress. There were no windows. You only had this door from which the doctor used to enter and exit. In the beginning, you had been somewhere else, and then, someday, you woke up in this room, not remembering how you got here. You knew this must be your way out, so why wasn't it budging?

Staggering back, you looked at the corpse on the ground. The man you murdered. The very same man you hated with every fiber of your being. Turning over the corpse wasn't as hard as one might assume. Sticking your hands into places you never wanted to feel made you shake with disgust, but you pushed through it, goal in mind. There must have been something. A key, a code, anything. He must have locked the door somehow, and you needed it open before you began to choke on the dread of being locked in.

Nothing.

You turned every pocket inside out, ripped the clothes from his body, and put your hands where they didn't belong. Nothing. With your breathing heavy, you looked at the scalpel on the floor, a last, desperate thought crossing your mind. The idea that popped into your head seemed crazy. Why would he swallow a key he needed to get out? Who'd do something mad like this?

A mad doctor would. Dottore would.

It cost you less effort than you thought to cut open his stomach, find the organ you were looking for, and cut that open as well. Tears and blood went everywhere around you, with no way to discern the fluids leaking everywhere, but no metal dropped out of the mess you made. Frustrated, you threw the scalpel away. This time you couldn't help but wash, letting the icy-cold water run over your skin as you scrubbed off the remains of him until you barely felt your hands anymore.

When you were done with that, you moved on to your face.

It was hard to keep a clear head in situations like this, but as anyone would do, you tried to open the door again. Tears dropped from your eyes incessantly, and you pleaded with the exit to open, begging unknown powers behind its lock to let you out. Euphoria made way for cold, hard reality. You must have cried for hours, wailed, and screamed and shouted until no sound came out. Fear turned to anger, the height of hope into bottomless desperation. Realizing that you were locked in with the corpse of the seemingly only person who knew how to get out was terrifying. No amount of hugging or trying to soothe yourself with positive thoughts could banish the fear.

The loneliness.

You fell asleep a couple of times, only waking up to hunger pangs and thirst, but all you did was cry yourself back to sleep, knowing it was hopeless. After waking up for the third time, you forced yourself to the sink, drinking some water before throwing it up again, unable to keep the sickening cold down. It was cold on the floor, so you moved to the small bed you had been provided with, wrapping yourself in blankets. It was warm, but it did nothing to comfort you. The sleep cycle continued.

Without anyone there to tell you a new day had begun and it was time for a new experiment, you lost your sense of time completely. It could have been days. Or hours. All of this could have happened in the mere timespan of half a day. Who knew? Not you. The only things you knew now for sure were: the Fatui were bad people, you survived far longer than you probably should have, and you'd ultimately die here. Locked away and alone with the corpse of your abuser, having brought on your own demise.

Knowing that, you closed your eyes, hoping it would be over soon.

Only to awake to the soft humming of a person next to you, your body wrapped in tender warmth and feeling less sick and weak than you ever had before. You lived in the harsh coldness of Snezhnaya for years, and you never experienced such ease and peace on your worn-down body and mind. This must have been the afterlife. It was finally over.

"Hm? Look who decided to grace us with their presence again," a familiar voice teased. Someone picked up your hand, squeezing it between two warm palms, and you turned your head to the side to see who had woken you. Maybe it were the Archons. Perhaps you were in a better place now. A happier one.

But at the sight of the blueish strands of hair falling into a familiar face, red eyes drilling into you while a shark-toothed grin completed the look of your greatest nightmare, all you could do was roll over on your side, bile rising into your mouth before you toppled over, throwing up onto the bed and floor.

What a cruel fate, uniting you with your worst enemy, even in death. Dead he was. You made sure of it. There was no way that corpse with the cut-open stomach could come back to life. Absolutely no way. And yet, there he was, standing up and tsking at you before supporting your back as you kept throwing up the remnants of your own stomach.

"How silly you are. I'm hardly that ugly," Dottore sighed, a bitter jest in his voice.

"How...?" you gurgled, feeling like there was nothing left to throw up despite your body trying to desperately.

"Don't think I have forgotten what you did," he replied, rubbing your back attentively. "That wasn't very nice, you know?"

Still holding your hand with one of his, Dottore slowly helped you sink back on top of the pillow, your bed ruined with spew but seemingly not a concern for the doctor. He reached over to the nightstand to lift a cup of water to your lips, wetting them before pressing the container harder against them so you'd open up. It wasn't cold water, and it tasted bittersweet in your mouth, but you had no choice but to gulp it down, as the doctor insisted.

"However, for now, you should rest. I was so relieved I managed to get to you in time. I don't even want to imagine the trouble we would have to go through had I been too late."

"I wish you wouldn't have," you mumbled weakly. Slowly tears crept into your eyes as you stared defiantly at Dottore. His gaze was intense, but now that clarity forced its way back into your mind, all the hate and frustration you felt before stabbing him returned as well. It was almost as if nothing had changed. Almost as if you only fantasized about killing him and trying to escape. "I can imagine what it would be like losing you."

For a moment, Dottore was quiet. Then, a laugh broke from his lips. Hearty, amused, appalling. Reaching out, he touched your cheeks, wiping the tears from your eyes. No gloves separated you, the touch as intimate as it disgusted you. He never was like this. He never cared about your tears before. Dottore only ever focused on his selfish wants and not on yours. You must have shocked him real good for him to act so kindly. The thought crossed your mind.

"I'm glad neither of us needs to have these terrible thoughts then," he chuckled, turning around briefly. You heard the sound of metal as he arranged something on a table behind him, the sight covered by his body from your eyes. However, when he turned around, you caught a glimpse of the tools there, scalpels and saws.

"But I promise you," he spoke solemnly. "I won't let the same mistake happen again."

Gripping your arm, he pinned it down, your body not strong enough to move quickly as he pulled a firm leather strap across your body. When he tried to do the same with your legs, you tried kicking him to no avail, Dottore simply forcing your leg down after you missed.

"I underestimated your affinity for using your hands and legs, but they aren't necessary for what I have planned for you. And I don't make the same mistake twice."

Dottore turned around to the table, and you began to wiggle and squirm, trying to free yourself from the restraints before he came back. He knew what he was doing. One glance at the saw in his hand, and you wanted to throw up again, your mouth filling with bile.

"Feel free to scream. I will have no problem explaining the sounds to whoever can hear you. No one is going to come to rescue you. I won't let them. This is all for your sake. I don't even care you killed one of my clones. "

A mad grin played on his lips. Your eyes met, and you knew you'd never escape this. Never escape his madness. Not even when it ruined you entirely too.

It wouldn't need much to reach that point.

"You are my favorite little experiment, after all," he confessed, taking your hand in his and squeezing it tightly, almost reassuringly. The pressure rose as he pressed your hand to the bed, adjusting the saw just below your thumb, dangerously close to his own fingers.

And all you could do was scream as the pain united you.

[sleeplessdreamer123]

Fanfic Idea! (Pre-Lucemond, or not, where Lucerys has a pet goat)

Note: I had this in the drafts for quite some time, but I decided it's the perfect time to post it after seeing the exotic pets lucemond going on. @l-tothe-og, this is for you.

--------------

During Lucerys' search for a pig for the great prank, he came across a two moons old baby goat. A kid, one of the servants called it. And he was a cute one too. So after fulfilling his duties of finding a pig and helping in the prank, Lucerys went back for the baby goat and took it in secret (it wasn't in secret, every single servant and white cloak walking and guarding the halls saw him dragging/carrying the baby goat to his room).

Eventually, word got around and by the time it reached Rhaenyra, it was too late. She entered his room to find her sweet boy washing the goat with water meant for his bath, fur and droppings on the water, on the floor of his chambers, on his bed, and oh dear gods her son has named the goat Arrax the Second. She really didn't know whether to laugh or cry when she found out just how attached her son became (he wouldn't let the goat go, he screamed at the servants trying to take it out, and he was crying and pouting and begging with his little cherub face to please let him keep the goat he would be a good boy and train very hard and not run away from the maesters during lessons or the septons during prayers).

Laenor, enjoying the hilarity of it all, convinced Rhaenyra to let Lucerys keep it, because the poor boy is already completely attached and that having pets is normal for boys his age. Why, Laenor had a pet octopus once (for a good 4 minutes before his mother told his father to throw it back into the ocean, but Rhaenyra didn't need to know that), and if it could make Lucerys be better behaved, then wouldn't it be a small price to pay?

Long story short, Rhaenyra and Lucerys had a compromise, Luke gets to have it as a pet, but it has to live in the farm and Luke gets to visit it anytime he wants, after fulfilling his end of the bargain, of course (the servants are ever so grateful the goat won't live with Lucerys. The damage it had done to the bedroom after one day was enough to make even the most capable servant break down, especially once they saw the state of the bitten pillows and by the gods not the satin sheets!)

Aemond, on the other hand, is extremely unhappy, because not only did Lucerys get to humiliate him with a pig, he also gets to keep a ridiculous farm animal and not get ridiculed by it by anyone, in fact, he even heard the servants calling it adorable. The sheer unfairness of it all!

So he decided to punish little Luke. He bided his time, wait for the goat to grow up a bit (he didn't know it would take him moons, but he was nothing if not patient and unwilling to let go of a grudge), fatten him up (to be fair, Lucerys overfed him enough, so it wasn't hard), kidnap the goat (the thing almost got him caught with how loud and obnoxious it was, like it's owner) and placed him on the crate packed with the other goats heading to the dragon pit.

By the time Lucerys figured out his beloved goat was missing and that Arrax the Second might have been fed to Arrax the dragon, it was too late. The goats were all gone, and Arrax the second is no more.

Lucerys was inconsolable and couldn't look at Arrax the dragon for days because of this. This confuses Arrax the dragon, who was used to Lucerys visiting him and petting him and calling him prettier than Syrax and Seasmoke and Sunfyre. (Did his little human not see him as pretty anymore?)

Luke eventually did forgive Arrax the dragon (who may or may not have eaten his goat), but he couldn't even look at cooked goat meat without crying, and in the distant future, during the dinner, when Aemond was served a pig right in front of him, Lucerys was served a goat. Both wisely did not make a single comment for the entire night.

It was ironic, though.

For Arrax the dragon to share the same fate as his goat namesake.

[totally-not-fandom]

CoD: Modern Warfare Mixtape!!

Categorized by character, each song listed either reminds me of the character it is under, makes me think of a certain situation involving said character, or is something I think that character would listen to

Simon "Ghost" Riley:

Mama - My Chemical Romance

It's Been So Long - The Living Tombstone

On the Shore of Eternity - Tom Morello

Crawling - Linkin park

Mama, I'm coming home - Ozzy Osbourne

I am machine - Three Days Grace

Pepper - Butthole Surfers

Holy Mountains - System Of A Down

Anything classical

Rudy:

Gimme tha power - Molotov

John "Soap" Mactavish:

Literally any Avenged Sevenfold song

Diggy Diggy Hole - Wind Rose

Dreamboat Annie - Heart

Fear of the Dark - Iron Maiden

Chop Suey - System Of A Down

Dig Up Her Bones - Misfits

TNT - AC/DC

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Cat Black - Ty Segal

Crossfire - 311

War Pigs/Luke's Wall - Black Sabbath

Phillip Graves:

Capt. John Price:

Master of Puppets - Metallica

Old Time Rock and Roll - Bob Segar

In The End - Linkin Park

Psychobitches Outta Hell - Horrorpops

Cowboys from Hell - Pantera

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Death Comes to Feast | Carnal XII

Carnal(adjective) : relating to or given to crude bodily pleasures and appetites

Simon was born with what his father called 'The Curse'. A wanton craving for taboo meat. Since meeting the similarly cursed Johnny, the two had formed a bond. They didn't just fight together, they ate together, slept together, and shared everything.

When a favor to Price reveals another cursed person, Simon worries she could destroy everything.

Masterpost

CW: cannibalism, gore, rape, child murder (it's the Simon backstory chapter), this is the darkest chapter so far

This is very much a horror fic mostly based around the films Raw (2017) and Bones and All (2022), if you sit through those you should be good here. This is my first horror fic.

Chapter Title Credit: No Death - Mirel Wagner

Simon knew he had a choice to make. He could trust Price, his friend of over a decade, or he could kill him. Nina had already begged him not to. It would be a challenge for sure and she wouldn’t stand by and let it happen either. He could take her or him, not both, not now. 

He could smell the adrenaline pouring off the Captain.It was a familiar smell to Simon but it was more sour when aimed at him. 

Simon opened the door and let him in. 

Price went to the dining room and straight for the liquor cabinet.

“Irons was a scotch man,” Price said, pulling out a bottle. He grabbed two glasses as well, setting everything on the table. “Sit, Simon.”

Price took his place at the head of the table and Simon assumed his usual spot at his right. Price poured a glass for each of them. 

“Start talking,” he said, sliding the glass over. 

Simon took a sip, weighing if he should tell the truth or not. 

He’d had a commanding officer find out about him before. 

Mexico 2015

He was a newly made lieutenant, pulled from Afghanistan to help the Americans kill a drug lord. Clandestine operation, five men, four American and him. Vernon, Sparks, Washington, Jacklin and Riley. 

He smelled Jacklin before they even got on the plane. He’d seen the term ‘attack dog’ used to describe many men but Jacklin was one step away from a doberman. Short hair styled up into spikes, eyes staring straight ahead yet aware of everything around him, his nose wrinkled when he looked at Simon, his gaiter looked more like a muzzle than a face covering.  Simon could smell the blood on his teeth. He’d eaten recently.

Simon refused to acknowledge him. It wasn’t the first time he’d met another like him in the field. He just did his best and kept his head down. They weren’t pack animals.

It all went to shit, of course. 

Vernon and Jacklin were paid off by Roba. Some wild plan about brainwashing members of special forces to create a personal task force. 

Jacklin must have told Vernon that he and Simon were alike. Vernon and Roba made it their personal calling to break him. 

Frankenstein’s own creation. Cut apart and sewed back together. Roba’s men called him El Cerdo, the pig, because he would eat anything they threw into his cage. They’d go as long as possible without feeding him and then toss in a finger or two. 

Make him weak just to beat and torture him. Fingernails ripped out, waterboarding, flaying parts of his arms and legs and feeding it back to him. Simon learned quickly not to eat any normal food they gave him, it was all drugged. It was always worse when they drugged him. 

Eight years and Simon still struggled to say it. Wasn’t like he had anyone to talk to but even in his head he danced around the word. It just brought back memories of his hands tied behind his back, face against concrete as Roba’s men used whatever they wanted on him, used him however they wanted. 

Make him eat his friends. Rape him. Beat him. Feed him again. Torture him. Rape him again. Cut off a piece and feed him himself. 

Make him a monster. Break down the monster, rebuild it again. Remind him that his body is not his own so why should his mind be?

He refused to break. 

He was buried alive. The rotting corpse of Vernon next to him. He dug his way out, made his way home. 

He did everything right. He survived. He didn’t break. He did the therapy, physical and mental. He did everything right. 

They still came back for him. Sparks, Washington and Jacklin. He came home Christmas eve, presents wrapped in the boot of his car. 

He smelled them before he even opened the door. Their blood, their flesh. He stood in the front hall. All four of them laid in a row on the floor by the fireplace, dismembered. Tommy, his mum, Beth and Joseph. 

“Merry Christmas, Riley.” Jacklin grinned. He was sitting at the head of the dining table. Sparks and Washington on either side of him. They were eating. All of them. “Christmas Eve roast?”

He offered up what looked like a wrist. Simon’s vision went blurry, he wasn’t crying but the world changed.

“After your failure, Sparks and Washington developed a taste for the good meat.” He laughed. They didn’t smell like him and Jacklin. 

It was a fight. Simon shot Sparks in the head causing Washington and Jacklin to lunge. It was a mess of limbs and teeth. Washington bit down on his arm while Simon punched the back of his head. A knife from the table went into Jacklin’s shoulder. He pushed Washington to the floor and stomped his boot into his face till it went through his skull. Jacklin was harder to kill. 

Simon bit his face, tearing off half his cheek. Jacklin screamed and Simon went for the throat. He didn’t tear, he bit down as hard as he could and gnawed like a dog on the bone. Hot fresh blood poured into his mouth. veins, muscles and ligaments snapped between his teeth. 

Jacklin went limp. Simon ate him, gorged himself till the morning sun came up. It felt like justice. 

He knew he’d be blamed for it all and truthfully he was to blame. They still had a gas stove. He turned them all on and left a candle lit on the kitchen counter. 

He was getting on a plane to Mexico when the news broke about a house in Manchester burning down with the whole family inside. 

He killed his way to Roba and then ate him. He was picking him out of his teeth as the compound burned. He’d avoided others, like him or regular, until Johnny. 

And he’d already failed him. 

Simon took another drink. He thought he’d lost Johnny just like the rest. He knew Price wasn’t the same as Vernon. Price hadn’t come to turn him into a weapon, he came to protect Nina. The rifle was currently resting across his lap. Simon’s stomach twisted into knots. 

He looked at Price. 

“It’s a curse.” He explained. He told him whatever he knew about them. Explained the hunger, the pain, the smells, how he and Johnny hunted, how Nina was one of them as well. What happened the previous night. 

“Fucking hell, Simon.” Price said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.They were several glasses deep now. “How do I know you’re not lying.”

“You don’t. I could just be insane but then so is Nina and Johnny.”

“How is MacTavish?”

“Better by the hour.” He gave him a serious look. “He’ll need to eat again soon. We went through their reserves, as little as they were.”

“You’re going to kill someone tonight?”

“Yes.”

“If I try to stop you?”

“I’ll kill you.” Johnny’s well being was his only priority now. He knew if he killed Price he’d have to kill Nina. He didn’t want to do either. Johnny wouldn’t forgive him if he did. 

Price nodded. They both took another drink. At that moment they could have been talking about anything, two friends enjoying company after a long day. Simon stretched his back, breathing deeply. His senses were dull but not gone. 

“Nina, stop hiding,” Simon sighed. He knew she was listening from the kitchen, he could smell her through the door. She’d likely been there the whole time. 

Price raised an eyebrow at him as Nina walked in. Maybe he did believe him, at least partially. Price set the rifle on the table but out of Simon’s reach. 

“How are you, love?” Price asked, reaching out a hand for her. He frowned at the bandages on her arms. He looked at Simon. “What happened?”

“Climbed through a broken window in the stable. He patched me up.” She said, moving to sit on Price’s left side. She took Price’s glass and stole a sip. 

“Do you have anything to add, lamb?” Price asked, turning towards Nina.

“John needs food. It’s not pleasant but beef and chicken don’t work the same. It’s like eating crackers after a week of starving.”

Price gritted his teeth. He was weighing his options. Almost twenty years in the military and he was never one to relish in death. There had to be a reason for it. Nina had given a reason, price just had to choose if it was good enough for him. 

“Simon, go get food for John. I’ll stay here with him and Nina. I have an afak in my car.” He laid a protective hand on Nina’s shoulder. Simon nodded, he knew when to follow orders.

He looked at Nina as he stood up. A look of understanding passed between them. No matter what they would make sure Johnny was okay, anything else could wait. Price had upset the balance of power in the house, outweighing him. He wasn’t such an ‘alpha’ that he needed it but he didn’t like being at the bottom. Price’s trust balanced precariously on Nina’s opinion of him. Over a decade of friendship versus his goddaughter. 

He did something rash and stupid. He walked around the table and ran a hand over Nina’s head. If she was disturbed she did a good job at hiding it, leaning against his hand. He took a step away and she caught his wrist, kissing the back of his hand.

“Be safe.”

“I will. Be back by morning. Try to get some rest.”

He grabbed one of Johnny’s jackets out of the front closet, too tight to close properly but it was dark enough to hide him. He took Johnny’s car. Sheffield wasn’t far. He’d bring back breakfast, provide something. 

He never believed they were pack animals. It wasn’t safe, at least it didn’t used to be. He quite liked the house. There was another bedroom. He’d already decided to stay till Johnny got better. Johnny could convince Nina to let him extend his stay, maybe permanently. He wasn’t too attached to his unused flat. 

He pressed his hand to his face, breathing in the smell of vanilla as it mixed with the rosemary that dripped off the jacket. Drool dripped from his mouth. 

Tag list: @gogh-with-the-flow @queen-ilmaree @cathnoneofyourbusiness

If I missed anyone lmk ❤️

[neometaliks]

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[vedantametalbazaar]

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[that-one-random-writer]

Caution to the Wayward Son Chapter 2

Rooster x f! Not pilot Reader- Enemies to lovers

Summary: One bad first date. That's all it takes for an impression to be rotten. A reputation costs more than just the price of dinner. Six months deployed on an aircraft carrier across the hall from the date the very next afternoon. That is priceless in the navy.

Warnings: Cursing, Drinking, 18+ eventually Words: 1,741 no use of Y/N,

Chapter 1 | Other stories from me

Bradley walked to the rec room when everyone was dismissed from formation. He would be on shift in the morning, so for now, he would find a place to relax.

The aircraft carriers were like small cities. They have a cafeteria called a galley, they have an area for relaxation called rec room, they set up basketball or volleyball courts in the hanger bay when no one is flying, there is a gym, a grocery store, they even have events like bingo night, talent shows, and many more to boost moral.

Keeping 17,000 people in high spirits while away at sea for months at a time is important to function in the carrier. How in the hell Bradley ended up across the hall from the girl that stood him up, then yelled at him before turning around and leaving when she finally did show up because he had a few drinks due to her being a no show? only God knows.

Bradley sat down. He noticed a group of people in the far left a few feet away. He heard a loud female voice. The voice took over the spotlight in the small group.

He opened a small book and began to read. He heard the voice talking about how she 'can't wait' to get back home to her curling iron, louis purse, and getting her hair out of a bun for more than twelve hours. Then it stopped. The voice started back up, and as he peaked up, it fizzled out again. He looked back down and continued to read. He heard the voice again and snapped his view up to meet your lips, attaching to the voice.

First absolute embarrassment from being stood up on a date, and now irritation. How could someone who was that gorgeous be such a bummer?

He was lost in thought while staring at his book. He could see how you could be shallow. You just looked like a girl who was not supposed to be in the navy.

You had that look about you. The one where you would be told on a regular basis that you could never be in the navy. You wouldn't last a day, and yet somehow you were here deployed and made it through basic training and all training since then.

You absolutely had a shallow look about you. You had that gorgeous hair that other girls would kill for... Bradley noticed he was looking at you and then shoved his eyes back to his book.

He continued trying to read until the voice was too much from him to handle.

He got up to leave, but unbeknownst to him, so did you. You beat him going through another exit and down the hall.

Bradley noticed you were in front of him, mazing slowly through the corridors. His pace slowed as he met up behind you.

He took steps slowly, silently growing irritated, and each step seemed slower than the last.

You had to have known he was behind you. There was a shadow casting showing someone behind you. You had to be doing this on purpose just to spite him. How cruel to embarrass him more.... his thoughts raced. "Could you walk any slower...?" He added your name to the end of his sentence.

You looked back, breaking you out of your thought to see Rooster. "Oh, you remember my name this time." You turned back, ignoring him, and even walked slower. He found you quite obnoxious and rude.

"Will you please move so I can pass?" He tried a different approach.

"And the pig has manners." You cringed at the memory of him saying, 'You want me to take it off.' , fresh on your mind from last night. Those were some tempting words coming out of his mouth, that voice was tantalizing, just thinking of being under his body was lot to handle, but random drunk man sex just didnt quite do it for you.

You stepped aside for him to pass. You looked at him while he passed. Your cheeks turned a hue of pink. Remembering you has just been on a date with this man. Embarrassment running cold through the pair, and now irritation from both sides.

He quickened his pace before turning around. "How about we just make a deal to stay the hell away from each other?"

You just simply stood there ignoring him. You didn't like dealing with conflict, so avoiding him was already on your priorities.

He shows up behind you. You didn't know he was there. Then he just makes a snide comment at you. There was no sense in wasting your breath.

He turned around and walked into his room. He picked his book back up and hopped on his bunk to read. He heard the sound of jet planes landing on top of the dorms, vibrating the entire room, and yet somehow, that was still easier to deal with than the uncomfortable, annoying situation he shared with you.

Rooster woke up at a decent time to get ready for work. He got his morning shower and dressed up, ready for the day. He walked out the door.

Luckily, your door wasn't open. He reported to the station he was supposed to be at. Then, he sat at his seat at the table.

The class piled in, and there were not only pilots. There were WSOs and NFOs. He turned around just in time that you were rolling in the class. You came in with not a second to spare.

The seats were assigned by order of last name and job title he ended the B's for pilots, and you started the B's for NFOs.

You walked up to the seat and sat your bag under the chair. 'You've got to be fucking kidding me' the pair thought in unison as you stood next to Bradley's seat and in front of yours.

Attention was called and everyone else stood up. "At ease..." Everyone sat down and waited for instruction.

The admiral spoke to the group. "All of you will be studying the new plane. It will be within the next year that it is released from testing and ready to be flown for training. To save on space we will be teaching it in one full class. There is some time before we make it to the mission point, and you all will be learning, training for the mission, or sleeping. The mission is our priority alpha. This new plane is our priority beta. You are all expected to know the manuals front to back with more time to spare before reaching the mission point. Do I make myself clear?"

Everyone internally groaned, not daring to make a fuss about it in front of the admiral. "Yes, sir"

He continued. "Your instructor will be Lieutenant Commander Sebastian Garrison. Call sign, Atlas. He has been working with the B-21 Raider for many years. It goes without saying he deserves your highest respect.

Lt. Commander Garrison walked up to the podium and made his speech about the plane. Everyone was issued a manual and given clear instructions on the first order of business.

They have to study the General Arrangement, a diagram with fifty different site word with numbers coinciding. The numbers point to where they are on the plane.

"I expect that I don't have to babysit you. Don't prove me wrong. I'll be back in an hour for the first twenty to be memorized for an oral quiz. Do not move ahead once you're complete."

You opened the book, turning the page. To the diagram. You looked through your bag and pulled out your highlighters. You started marking them and studying.

Bradley brought out his notebook and wrote down each word ten times, followed by the location. He cringed with the highlighter squeaks. Each squeak seems longer. They finally came to an end.

Bradley noticed her highlighters were spread across the table. He pushed one off the table that was in his area.

You didn't flinch. You just continued studying. You knew he had done it, but you were going to take the high road and do exactly what he asked before. Stay away from him at all cost, and ignore him. You flipped the page after completing the first task, just briefly looking at the next task so you can prep for tonight's study.

"You're not supposed to do that." Rooster whispers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm not studying it. I'm trying to prep for studying tonight."

"You're breaking the rules." He whispered back.

"Rules are meant to be broken." You glanced over at him. "Deals are not, and you're breaking yours right now."

Rooster leaned back in his chair. "Well that's kind of null and void now. We can't exactly stay away from each other."

You had a condescending tone within the whisper. "You could try staying out of my business, and not having open commentary about what you think I'm doing wrong. That might suffice as ending my nightmare."

Rooster sat back up in his seat, gripping his hands on the table whispering with anger flowing out. "This is a nightmare for you? This is a nightmare for me. I'm the one that has to deal with you. A shallow woman that has no consideration for other people's time, nor anything else that has to do with others for that matter, especially when walking down hallways, and a woman that is incredible rude with disrespectful commentary herself."

You scoffed. "That's what you think of me?"

He nodded. "Uh, yeah. That's what I just said isn't it?"

Your mouth hung open at his inexcusable response. "Fine. Yes mine is a nightmare because I have to deal with a horrid man that is insufferably rude, and has to point out anything he thinks is wrong, and has an amazing body and is so vain about it, he feels it's appropriate to take off his shirt during a first date to try and impress women."

Bradley flustered. The complement was so back-handed all he could do was sizzle about it. You were huffing and trying to be quiet best you could.

"Well now I get it..." Rooster trailed.

"Get what...?" You spoke slowly through gritted teeth.

"you're an unbearable bitch." Rooster spoke calmy going back to writing.

"And you're an unbelievable asshole." You got up from your seat before going to the bathroom to cool off.

Chapter 3

A/N feel free to comment anything you'd like 🥰

Please don't repost my work to any website. Don't steal my work, you'll be a c u next Tuesday.

[bigcheesecurd]

Hippocampus' Short and Important History

H I P P O C A M P U S

M.O.M Classification: XXX

Status; Extant

The Hippocampus is a species of half-fish half-horse, and is a waterbound creature native to Greece in the Mediterranean sea. The Hippocampus takes its name after the muggle term for the part of the brain that is involved in memory, learning, and emotion. This particular part of the brain resembles a seahorse, which I think is quite clever on muggles' part. “The term water horse was originally a name given to the kelpie, a creature similar to the hippocamp, which has the head, neck and mane of a normal horse, front legs like a horse, webbed feet, and a long, two-lobed, whale-like tail.” (Huges, 1915)

K E L P I E

M.O.M Classification: XXXX

Status; Extant

The Kelpie is known in muggle terms as the lochness monster in Irish society, as it can easily transform between its chosen shapeshifting state. Kelpies are extremely similar to the other well known half-horse half-fish, and it is known as its extremely dangerous and brutal cousin. “A kelpie is a shape-changing aquatic spirit of Scottish legend. Its name may derive from the Scottish Gaelic words 'cailpeach' or 'colpach', meaning heifer or colt. Kelpies are said to haunt rivers and streams, usually in the shape of a horse.” (Scott, 1964). 

Kelpies and Hippocampus do derive from the same ancestor of horses given the similarities, but branched apart from each other during the early 12th century due to changes in preference of bodies of water. The things that set the two apart in the evolution process are simple, aggression levels and tail formation. The Hippocampus shows a forked twin-tail formation, while the Kelpie’s tail is a simple formation but rare in the way that its tail is literally made up of Kelp (Hall, 1897). The aggression levels are more complex however, Hippocampus are level 3 which contain that competent wizards must cope and be knowledgeable before handling, kelpies on the other hand you’d need to be cautious as they are dangerous (Scrimgeour, 1974). Slight differences in appearance are seen between the two, as Hippocampus’ can appear blue & red, its hair appears in the form of fins, and appear as less of a threat to humans. Kelpies however appear darker in color, the hair growth appears as actual kelp, and they are demonic in nature and can be a threat to humans.

Hippocampus’ were brought to Australia during the columbian exchange in 1492. They were used as a form of labor work for wizards exclusively as a means of transportation across the seas, and particularly over the mediterranean sea to Africa. Things that were delivered were mainly iron bars, pigs, and a ton of Baneberry. Baneberry (Actaea spp.) is native to Greece, and became exceptionally important to wizards at the time to create potions to ward off the plague. Wizards also saw this as a key role for getting muggles to purchase their wares, marketing the Baneberry as a relief for the plague. They did manage to keep it a well hidden secret to maintain the idea of its “rarity” to further mark up the price for its warding powers. Obviously superstition levels were way higher in the 15th century, so this was an extremely successful market to partake in. Baneberry is also known today in Muggle society as Herb Christopher, and is known as an arthritis helper. (Budge, 1543)

By the Hippocampus’ involvement in the columbian exchange, we were able to make wizard society the economic success that it stands as today with the trade involvement of Baneberry, as apparitions had not existed yet. 

Bibliography

Scamander, Newt (1927). Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Budge, Zygmunt (1543). Book of Potions.

Hall, Bradnock (1897). Fish Tails: and Some True Ones.

Scott, Andy (1964). The Kelpies, Art UK.

Scrimgeour, Rufus (1974). Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures

Hughes, Katie (1915). Mythical Creatures in Celtic Society.

[americanghoststories]

In Birmingham, Alabama, stands Sloss Furnace. Today it’s a museum and historic site, but for most of its existence it was a blast furnace producing pig iron. Operating a furnace like this is hard and dangerous work at the best of times, but when you have a boss like James “Slag” Wormwood, it can be a living Hell.

Slag Wormwood was a…well, you know, there really aren’t many nice things that can be said about him. The nightshift chief, he had a habit of pushing his men into extremely risky situations and ignoring safety protocols (such as they were) and common sense. 47 men died on his watch, more than any other chief’s crew, and many more were permanently disabled. Whenever anyone would raise a concern, his only response would be a growled, “go back to work.”

Time and karma would catch up with Slag in 1906. He was working near the top of one of the furnaces when he was overwhelmed by the fumes, lost his balance, and fell. At least, that’s what the official report said. Most people knew, though, that his workers had had enough, and pushed him. Regardless of the cause, the result was Slag Workman dying in a bath of molten iron.

But he was not done.

It wasn’t long after that some night shift workers taking a break were surrounded by the stench of charred flesh, followed by a familiar growl of “go back to work!” Some time later, a worker near the top of the furnace was violently pushed towards the edge by a pair of unseen hands. Many more would experience these same phenomena for as long as the furnace stayed in operation.

The worst, though, was still to come.

On the last night before the furnace closed for good, a guard decided to make one final patrol for old time’s sake. As he turned a corner, near the top of the furnace, he came face to…face?...with what he described as a monster. It was a man, whose flesh had been burned to a crisp, and it was angry. The monster grabbed him, and pushed, pulled, and dragged him to the edge of the furnace. Our guard was able to fight him off barehanded, though at a terrible price. After the monster – Slag – vanished, the guard collapsed. His hands, and every place Slag had grabbed him, were covered with 3rd degree burns.

Unsurprisingly, Slag Wormwood didn’t go to Heaven – but it seems Hell didn’t want him, either.

Sloss Furnace is open to visitors Tuesday – Saturday from 8 – 4. To learn more about the museum and their programs, visit https://www.slossfurnaces.org/

[crzyimp]

Bloody Pig

cw: gore, body horror, animal death, cannibalism

Author note: Getting back into writing after eons and dipping my toe into horror.

A peaceful slumber ruefully disrupted when a hand grasped the young man's shoulder and harshly shook him. "Wake up!" his old mother yelled in a whisper, hearing him groan, his eyes tried to adjust and focus as the lantern swings over him. Moving his arm to shield the eyes from its annoying light. Mother carefully set the lantern down by his bed as she moved towards the window. "I think someone is here; I think they're in the barn." Her voice wavering as her eyes frantically searched out in the darkness.

"How do you know that? We don't have neighbors and it's a half a day trip to the nearest village. Father must have been mumbling in his sleep again and woke you up." he mumbled, propping himself up into a sitting position.

"It's not your father's mumbling that woke me up!" She responded with agitation, keeping her voice low. "I heard the sow screamin-"

"The sow pregnant and probably giving birth, mother please, ther-"

"Silence Jiahao!" Quickly snapping as she moved from the window to the bed, pressing a boney finger upon Jiahao's chest. "Something isn't right. Go out there and check. Now." Yanking his half-awake body from his bed. Sluggishly, Jiahao complies, picking up the lantern as she herded him towards outside. If checking the barn and easing her worries will let him go back to sleep, then so be it. "Go check the barn and I'll wake your father to join you." She said hastily and shoved her son out the door. The sound of her footsteps retreating leaving Jiahao alone outside. It was quiet for a summer's night.

A shiver ran through your spine, perhaps mother was right that something wasn't right. Critters and other nocturnal singers sing their songs during the summer, but not tonight. The only sounds to be heard are the pregnant sow's whines. Lifting the lantern up, the light showed just enough to make the outline of the barn. No lights were shown from the inside. To be expected from poor farmers, not wanting to attract bandits and deserters to their homes. A price they didn’t pay, but forced upon them and others like them by those of higher stations over a chance of taking the emperor’s throne.

Slowly, you walked from the safety of the house to the barn. Mindful not to make noise as you draw near. With each step creeping closer, whines of the sow could be heard along with others sounds behind the barn's doors. Gently, but hesitantly, you placed your hand on the door. A nostalgic smell, like iron, seeps through the barn's doors. The unexpected smell reminded you of when you and father killed a grower to sell its meat to the village.

The whines were growing weak with each heartbeat. But the other sounds, previously drowned out by the sow's whine became clear, wet, sloshing, grunting, and growling. Sounds of someone ripping and tearing flesh as they feverishly eat. Slurping and moaning like a starved man eating for the first time in such a long time. 

You don’t want to open the door but now you can’t turn back empty handed. Mother would scold you and call you a coward without checking. She did mention waking your father, that piece of knowledge did comfort you, any second, he will be joining you. Maybe announcing you're not alone will cause the intruder to freeze up or even flee through the window. With that thought in mind, you slowly push the door open and hold the lantern high. Ready to call out with confidence as the door swings open.

Any comfort or confidence dies, along with your voice, at what's inside. Laying on the ground was the sow, on her side, with the lantern's sight you clasp a hand over your mouth. Her midsection ripped open and her intestines moving and slithering in a pool of blood and mud. Like eels moving and alive, trying to escape. Can’t bear to look any longer, you move to lantern's light to find her piglets.

Her offspring didn't fare better as their mangled corpses sprawled out across the barn interior, half eaten and tossed to the side. Eyes watery and suppressing the scream in your throat, you frantically search for the culprit. No human would commit such cruelty, not even a starved one, this has to be the work of something else. Realizing you are too afraid to step in, you stood there unmoving until movement in the darkness caught your attention.

A lone survivor, a piglet steps into the light. Covered in the blood of its kin with pieces of torn flesh hanging off its jaw. Its body rippling and morphing as it grows. The thing groans as its body goes through the stages of life, infancy to adulthood. The monster hungrily stares at the sow, licking and curling its lips. Rows of teeth reflect off the lantern's light; some needle-like a newborn piglet, others sharp fangs, and uncanny like human teeth. The sow's whines ceased as its child, now monster, moved to feast on her disemboweled body. Its front hooves cracking and splintering to resemble human hands. All the better to grip and scoop the flesh into its maw. Effortlessly tearing the sow's leg with one arm, the other arm tears the sow's rib bones with an audible crack. The monster eats with frenzy, mixing sounds of flesh and bone crumbling under it's might.

You can't, couldn't bear the sight anymore, the hand over your mouth dug deeply into your skin as you breath rapidly through your nose. The demon hasn’t noticed you yet and with remaining wits, you slowly back away. You need to get your parents and leave. Get far away from here while this monster is distracted with fattening itself up with its kin.

"There you are! I'm guessing everything is fine!" Father shouted loudly with a smile. Almost bumping into Jiahao's back. 

You turn to stare at your father with horror and slowly twist your head to see the monster, now staring at you licking its bloody lips.