#quake rattle and roll

[ashleybenlove]

Toothless doing that little small plasma blast at Meatlug. What a dick. I love him.

[sigridhaddockgrimborn]

Quake, Rattle and Roll [S1 • E9].

[ominousgradient]

I might be forgetting smth but i think Snotlout is the only character in all of httyd that breaks the 4th wall

Multiple times

• He smiles at the camera at the end of Quake, Rattle and Roll

• He looks directly in the camera when he refers to Hiccup and Astrids relationship as "Hiccstrid"

• He plays true crime narrator and talks to the camera when they're looking for Chicken

• He makes a reference to his death in the books during Malas trials by saying "what's one little arrow gonna do" (that one's debatable to be fair)

Considering that the twins are usually the ones doing the more meta jokes and they just get given random bits to do in most episodes it i do wonder why only Snotlout ever breaks the 4th wall

[euphoritooth]

Worked on these screenshot redraws over the week! I tried gradient mapping with some color schemes but I like the values as-is so I left it B&W.

[jeongin-lvr]

🖇️ ︵ֺ 𓂂 ◌ lost in it, p. sunghoon

꒰ 🗯️ ꒱ 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝟥 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝖽𝗄．𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗆！𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇，𝗌𝗎𝖻 𝖿𝖾𝗆！𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋，𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍，𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗆？𝖽𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗉𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺，𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 + 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀，𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌（𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅，𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍，𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅， 𝖾𝗍𝖼），𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗑，𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇，𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝖾．UNEDITED.

[ 𝟤．𝟤𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 ] ★ [ 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 ] ★ [ 𝗆．𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ]

"S-SUNGHOON—" You mewled loudly, clutching the man's thick, dark locks of hair, attempting (and failing) to pull his head back, "Slow down, please—" Sunghoon's dark eyes flickered up to you, completely unwavering and totally nonchalant about everything. About how his nose was buried in between your legs, the tip of it nudging at your sensitive little bud; how his lips puckered and repeatedly kissed your pretty, slick folds. Best of all, how he's open his jaw and let his tongue glide up and down your slit, then into your quaking hole. All so meticulously too, despite his almost nonchalant expression. You tugged harder on his hair, pleading for him to relax.

"Hoon, please, too much—" Suddenly you were interrupted by the hard and firm slap of his pale palm meeting your thigh. Not once, but twice he reprimanded you with his firm hand. You moaned, unwillingly rolling your hips up into his pretty face at his actions. Sunghoon looked so serious, thick eyebrows scrunched and pretty nose dazzling with wetness from your leaky pussy, "Shut up, doll." His voice reverberated through your mind, rattling your brain that was already in a frenzy for him.

He gently pat where he slapped you, swiping over the already searing red hand print decorating your skin, "Don't wanna have to keep this up, hm?" He ushered to your little mark, his tone making rumbles through your body. Nuzzling his nose right back on your puffy clit and continuing to make out with your pussy so nice. So nice that it hurt, it felt so overstimulating. Your eyes fluttered and your nose scrunched. Your grip on his hair only tightened, tugging on his hair until he winced against your aching cunt.

"M' sorry, p-please," You softly whimpered, "Sorry sorry, Hoonie..."

Sunghoon groaned, lifting your legs higher to give better access to your heat; lifting them up by the back of your thighs, hooking under your knees and leaving them to stretch by your chest. You moaned deeper, feeling his tongue slide into your hole again and again, the wet muscle bringing you so much unwarranted pleasure you felt yourself actually spasm.

Sunghoon smirked against your pussy, dragging his tongue around your hole almost teasingly before plunging back in. Your walls clenching hard around him sweetly.

"You taste so good, angel," Sunghoon moaned against your pussy, swaying his head side to side as his tongue completely flattened against your love button, "Could eat your pretty little pussy forever..." He felt a little prophetic, raising his head and switching to using his long, pale (and cold) fingers on your cunt. Dipping two fingers into you, ignoring how you moaned his name desperately, his thumb pushing down on your clit and slowly drawing circles onto you, "Making me so fucking hard..." He bit his lip, plunging his fingers into you, again and again and again. The wet squelch as digits left and entered you again was so lewd, even Sunghoon was surprised. The wetness from his tongue and how leaky he'd gotten you was a little embarrassing. You clutching the back of his neck now, twitching so hard in the thighs. His pace was relentless, continuing to hammer his fingers into you as his face drew in closer to yours, breath hard, "Cum on my fingers, doll, know you want to. Don't worry, m' right here. Look at me." Sunghoon nudged your face with his other hand, making you look him directly into the eyes; brown eyes so dark, especially beneath his bang's you couldn't believe it. So pretty, so handsome— and so completely yours. You whimpered, the bubble in your tummy, so familiar, grew just from how his sharp nose brushed yours.

"Mm, so close, so close," You repeated, "Need it so b-bad, Hoon. Please!" Your back began arching as his thumb rubbed quicker circles into your clit, matching the speed of his relentless flicking wrist. You cried, mouth agape as your orgasm completely drowned you in unreasonable pleasure. Your scream got stuck in your throat, moaning loudly as he helped you ride it out.

His nose brushed over your cheek, "My good girl. Sweet angel, you did so fucking good for me..." His fingers continued filling you, though slower now, "You look so fucking cute cumming on my fingers, baby."

You blushed, eyes rolling back slightly from how he continued to fuck you on his long digits; cunt overly sensitive and wet, your release brimming his fingers and down your ass, a white and sticky mess dousing your thighs.

"Fuck, f-fuck, Hoonie, please slow— slow down," You attempted to grab his wrist. Bad move. Sunghoon raised his free hand, harshly slapping your thigh, making you yelp helplessly. Your back arched at the contact, "So mean, Hoonie!" You squirmed, tears filling your eyes as his pace quickened again, already sensitive pussy creaming from overstimulation.

"You can fucking take it," Sunghoon practically growled, bending his face back down to your pussy, breathing on your clit before nipping it, leaving you unraveling, "Don't forget your fucking manners, doll."

You tried and failed to understand what he was saying, everything was covered by the ringing in your ears as another orgasm quickly approached.

"I can't— I can't, I really can't—"

"Mm, that's not what she's saying," Sunghoon almost laughed at his own words, the sound of your breathy panting and the sweet noises from your pussy filling the air in the silence. "I know your pussy so well, baby, don't argue with me. You're gonna cum again, hm? Cream on Hoonie's fingers, baby, don't worry."

"Sunghoon... oh my god! T-too much, ahh," You beg, you beg so hard. Your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to his bare back with all your might, clutching anything you could. Sunghoon winced, placing his head inches from yours so he could witness your adorable reaction to cumming; he knew you were teetering the edge, the way your pussy clenched and how your moans became quicker, breathy.

Then, just as he suspected, your eyes rolled back, only the whites of them showing, sweaty cheeks and forehead on full display. Your mind blanked, the band in your stomach snapping so hard you forgot to even moan, just squirming in his hold as clear, gushy liquid squirted out of you and onto Sunghoon's lower stomach and arm. He blinked down at your cunt, a wide, awe-stricken grin on his face. You panted so hard, eyes out of focus as you stared at the ceiling.

"Oh, baby. You just squirted so much," Sunghoon groaned, "Made a mess of you, didn't I, doll?"

You didn't realize it, but your cheeks were stained with tears, sticky left over residue leaving your skin streaked. Sunghoon thought you were unreasonably pretty like this, so he stared down at you, adoring you. Meanwhile, he pulled his fingers out, licking them before bringing them to your mouth next, "Clean up, love."

You opened your mouth, your hand absentmindedly grabbing his wrist, so gentle as your tongue slid over his digits. He admired you like this, so pliant, so easily malleable.

"Can Hoonie fuck you on his cock now?" He asked so softly, almost like it was some sweet question. But, god, those words sent aches to your core. And even despite the stimulation and pure sensitivity you felt, you nodded and whispered, "Yes, please."

Sunghoon was honestly relieved, he was worried he might've overdone it, but the way you immediately nodded at him, widening your legs further with a cute expression, biting your lip as he slid down his boxers, humming softly as his cock sprung free. Your eyes hungrily watched his cock bob in the air for a second before he was guiding his tip to your wet entrance.

"I'll go slow for my pretty baby," He whispered, pecking your cheek as he bent down to your level, using his elbows to prop himself up. With his tip all nicely aligned with your hole, he simply slowly pushed forward, filling you up on his dick until you were gasping. The little moan Sunghoon let rip from his throat made the chemistry in your brain change; rumbling from his throat into your ear, deep and slow.

"H-Hoon," You whispered, eyes unfocusing as you got used to his size, clasping at his hair, tugging slightly as you whispered, "Feels so... good..."

Sunghoon chuckled and though your vision was slightly blurred and impaired from his fluffy, messy locks, you could see a devilishly handsome smirk paint his lips.

"Oh, yeah? Tell me when to move, pretty baby," Sunghoon's nose brushed over your jaw, as if he was smelling you, inhaling hard as his big hand scooped up the flesh of your thigh, adjusting you beneath him.

You nodded, wrapping your thighs tightly around his waist before muttering, "Move, please. Need you."

You could feel the way he smirked again against your flushed skin, cupping your chin and jaw upward as he kissed your skin, leaving wet splotches along your body. Maybe it was a distraction from the way he pulled his hips back practically all the way, then slammed them back down into you, forcing whimpering gasps from your lips.

"Sunghoon, you said you'd go slow—" You whined in a long, pleasured moan, your hold on his strands of hair tightening as he filled and emptied you again and again.

"Fuck, m' sorry, angel," Sunghoon feigned understanding at your shaky movements and helpless whines, "Just feel so good around me," He panted with a chuckle, canines nipping at your skin all the while, "Feel how deep I am? You take all of me so damn well."

“S-slow— slow d…” your jaw fought against you, going slack as he found a quick pace, short and quick snaps of his hips meeting yours leaving you a messy, whiny mess. Sunghoon groaned against your skin, already so close to filling you with his load.

“Stop— stop clenching, angel, or m’ gonna cum,” Sunghoon gritted through his teeth, pressing his hand flat against your stomach, feeling the way your body tensed up. “Gonna cum all the way up here,” He chuckled, peeking up at your glossy eyes, unfocused but trying so hard to meet his. Wet, pleading as your lips formed a small pout.

“Don’t look at me… ah, like that. You said more didn’t you?” He’s right. You did say more. But now you felt like your head was floating and your body was in outer space. Everything felt so good, so overwhelming. You shook your head, not quite a no but not quite a yes either.

“S-Sunghoon…” Your voice so small as a small hiccup followed your words. He stared at you, situating himself in a more plank-like position above you, still drilling his cock into you with vigor. His eyes trained on your eyes as teardrops spilled from the corners. His immediate reaction was to smile; his sharp canines on display again.

“Mm, sweetheart, you’re okay. Shh, pretty baby. Just feels so good, huh?” He whispered, lifting your legs higher, pressing your knees beside your head until your body wouldn’t bend anymore.

You nodded, hiccuping as more tears fell. Sunghoon brushed some falling tears from your face before he cooed. He really was on the brink of cumming and your tears definitely weren’t helping— they only made him harder. His balls felt so heavy, smacking against your ass with a wet plop each time he fucked back into you. He moaned your name, “Keep crying… fuck… I’m so—“

Your pussy clenched around him, another cry leaving your throat as your gripped his shoulders, “Feels s-so good—“

Sunghoon nodded, eyes shutting tight as he felt his dick twitch, smothered in your tight pussy as he painted your insides white. In that moment you gasped through a breathless cry, sobs getting whinier, voice getting staggered and indistinguishable.

Sunghoon bit his lip as the last after-effects of his orgasm played out, his head falling to your cheek as his nose brushed against your hot, wet skin, stained with tears like paint.

He mumbled, coming back to the moment to hear your little shaky breaths, eyes on the ceiling as your pussy gushed around him.

Sunghoon laid there a little longer, then stood, admiring how messy you were. From your red eyes and swollen lips to the small bite marks he’d given you and the glossy, puffiness of your slick folds still wrapped around his cock. Your lower tummy slightly bloated from being so full. Sunghoon laughed, sleepy eyes scanning your body.

“Is my baby alright?” He asked almost teasing, his fingertips feathering lightly over your tummy, then your chest. You blinked, nodding as you wrapped your shaky arms around him.

“Sorry, sweet girl, did I hurt you?” Sunghoon asked patiently, nuzzling his nose near your ear.

You shook your head, “Hoonie, it felt good…”

“Yeah? Did I make my pretty baby feel good?” His pale hands skimmed over your face, brushing wet hair out of your face.

You smiled sleepily, tiredness evident in your expression as you sniffled, “You always make me feel good.” Your voice a small whisper.

Sunghoon pecked your cheek, admiring your face for a second, “Just making sure… you cried.”

“You liked it.” It was your turn to tease, biting your lip. Sunghoon chuckled and shrugged, nodding his head in an admission of guilt.

“You looked sexy.” He winked, a dorky smile playing over his lips.

[kissandtellus]

Sɳαɾҽԃ: 02

Synopsis: Sylus finally catches his Little Bird, but plus!sized MC isn’t one to back down so easily.

Warnings: Omegaverse, dubcon, biting, marking, br33ding, knotting.

The cold floor had never felt so good as it did when Y/n’s chest pressed against it. Her Heat was crawling up her body like a shadow. Her core was dripping, the sound intermingling with Sylus’ gruff growl. Y/n heard the thump of his leather pants, straps and chain hitting the ground.

He was going to have her in the most primal way.

His claws tore the remaining clothes from her body. She’d think about the logistics of getting out of the prison afterwards.

Sylus ran a sharp claw down the arch of her spine. “You look delicious.” He purred.

Y/n felt her legs quaking when Sylus trailed a hand over the swell of her breast, and then to the curve of her stomach. She wanted to shrink away a bit at the contact but Sylus knew her body better than she did sometimes.

“Don’t. This here,” He ran the flat of his palm at the lower part of your stomach, feeling the curve right above your mound. “-this is where I’m going to fuck my pups into you.”

Y/n couldn’t help the straight mewl that tore from her throat. Sylus tutted down at her, pushing his knee between her legs and widen her legs. “Poor little bird, nobody ever taught you how to properly present yourself for an Alpha, hm?” His tone is teasing and she wants nothing more then to rip that smug little-

He presses a firm palm into her back to deepen the arch, pushing out her ass and delicious pussy further. “There’s a good girl. You smell divine.”

A line of drool drips from the corner of Sylus’ mouth as he inhales her scent again. He can’t wait any longer. Y/n feels Sylus drag the head of his cock through her folds and she nearly freezes. “Sylus-“

“I know pretty bird. I wouldn’t dream of forcing it in all at once.” He leans over her back, raw muscle pressing her deeper into the floor. “I’d split you in half.”

So just the tip it was. But even that painfully, delicious stretch made Y/n claw at the floor. Sylus chuckled at her reaction, running his tongue over the scent gland on her neck. Sylus growls low in the back of his throat as his eyes lock with the camera in the corner of the ceiling again.

“Every Enforcer, every Praedator out there is about to catch a whiff of your fertile little pussy locked with my knot. Won’t that make interrogations awkward , Kitten?” Sylus inches his length forward, feeling another gush of slick coat his length.

“S-Sylus…ngh…” she squeaks out as inch by inch of his Alpha cock sinks into her. He can feel her gummy walls stretch to accommodate such a massive length into her fertile body. Sylus watches the muscles in her back and shoulders twitch as he slides home until his heavy balls are resting against her.

She takes a long gasp of breath and Sylus’ eyes nearly roll black at the way her body contracts. She feels as if his cock is touching her fucking lungs.

He pulls back to watch as his length disappears inside her curves again and again. Her wide hips, round bottom, thick thighs - it's like she was designed to take an Alpha's knot.

Sylus trails his tongue across her ear lobe. “Hang on tight for the ride, Kitten.”

The moments of letting her adjust are gone. He’s driving home with each thrust. The sounds of snarling Praedator’s are growing louder through the walls. Sylus is humping the little Omega like she may disappear at any moment.

Sylus leans over her, his muscular chest pressing against her back as he nips at her shoulder, marking her fiercely. "Every Alpha in existence would kill to claim an Omega like you.”

The bars of the bird cage rattle under his harsh thrust. Y/n’e pretty eyes are nearly rolled back to her skull. She curses the fact she ever used heat suppressants when her and Sylus were on the run. Her little claws dig into the bottom of the metal cage and-

Y/n feels it before Sylus can say anything. The base of his cock is growing engorged, no doubt eager to slip in her waiting walls. But her little Omega instincts flare up.

Her omega instincts panic. Being locked with a knot together puts them at risk. What if the other Enforcer’s suddenly barge in or another Praedator gets loose? She bares her tiny little omega fangs in a snarl. “No, Sylus don’t!”

Sylus’ hips falter just a bit, before he bellows out a loud laugh.

"That's the most adorable fucking thing I've ever seen." Despite her small fangs, he doesn't slow his pace. Instead, he thrusts deep and hard, making her breasts bounce. His knot continues to swell. "What's my little Omega going to do?"

Y/n growls falter between those of a small fox, to just plain whimpers. Sylus catches her small jaw in his massive hand, smirking at her feistiness. His half-swollen knot presses against her entrance teasingly. "One more time, my cute little Enforcer. Tell me 'no' again." His voice drops lower, more dangerous.

Y/n feels him throb inside of her soaked walls. She flinches when his cock bullies her cervix but her instincts are begging her to stop him from putting them at a potential risk. “N-no knot!”

His eyes flash golden as his Praedator instincts surge to the surface, offended by her defiance. His knot pulses, swelling larger. He wraps his other arm around her waist, pulling her hips back to meet his powerful thrusts. "You really think those tiny fangs can deter me?"

With a deep, menacing growl that vibrates through the cage, Sylus bares his massive Alpha fangs. They're easily twice the size of her tiny Omega teeth. He leans down, his hot breath ghosting over her ear as he snaps those deadly canines inches from her neck.

Y/n freezes in fear, his knot is just a single hard push from locking them together. See the difference, little Omega?" His voice is a low, dangerous rumble. His knot is now fully swollen, pressing insistently against her entrance. "My fangs can rip out throats. Your cute little ones? They're for biting pillows during heats."

Sylus is dripping salvia over her shoulder as his knot inches its way into her hole. She’s clawing at the ground, snarling, hissing and biting. Fuck, she’s always been his little spitfire.

He snarls loudly, his massive jaws snapping dangerously close to her delicate neck. He's showing her the true power of an Alpha Praedator- brutal, demanding, unstoppable. His knot is huge and throbbing against her entrance, threatening to tear her open.

The moment she yields, his knot bursts through her slick with a wet, stretching pop that makes them both cry out. He locks inside her in a deep, dominating position. His fangs finally clamp down gently but firmly on her neck, marking her as his.

The pressure of his bite sends a heatwave through Y/n. Slick gushes around his knot and she’s shaking with the effects of her orgasm.

His mouth curves into a proud smirk against her neck as he feels her body react to his claiming bite. "Much better, isn't it? Being properly marked by an Alpha instead of fighting." He flexes his hips gently, the knot swelling even more inside her.

He thrusts gently, his knot rubbing against her sensitive spots, making her body quiver with aftershocks of pleasure. He leans down to whisper in her ear, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "Your little fangs couldn't protect you from this, could they?"

Y/n whimpers out a sound as his thick, potent seed floods her guts. She’s a boneless heap on the floor. Sylus turns into a loving mate, lapping at her cheek that was streaked with tears.

“Don’t want the others, the Enforcers and…and Alpha’s…” she’s struggling to find her words. Sylus coos down at her, purring gently to soothe her anxiety.

They won’t dare touch either of us. Once my knot deflates, we’re leaving here.” He huffs out a growl. “If anyone comes near you, I will rip them apart.”

Chapter 1~

Taglist: @asleepylilcat , @m00njinnie (I had some more people ask but my tagging stystem is messed up)

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter thirteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: things end in tragedy.

⤿ warning(s): character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.5k

Jack is too late to stop the fall, but just in time to witness the aftermath.

For an instant that will brand itself forever, the world goes eerily still. He reaches the railing and leans out, and there you are: crumpled on a tangle of construction scaffold two stories below, Dorian’s body twisted beneath you like a grotesque cushion. Sodium floodlights paint everything sepia; the hum of city traffic wafts up as if nothing extraordinary has happened.

You’re not moving.

The sight punches the air from Jack’s lungs. His fingers clamp the cold rail so hard metal creaks. An animal noise claws up his throat, but training strangles it.

He then sucks in freezing air, pivots, and bolts down the service stairwell three steps at a time. On the landing he nearly collides with a pair of ICU nurses already hauling a backboard. Words crash out of him—“She’s on the scaffolding, eighth-floor façade”—before he vaults past, feet barely touching concrete.

On the seventh floor he bursts onto the scaffold walkway—the world roaring back to motion. The two nurses scramble at your side, desperate hands feeling for pulses.

Jack drops to his knees, palms skidding on grit, and braces your head between shaking hands. Tears blur his vision for half a heartbeat, but then the old medic clicks on: airway, breathing, circulation. Your chest rises in ragged little gasps; a pulse flutters at your neck—the faintest drum, but there.

“C-spine!” Jack barks. Robby is suddenly at his side—face blanched, hands steady—sliding the rigid collar beneath your jaw while a night-shift nurse anchors your skull. Jack’s fingers quake, but his voice stays level, murmuring between commands: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

Just a yard away, Dorian’s body lies where it landed—arms splayed, eyes fixed on the blank sky. No one spares him more than a glance; purpose funnels toward the living. An ESU tech tosses a silver casualty blanket over the corpse—an afterthought glittering under flood-lights—then hurries back to help Robby steady the backboard.

Straps cinch tight; splints cradle your ruined arm; IV lines snake from bruised veins. The moment the stretcher locks and lifts—your weight finally secured—Jack’s composure splinters, a raw, half-voiced sob ripping free before duty slams the door on it. Robby is there, bracing a steady hand between Jack’s shoulder blades—an unspoken stand fast, brother—and the lance of grief folds back into purpose.

Robby’s hand stays planted between Jack’s shoulders as they seize the stretcher handles—Jack with one hand steadying the dripping saline, Robby matching his grip on the opposite rail. Together with the team they surge for the stairwell. Behind them the scaffold creaks; wind rattles the foil over Dorian’s abandoned corpse. Ahead, sirens and shouted clearances funnel toward the harsh, saving brightness of Trauma-bay lights.

The freight elevator bangs open onto the surgical floor, and the gurney rockets out into a corridor already cleared to disaster footing. OR 3’s doors stand wide, lights blazing like a white-hot maw. Your stretcher rolls past stacked crash carts, through teams who yank instrument trays from sterile wrappers with frantic precision.

“Prep time is blood time—move!” Dr. Walsh barks, snapping fresh gloves on. She jerks her head toward Dr. Garcia and Dr. Miller—both technically off shift, both refusing to leave. Garcia yanks on a fresh sterile coat, while Miller chases the circulating nurse for a vascular tray, face chalk-pale beneath exhaustion but set like stone.

Jack jogs beside the rail, one hand on the IV hub, the other cradling your barely-there pulse. Your face, normally lit with sunrise jokes, is gray as surgical steel; respirations hitch against the vent. The monitors scream—heart 140, pressure free-falling despite pressors. Blood oozes past the chest-tube dressing, runs in black rivulets along the mattress seam. For one lurching second Jack thinks he can see your sternum move independently—flail segment snapping like a broken birdcage whenever the bag squeezes a breath.

Inside the suite, an anesthesiologist slams the vent into the wall gas. “ETCO₂ tanking—she’s blowing off nothing. Tubing clear, switching to pressure control.” A tech sponges the brown spill of gastric contents from your cheek where the fall forced bile up your throat.

Before Jack can take another step forward, Walsh is there to plant a palm on his chest. “Line of departure,” her tone’s a scalpel but her eyes flicker with something fragile. “You watching through glass keeps me honest. Get there.”

Jack’s knees try to root themselves to the floor—leaving feels like desertion—but he obeys, stumbling back to the anteroom. Robby drags him aside, shouldering a silent barricade, as the scrub nurse slaps a No-Entry sign across the doors.

Inside OR 3 chaos becomes choreography. Dr. Garcia slides an ultrasound wand over the upper-right side of your stomach; the screen blooms black—blood drowning your liver. “Big tear—she’s bleeding out,” she calls.

“Get every unit of blood we have!” Walsh fires back. A tech slams thawed plasma onto the rapid infuser; Fin, sleeves soaked crimson, races in with more O-negative.

Miller squeezes the breathing bag with one hand while reading the monitor with the other. “Blood pressure sixty, heart racing, oxygen crashing,” he warns. His glance to Walsh is clear: we’re losing her.

Walsh answers by drawing a long line down your belly with the scalpel. Metal meets skin; bright red floods the drapes. Suction roars as Garcia stuffs sponge after sponge inside, trying to keep pace with the tide.

From behind the glass, Jack sees it all in slow motion: Walsh’s hands diving into the wound, fresh crimson soaking gauze, Miller’s shoulders knotting as he forces each breath into your lungs. Alarm tones layer over each other—howling that time is almost gone. Robby’s fist clenches Jack’s scrubs, tethering him. Dana appears beside them, tears sliding unchecked.

Inside, Garcia’s shout fractures the moment. “Heart’s out of rhythm—paddles, now!” Gel slaps your chest; your body jerks under the jolt, then flattens. The screen still scribbles chaos. Another shock. A beat… another… the wavering line steadies at 40 beats a minute.

Walsh never looks up. “Clamp that liver,” she mutters. Miller drops a clamp into her waiting hand; her fingers disappear into the bloody cavity. Seconds crawl. Then—a sharp, certain “Got it.” The suction pitch drops; the gush slows. Your pressure inches up—seventy, then eighty.

Jack’s knees buckle with relief so bitter it tastes like metal. Only now does he notice he’s biting his lip so hard its started to crack and bleed, Robby’s arm still the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside the glass, the storm quiets but doesn’t clear. Garcia calls sponge counts, Miller pushes life back through IV syringes, Walsh asks for closing stitches. The spleen still has to be checked, your arm is splintered, your head injury lurks unseen—but the bleeding that wanted your life is finally caged.

Walsh lifts her gaze to the gallery. Her nod to Jack is small—barely a tremor of her chin—but louder than every alarm. She’s still here.

Jack presses his palm to the pane, breath fogging the glass—an unspoken promise to the broken figure on the table: I’m still here, too.

The last suture goes in at 03:17 a.m.

Walsh’s shoulders hunch, her cap soaked through, but the wound is finally closed and the bleeding quiet. You’re wheeled straight to the Surgical ICU under a tower of pumps: blood, antibiotics, pain drips, vasopressors. A ventilator sighs at your bedside; a padded brace keeps your shattered arm aligned; your leg is already swaddled for the ortho plate you’ll need tomorrow—if your numbers hold.

They don’t hold for long.

03:42 – Your blood pressure nosedives. Garcia—still in the same stained coat—bolts a syringe of epinephrine to the line. “Come on,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the monitor until the numbers claw back into the 80s.

04:19 – You spike a jagged heart rhythm. Miller arrives with the crash cart; two shocks later the sinus beat staggers upright like a boxer on the ninth round. He leaves without a word, too tired to make a joke, too relieved to curse fate.

05:05 – A neuro resident slips in, pupils your eyes, frowns at the sluggish response, and orders another CT scan. The porter wheels you out; every corridor looks bruised by night-shift fluorescence, the hush broken only by the rattle of your ventilator.

Everyone is on overtime on Surgical. Jules runs sponge counts from muscle memory, Fin brews coffee that tastes like burnt hope, and Margot prowls the quiet bays, snapping gloves just to keep her nerves from screaming. And Jack never sits; he circles the ICU glass, charting every tiny rise in your blood pressure like it’s a sunrise.

Downstairs, the lobby still glows with crime-scene klieg lights. Police techs comb the pathology lab where Dorian Moylan worked. Detective Patel—hair pulled into a weary knot—is giving Gloria and Security Chief Ramirez the bullet points:

Moylan had quietly transferred between three hospitals in five years, each move following a “personality conflict.”

He spent night breaks pulling unused visitor badges from shredders, soldering chips to clone them.

Two weeks ago he piggy-backed a vendor to the roof and wedged the alarm sensor with a folded coffee stirrer—so small maintenance chalked it up to wind malfunction.

His apartment wall is plastered with photos of you: cafeteria line, parking deck, charity fun-run. Thread between the prints spells an obsession bigger than anger, almost devotional.

“How did he know shift rosters?” Gloria snaps, exhaustion sharpening her words.

Patel taps her tablet. “Key-logger on a volunteer computer in the HR nook. He read every schedule change the moment you clicked Save.”

Ramirez blows out a breath. “He made our cameras blind with coffee stirrers and still waited a month. Why?”

“Because Jack Abbot was on nights,” Patel answers. “Our profile says Moylan wouldn’t act while a protective figure was consistently present. Abbot’s single day off became the window.”

Gloria’s jaw tightens, grief shading into rage.

Upstairs, at 06:12—the ventilator alarm yelps; your chest tube kicks out a dark surge. Garcia dashes in, adjusts suction, sighs when the numbers settle. Jack hovers behind her. She glances back, voice hoarse. “Go breathe, Abbot. She’s stable enough for twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head. “Was supposed to meet her on the roof at sunrise. I owe her the view.”

Garcia’s tired eyes soften just a fraction, her usual bite gone. “Then save it. There’s another dawn coming.”

He grips your badge, his nail playing with the edge of the freshly pressed scalpe sticker, the plastic warm from his sweat, and watches the steady pump of the ventilator. There he sits—until pale daylight begins to leak along the ICU windows.

Your vitals bob in a fragile rhythm. Odds still tilt against you, but each beeping heartbeat writes a promise: not finished yet. And for everyone gathered—surgeons running on caffeine fumes, detectives piecing together the how of horror, friends refusing to blink—the night becomes a vigil, a shared refusal to let the dark have the last line.

Down the corridor a clock clicks to 07:00. Shift change. Another dawn Jack will never see from the roof—but he glances at you, bruised and breathing, and decides this sunrise is happening right here, in the hush between monitors.

. . .

Darkness feels solid, almost architectural—an endless corridor of closed doors. You float somewhere in its center, weightless but not free, a body suspended by medicine while your mind paces on its own.

The first door cracks open, and you are twelve again, kneeling on your bedroom floor with a shoebox of mismatched screws. Other kids build forts; you sort hardware by length, head-type, finish—order blooming under your fingers. The quiet thrill of finding the system beneath the mess settles into your bones like a blueprint. If everything has a place, nothing feels out of control.

Another door: high-school cafeteria. A friend’s asthma attack sends panicked teenagers scattering. You don’t run—you kneel, prop her shoulders, count her breaths, coach her through the wheeze until the nurse arrives. That same thrum of purpose swells in your chest, louder than fear. Method birthed into mercy: There is always something you can steady.

Door three: nursing school, surgical rotation. You memorize clamp sizes the way others memorize song lyrics. Surgeons bark, but your trays are flawless. Patients bleed, but your hands don’t shake. Every precise motion says the same thing: Chaos can’t own me if I meet it with order.

The corridor bends. Lights dim. A door creaks that you don’t remember installing. You push through, and the air shifts—sterile at first, then sour. Cell-phone glow reveals walls papered with photos of you: walking to the parking deck, laughing in the staff lounge, rooftop at dawn. Each image is neatly labeled in handwriting that isn’t yours.

Your limbs feel heavy, dream-slow. Footsteps echo behind you—soft, deliberate. You turn, but the visitor stays just beyond peripheral vision, voice drifting like breath in your ear. “I watched you keep everyone else safe. Even him. But who keeps you safe?”

A glint—a scalpel tip catches the thin light.

Panic splinters the method. You reach for old anchors—breath counts, mental checklists—but the floor tilts, photos sliding like loose tiles. One after another the earlier doors slam shut, trapping you in this room of obsessive order twisted into threat.

You run, but the corridor loops back. Same door, same photos, same voice. “Don’t run,” it coax-pleads, as though worry and menace share the same mouth. Shadows swallow your hands, steal your capacity to sort, label, fix. Pulse hammers your ribs; breath snags.

Darkness thickens until it’s syrup in your lungs.

Monitors far away chirp frantic warnings—yet they feel foreign, as if wired to someone else. In here, time is a wheel rut: your methodical past feeding the stalker’s meticulous terror, spinning, spinning.

You try to scream for Jack, but medication drags the sound to the floor. Only a thin exhale leaves your lips in the real world—just enough for the ventilator to notice.

In the black corridor, you press your back to the wall, palms bleeding invisible splinters. There must be a place for this, you think, wild and desperate. Even nightmares obey some order. Your mind claws for a schema, some way to sort fear as you once sorted screws, but the photos multiply, falling like snow, until every scrap of vision is your own image, your own vulnerability catalogued.

The voice fades into a hiss—tireless, self-justifying—yet beneath it, softer vibrations reach you: the steady pump of a ventilator, the ripple of an IV, a distant heartbeat stronger than your own. You can’t see Jack, but the memory of his hand on your pulse thrums like a beacon. It isn’t method—it’s devotion—and for the first time in this loop you feel something stronger than dread.

Somewhere outside the morphine fog, voices pledge that dawn is coming, that hands stand ready to guide you back. But here, in the induced night, you walk the length of your own history—methodical footfalls echoing against walls lined with fear—searching for a door that leads forward instead of back.

divider credit

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [3]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 3.4k words cw: violence, abduction, mentions of sexual assault. 18+ mdni

he catches you.

“I’ll freeze to death.”  

You utter, voice low and tense; your cadence despite your effort is sheepish, as though you’re exerting every effort to reassert yourself as brave and unflinching. A mask to veil the shivering little rabbit you must spend most of your life trying to conceal.   

Ghost isn’t fooled by your disguise, by your attempts to obfuscate your vulnerability – no, he can scent your panic, that frightened wee animal at the centre of you, hidden beneath the baiting curves of your flesh. He might be able to see its reflection glistening in your nervous eyes, once he’s able to rip that sack off your head.  

The thought tempts a vengeful smirk that tugs at his lips. One he wished you could see, if only to witness your quaint bravery be exsanguinated from you at the sight of his amusement. 

Still, you’re not wrong.  

The dry air of the midwinter night must be dipping below the double-digit negatives. A frigid cold that Ghost himself had scarcely noticed on his expedition to your estate – shielded by many layers; woollen fleece under windbreaker under thick, gore-tex parka, face kept warm by his balaclava, fingers protected from frostbite by waterproof gloves. 

It’s a short ride to exfil by snowmobile, less than ten minutes – but, in all likelihood, long enough that the exposure could kill you by the time he hauled you to the helicopter.  

Long enough that it might freeze the mucus of your throat and lungs into crystalline shards, might blacken and petrify your extremities, might have your exposed skin sloughing off in a few days' time.  

Ghost knows he must return you to base alive. But, alive is the only condition that is expected of him. No expectation of unharmed. So, he is left to place bets on whether you’ll survive the journey.  

He could make a sport of it.  

He plays with your possible fates as though they were marbles in the palm of his hand, rolling them between fingers and uncaring if he drops them. 

“You might,” he chides gruffly, finally offering you a response. “It’d be your own fault for wearing a fuckin’ tissue.”  

His glower scrutinises you as he releases his hand from the doorknob, whose rattling must have informed you that he intended to drag you outdoors. He keeps his other gripped around your bicep, wrenchingly tight, he anticipates, hopes, that his grasp might leave bruises on your soft skin. You, slippery vermin, seem liable to flee at any moment, so he justifies it to himself.  

He watches your chest rapidly rise and fall, gratuitously exposed décolletage shimmering with a thin coating of sweat, it glows silky in the moonlight that illuminates you.  

You, standing as still as you can muster, covered only by your peony pink lingerie and a black hood over your head, hands bound with thick black cable ties – look like a scene out of a snuff film.  

Maybe you’ll end up in one. 

He finds himself silently appreciative you don’t have the satisfaction of seeing how long his hedonistic glare lingers on your cleavage; on the tightening of the edges of your lacy cups, cutting into the swell of your breasts with each of your quaking breaths, allowing them to pillow out of the top.  

Still, a small derisive scoff escapes you through the fabric. “I didn’t anticipate an outing.”  

You facetious little shit. Almost makes him laugh. 

Fine.  

With a shrill rip of Velcro, he tears open one of the flaps of a pocket on his tactical vest, plucking out a loudly rustling emergency blanket; a foil shawl folded neatly into a rectangle the size of a playing card, tucked into a plastic pouch.  

You step onto your back foot in an anxious reflex at the noise, little rabbit, maybe you’re expecting the worst. He hopes you are. 

But he’s doing you a favour. He grimaces in revulsion at the acknowledgement of that fact. Resents that you might be thankful for it. Tells himself it’s for the good of the mission – nothing more, nothing less. Reminds himself how much he’d otherwise relish in watching your skin turn indigo, left exposed to be ruined by the fatal ice of your country’s stark winter.  

Unwrapping it promptly, he tosses the thin foil to unfurl it, before floating it behind you. He pulls it over your shoulders, watching you wince at the sensation of it brushing against your bare skin. With rough haste he grabs hold your bound wrists, tugging them upwards and shoving the edges of the foil into your grip. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, a disingenuous show of sarcastic gratitude, as you roll your shoulders to adjust its coverage, holding the emergency cape tightly in your bound hands. The fabric of your hood sucks inward against your nose and mouth as you draw in a lengthy breath.  

“Don’t thank me,” he grunts, as he finally unlocks and pulls open the gargantuan, ostentatious entrance to your mansion; a towering double door, two thick slabs of carved wood. The frigid gale immediately floods into the gaudy foyer, forcing him to squint, its iciness pricking shards at his eyes and threatening to freeze solid the water that lubricates them.  

“Rgh – fuck,” you groan through gritted teeth, faltering bravery quickly giving way to squeaking panic. Your entire body tenses at the sudden gust of ice, toes curling and head twisting away from the blast of ice.  

He spectates amusedly as you immediately pull the thin foil to better cover yourself, admires as you struggle to do so while your wrists are bound.  

He adds, “…only delaying the inevitable.”  

Your negligée billows in the invasive wind, exposing your skin even further to the frost; not to say that otherwise it would do much to protect you from it.  

He takes an impatient grip of the back of your neck, the impact of his palm on your nape loud enough to emit a smack. He burrows his fingers into the fleshy bands of your tendons, driving you ruthlessly you towards the exit. Holds you upright by the neck like trapped game as you stumble over your bare feet.  

“Move.”  

You didn’t expect to be gracious of the sack the dog had secured over your head.  

Your unstable breathing warms your cheeks, the hot vapour of your adrenaline pumping from your lungs is trapped in by the thick black cotton, preventing the membranes of your nostrils freezing solid.  

The vice like grip of your hunter has not faltered, dragging you by the neck down the winding stone steps of your estate – the slabs free of snow by virtue of the heated coils beneath them, a renovation you yourself had requested. Of course, your husband had obliged. 

But your abductor isn’t steering you down your driveway, it seems, as you are instead led off the path.  

A gasping shriek jumps from your throat as your feet touch the layer of powder, snow packing between your toes; the frost immediately burns the soles as though you tread over shattered glass.  

“Where are we going,” you question through a clenched jaw, chattering with the cold, having to push your weak voice out of your seizing diaphragm. 

As you had anticipated, he says nothing. 

Stays dead silent, the peculiar beast.  

You’re frightened of him. Suddenly unconfident in your attempts to read him.  

It’s typically your strongest talent, a perfectly honed skill – reading men.  

Every one of them like a children’s book, predilections and intentions so blatant that they may as well have been scribbled in crayon. They believe wholeheartedly that they are mysterious, too cunning to be understood, so mistaken in their conceit; expecting that you as a mere woman are simply unable to comprehend them. 

Yet you have made a craft of determining what makes each one tick. Disassembling them like the gears and screws of a clock, surveying their quirks and components through your looking glass.  

Once reduced to their basic constituents, their most primordial parts, they are all the same. Always want the same thing. Always boil down to the same creature.  

Dogs. 

You’ve gotten good at baiting them. Leashing them. Taming them.  

This one is guarded. Keeps his teeth bared, keeps you guessing when he might maul you.  

So far, the only quirk of this one that you been able to deduce is that he wants you to be scared of him. Doing his best to terrorise you with his threats while enacting none of them.  

If he wanted to hurt you, or rape you, or kill you, countless opportunities to do so have been presented to him. You’ve been offered up to him so freely you may as well have been gifted to him wrapped in a bow.  

And yet, he hasn’t unwrapped you.  

That’s where your scrutiny has failed you. Like static distorting a radio signal.  

He provides you no tells. Tips no hand.  

He continues to act as though he is yet to impart his worst upon you. Vague about his intentions with you, in spite of his wandering eye. At least that is consistent with what you would expect from any of the dogs you have so far encountered. Acts too good, too moral, too chaste to take you; yet still gropes and licks and fingers and fucks you with his wanton glower. All the same.  

His claws cut deep into the cartilage of your neck as though he might hang you from it, unaffected by your whimpers nor your looming hypothermia. You feel it sinking beneath your skin. Freezes your nerves, turns the blood in your arteries into icy sludge, sends your muscles into irrepressible spasms. Your lungs ache, forced to suck down the very air that will inevitably freeze them solid.  

You gasp as you feel your knees knock against something solid; the dull ring of thick metal. 

His talons release your neck, finally, though you find yourself immediately longing for the warmth of his grip – the nape of your neck prickling with gooseflesh as it’s bitten by the frigid cold. 

Quick to thwart your opportunity at freedom, he takes prompt hold of you, gloved hands shoving past your foil cape and tucking under your arms. You squeak as you are lifted, uncertain how high off the ground you might be, though grateful that your frozen feet are finally free from their bed of snow.  

You’re lowered, then, your feet and ankles quickly parted by whatever frosty metal is now beneath you – then he drops you, and you land on your pelvis with a sore thud, abruptly bestriding whatever vehicle it must be. A snowmobile, you suspect.  

You feel him mount the vehicle behind you, his form hulking even when you can’t see it. You feel his breathing through the fabric on the top of your head. Heaving thighs on either side of you, you’re nestled between them. He even tugs you back with an arm hooked around your stomach, so you’re pressed more firmly against him, prevented from wriggling free. A couple fewer layers of gear and his body heat might even bring you comfort.  

Through his touch alone he seems unbothered by your proximity, by the pressure of your ass against his crotch. Not lascivious, though not disquieted. Steals no grabs, no rogue touches of any of your more intimate parts – though you’re not daft enough to assume he would shy away from it.  

You can feel the fleshy mass behind his trousers despite the thickness of the weatherproof fabric. Formidable even soft.  

Perhaps you could tempt him.  

With just a shimmy, an innocent readjustment of your ass between his legs – you offer just a touch more pressure. You might bump against him while he rides through the snow, might feel that pliable weight turn rigid against your back.  

You admit that he doesn’t seem the type to offer you special treatment if you offered your cunt to him. He’s made it known that he thinks you’re a slut, after all. In your experience, though, it works in your favour most of the time. Where’s the harm in trying?

But you feel the fabric of your sack hood twitch and quiver as his head lowers beside yours, he growls into your ear; 

“That’s not gonna help you.”  

Fine. Whatever. 

Worth a shot. 

It sounded as though he had uttered it through a grin; a very slight, near imperceptible drip of amusement in his malicious tone.  

But, with your hands bound, near naked, and blinded, your survival is dependent on him. Rather, it's entirely up to him.  

So you play it cool.  

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sheepishly respond, sweet and naïve, you get back into character. 

He huffs derisively, impatiently, perhaps. You let his arms envelop you as they reach for what must be the handles of the snowmobile in front of you, quickly deafened by the roar of the engine as he tugs on the throttle.  

Your body is abruptly forced backwards, tossed against him like a ragdoll as he suddenly accelerates - your fabric mask now provides you utterly no protection from the icy wind as it breaks through the weave. Your foil cape billows in the gale of his speed, rendering you entirely defenceless against the vicious knives of the cold as he speeds through the snow.   

Dropping your head, curling inwards on instinct, you find yourself nestling deeper into his shrouding form if only to shield yourself from the deathly cold he has purposefully exposed you to.  

After what feels like an agonising hour of having your bare skin dragged over a steel grater, you feel the snowmobile begin to decelerate, its roaring engine growing quieter and eventually grunting to a stop.   

You had thought you might be granted a reprieve from the painful gusting wind once the mobile finally came to a halt; but you’re still in a whirlwind of ice and glass, so disoriented you feel as though you’ve been spun on your heel and then cast out into the barren wilderness to find your own way.  

In the malevolent hurricane you lose your grip on your foil blanket, your only respite, it flies off into the ambiguous void of black forced upon you by your hood.  

But that mechanical thunder is unmistakable – an aircraft you were well acquainted with. A helicopter.  

A transport you frequented in your days of luxury, often to your warmer getaway home further south. To your Petit Trianon, another gift from your husband – one that acted as a clear means of getting rid of you for weeks at a time. Not that you complained. 

The begrudging protection of your hunter is stolen from you as he dismounts, leaving you utterly exposed to the blizzard, shivering with such intensity that your muscles burn with the acid they involuntarily excrete.  

But you’re quickly hauled off the vehicle, gloved grip under your arms once again, picked up with ease as you feel your body get tossed over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His thick arm hooks over your hip, you feel the veil of your babydoll flutter up and expose your bare ass to the icy gale - it humiliates you as if spanking you with its frozen hand.  

You hear the metallic rumble of a rolling door amidst the bellow of the rotating blades. 

“’Bout fuckin’ time.” The irate roar of a new man.  

You bounce on the shoulder in your stomach as you are carried within, listening as the door is slammed shut. After a few steps you are unceremoniously dropped onto a seat, a weak yelp escapes you at the pain of the impact.  

“Jesus fucking Christ, LT.” Yet another. Scottish.  

LT. Lieutenant? Military?  

Blind and defenceless, you stay seated but adjust yourself so that you sit upright, exerting every effort to catch your breath and steady your chattering bones. But despite effort, your body rolls around in its seat as the helicopter presumably begins its wobbly ascent.  

“What?” Your hunter growls.  

“Couldn’t give her a jacket?”  

“Why the fuck would I do that.”  

“It’s negative fifteen out there. Look at her, she’s just about blue.”  

“Mm. Maybe I should’ve given her the chance to pick out her favourite mink coat, eh?”  

You hear a huff of laughter from another man. “You just wanted to keep her in her knickers.” 

“Mh. Might loosen up her husband.”  

A chortle. “Could loosen up anybody.”  

Dogs. 

You stay silent and listen shrewdly.  

“Bravo Six to Gold Eagle Actual – double jackpot. We’re RTB.”  

Military, you are now certain. You can tell by the codeword gibberish without needing to understand it. You wish now that you had watched enough Western war movies to be able to translate it – but they’re all banned in Russia, of course.  

There’s a quiet murmur of a static-ridden voice emerging from a radio, but it is drowned out by the humming of the helicopter. 

“Fuck’d you do to Zakhaev?” Your hunter asks, throaty voice almost taunting. 

Your husband. Was he in the aircraft with you? Could you call for him?  

“Squealed like a pig when he came to. Knocked him out again.” The Scotsman. 

But, in spite of your effort to distinguish them, the unfamiliar voices quickly begin to blur together.  

“Tracks.”  

“Separate them before he wakes up.”  

“Why?” A new voice.  

“Can’t have him knowing that we’ve got her already. We need to surprise him with it.”  

“Kinda fucked up, Cap.”  

“Ts’all in a days work, Sergeant.”  

Captain. Sergeant. British Army? Airforce?  

There’s a few moments of silence, you shuffle disquietly in your seat. Oh, if only you could see what was happening. It was already hard enough to hear them over the roaring of the chopper. Deaf, dumb, and blind. 

“Christ, she’s a looker, though, isn’t she?” The Sergeant.  

A chuckle follows from the Scotsman. “Can’t even see her face, mate.”  

“Don’t need to.”  

“Never know. Could be all botched by filler and botox and shite. All those fuckin’ oligarchs are.”  

“Mm. Nah. I’ve seen the photos.”  

“Take a long hard look at ‘em, did ye?”  

“Definitely hard. Dunno about long.”  

A laugh. “You nasty fucker.”  

Dogs. 

You’re even further discomforted by the fact that your hunter knows you can understand every single word that these men are uttering around you. And, evidently, feels no need to inform his comrades that you know exactly what they are saying about you.  

He wants you to feel uncomfortable.  

He wants you nervous.  

You hear the thud of boots against the metal floor, uncertain of whose nor which direction they are coming from, though they approach you. You shrivel on instinct, curling in on yourself to hide your near-nudity from whichever of the lecherous men is standing before you. 

You jump, squeaking in fright as something heavy is tossed around your shoulders. Fabric. Wool, judging by the thickness and scratchiness of it; you use your bound hands to grab at the edges of it to blanket yourself, finally able to conceal your body from them.  

“Согрейтесь.” Warm yourself up.  

The Captain, if you remember his rumbling cadence correctly. 

“You’re too soft, Cap. She’s a prisoner of war not a fuckin’ damsel.” Your hunter.  

The man who had given you the blanket addresses him. “We need her alive, don’t we? I’m keeping her alive.”  

“Fuck’s sake. She’ll be fine.”  

The charitable one speaks to you again, voice low and close, as though he has bent down intending for only you to hear it.  

“Он ничего тебе не сделал, да?” He didn’t do anything to you, did he? 

“Oh, piss off. Who do you think I am?” Your abductor immediately disputes, having apparently overheard.   

You consider your options. Maybe this captain could take pity on you, if you played your cards right. You can deduce his type through his words and actions already. Nobleman. White knight. It’s a façade, of course. If he’s a captain as the others say, he has probably orchestrated this entire operation.  

Though, inexplicably, you decide honesty is your safest course. You want an ally out of your hunter.  

“Нет, он меня не трогал.” No, he didn’t touch me. 

“Told you.” Your hunter grunts.  

A laboured sigh follows from the captain. “I never know with you, Riley.”  

He scoffs disdainfully.  

Leaves an ugly silence.  

“I’m not an animal.”  

[edenspoem]

⁶⁶⁶♡ perverted ♡⁶⁶⁶

𖤐 ellie needs a little extra care.. 🦢

⤹𓍢ִ໋listening to; elita harkov- perverted

cw/tags; nsfw, perverted!ellie, subtop!ellie, nipple play, grinding, vibrator(giving), overstimulation(giving), fingering (receiving), squirting, 'mama' petname

an; wanted ellie to call me mama ina dom way but also wanted to make her squirt, so, tada!!! way simpler writing this is just a drabble ellie's masterlist

♡

it was ritualistic. the way her hands feel voidly empty when she's not cupping your hips or molding to the convex of your waist constantly. it was sick. lacking the aftertaste of your juices, dying breathless to lap your folds again. it was twisted. visions of you naked, moaning, on the edge, plaguing her mind.

so when her eyes settled on your silhouette, attired in nothing but a shapeless tee, underwear, and socks, plunging your hands in the sinks foamy water, she can graphically visualize those exact pieces of clothing on the floor.

ellie's body behind you, pushing your otherwise stagnant rump into her needy groin, grunting 'fucks' and 'shits' in the raised skin on your neck. her flys' already unbuttoned and poking the cloaked valley of your cheeks repititively. the drenched sensation of her slit is titillating enough, smudging her panties with each chafe that only suffices minimal friction. her poor clits' not getting enough. bending her knees purely to rut her throbbing crotch into your ass.

''need' mama in bed..'' she purrs, indulging a latch to your neck, pink tongue suckling a bruise.

you play her game, but with little reaction. sutured lips and no words in reply to her plea, hands remnant on the dirty dishes.

her voice grunts again, ''m' so fuckin' horny.." as her fingers trail from your hips and grasp your loose tits above the fabric, gently squeezing.

"hmm, baby?"

''i need you...'' she whines further and deviates from your neck, looming over to get a glimpse of your face, "been thinkin' bout you all day." you feel her hand slither down between your bodies, biting her lips and putting pressure on her angry pulsing clit.

you had an entirely different vision in your mind.

this lead you to where you lie now, nude beside her, prying her leg open, the kickback of a vibrator rattling your knuckles and rolling the tip around her sensitive little red bud as she twitches and writhes in pleasure.

her own toughened hands flick her hard nipples, eyes engaging to the back of her head as she revels in the stimulation that's just too fucking good. her puffy eyes fall to ogle your tits, mesmerized in a trance. creamy nectar streamlining into a puddle beneath her. she's your needy little mess.

''c'mon mama~ go faster, nghhhhh.. fuck..'' ellie bellows out, drooling from her agape lips.

you up the speed on the toy, rubbing slow linear motions over and under the hood of her clit, all the right spots that have her nearly squirting all over your hand. pearly white serum gathers at the base of the toy, dripping off the edge.

"ooohhhf.. ffuck, oh god-" a groan hitches in her larynx, casting those dozy eyes over to watch the toys bulbous end coated in sticky slick part her folds and judder the skin. specks of her juices splatter the inside of her thighs, beautifully casting a wet halo around her swollen cunt.

"feel good els?"

"yeah, u're so fuckin' good- mama makes me feel s'good.."

after slapping and digging the vibrator into her clit a bit more, she's clenching her muscles up and splashing squirt everywhere. she's got her lips hung open, curling her head back til' the pillow hits her nose, whole body trembling. yet, she doesn't want you to stop. striving for another orgasm.

''keep tha- shhhshh-shit on, don't fuckin' stop..'' her stern voice mixes with quaking chords, choked up in the joy ride.

you don't. you listen. those husky groans of desperation boil over you. she's always so forward even in this position. you fucking love it. it only catches you by surprise when her calloused fingers drift over your belly and dive into your pussy, taking no time to prod your g spot with such fluidity.

"what'cha doin'- mmh- there, ellie?" you coo between throaty whimpers, lighting brushing her chin with your vacant digits.

"don't wanna leave ya- gh! ..neglected." bobbing hiccups jolt her body slightly, loving the way your pussy swallows her in like it knows her.

it's scary how she even barely handles the overstimulation, purely just turned on by the fact you're both fucking eachother, so.. so well.

and it satisfies her, so.. so much, beady green eyes watching you closely, rasping, ''mhm.. that's more like it."

her perverted little mind always wins.

♡

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 11

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A storm falls like a harbinger of his return. Winds batter the siding and the windows rattle with the speckle of cold rain. The chill creeps through the walls as you ration the last few pieces of wood.  

As you quake before the fireplace, the door swings open and hits the frame, adding to the cacophony of nature’s rage. You hardly have a moment to react as his dark figure falls on you like a wraith. You flail your legs as the blanket catches on a lose tile before the crackling flames and he drags you across the floor. 

Your heels bounce futilely on the rug as the rain blows through the open door. The man once known as a hero, the man lost to the ice all those centuries ago, take you into the bedroom and flings you like a rag doll. Like a thing. 

You hit the food of the bed and land on the floor with a crash. You groan as your bones ache, not only with the impact but from the endless tension. As you writhe, he steps over you, smearing blood onto your night gown as he grabs the tinged fabric. 

He hauls you up so you stand on your toes. You smell the iron stained into his body armor. You look up at the mask that hides him. You try to imagine those blue eyes but you only see a monster. He is only the indomitable villain that plucked you out of your own life. 

He hurls you across the bed and you gasp as you land on your side. You roll onto your stomach and crawl up the mattress. He catches your ankle and tears you back as the frame dips with his weight. You rip the sheets into a wrinkle as you fight to escape him. 

This isn’t the man that left. This isn’t the docile stranger trapped in indecision. You sense in him a furor worse than that wailing outside the cabin.  

He flips you onto your back and grabs the front of the linen nightgown. He rents the fabric down the middle and exposes your body. You bat at his hands without effect as you wriggle. He pushes a knee between both of yours, splaying you wide. 

He grips your hips and hauls your closer. You squeak and reach up, clawing desperately for any escape. There’s nothing by the flat pillows and the top of the rumpled sheets. He pushes a hand up your body and stretches it around your neck. 

You still and whimper as you put your hand on his wrist. You flick the tears with your lashes and whine. Terror swells in your chest and floods through your veins like icy water. You can’t fight him. Not physically. 

“Please, don’t,” you beg as you touch his knuckles. “Please, you don’t have to--” You wheezes as his hand squeezes tighter. “You don’t have to do this. Please, please, I’m scared. I’m scared...” you croak between willowy heaves, “it hurts. Please don’t hurt me anymore.” You trail your hand up his arm, feeling the rough fabric, dirty dusting off beneath your graze, “Captain... Steve Rogers--” 

His hand nearly crushes your throat and cuts off your next plea. Your head pounds and your tears trickle out unchecked. No, no, that was wrong. You shouldn’t have said any of that. You’re just so scared. 

You close your eyes as your skull pulse and you choke for a breath, clasping onto his thick forearm as you try to ease his hold on you. His other hand pushes away the night gown so it splays around you. He shoves his hands between your legs, rough as he pokes at your folds. 

He wiggles his fingertips impatiently and rams into you without warning. You smack his bicep desperately as he jerks you with hard thrusts. You whimper and your eyes snap open as his hand slips just enough for you to gulp in a breath. 

He rips his hand away and shifts on his knees. He struggles to undo his fly, growing more impatient as the sheaths and weapons get in his way. You try not to look at him as you know what he means to do. 

All that hope, that sliver of hope that you had before, that he might be gentle, that he might be appeased, is gone. You latch onto his arm as you brace himself. You jostle on the mattress with his movement. He leans weight on your neck as he looms over you. 

He pushes his knees wider and pushes along your cunt once more. You can tell it’s him; not his fingers, but that other part of him. His blunt tip strains against you as your body tries to resist the intrusion. He grunts and bucks his hips. As he breaks through you gurgle and dig your nails into his sleeve. 

He snarls as he curls his hand around your hip and jerks again. He thrusts deeper and your eyes roll back as your body locks up in agony. He dips his hand around your neck and lifts you, bringing you into his lap as he tilts again. 

He bottoms out as he hooks his thick arm around you and cradles your head with his hand. You hang off him limply as you suck in air. Tendrils of pain entwine you and have you paralysed and prone. If you fight, it will only be worse. 

He rocks you in his lap. He growls and hangs his head down next to yours. He moves your head to the side and presses his cowl against your next. You babble and snivel each time he sinks into you.  

The storm has swept away the calm at last and you’re lost to the dark clouds.

[ashleybenlove]

The episode sorts of skirt around it, never actually saying it explicitly, but the Gronckles totally ate the rock watchtowers the twins put up lol.

Hiccup indicates that he unfairly doubted the twins. He knows.

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | viii.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

A wretched whimper flies from your mouth as Coriolanus’ hips buck into yours mercilessly. His balls squish into your ass with each of his deep, cruel thrusts. The bed rattles with his frenzied motions, the mattress squeaking beneath your bodies. To your utter despair, every time his cock grazes your sensitive spots, stars twinkle in your vision, your toes flexing and your mind blanking from maddening pleasure. It’s like he’s right at home in your cunt, your warm walls welcoming his thick girth with ease, your body keening in both agony and bliss.

Your head lolls against the soft pillows, your bound arms limp above you. You’re spread-eagled as he ruts into you, the thin, white nightgown bunched around your waist leaving you completely exposed to his ravenous gaze. 

Your throat is raw from all the screaming and sobbing. Your body is sore and worn-out from Coriolanus’ rough handling. And your mind is numb with fear and pain, no thoughts wandering through it as you peer up at the ceiling.

His fingers travel to your tender bud, plucking at the sensitive place, drawing relentless patterns until you grow slick and hot, the room growing hazy around you. Your legs tense and tremble, liquid fire spreading through your body. Your eyes roll back, the air faltering in your lungs. The orgasm quakes through you, fast and hard, and your walls cling to Coriolanus’ cock in response. He purrs in delight. A wave of shame and horror sweeps through you.

Your own body will not stop betraying you. Coriolanus knows exactly which chords to strike to make you sing for him, the chill-inspiring symphony of your own voice warping in stolen bliss resonating in your ears.

You almost find yourself wishing he’d just use you and be done with it. Instead, he appears adamant to have you come around him as many times as possible.

If it could simply end…

But you’ve stopped hoping for that hours ago. Every plea spilling from your tongue is just an incentive for him to rain more hurt upon you. Each time you beg, the fingers around your throat squeeze more tightly. Every time you complain, his thrusts grow more animalistic.

It’s like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of you, push out every shred of willpower with his cock.

And perhaps he’s succeeded. Because as you lie beneath him, there is not an ounce of hope remaining inside you.

It’s not like Coriolanus will let you simply walk away after this, after he exerted so much effort to mark every inch of your flesh, after he ruined you for every other man, including your own fiancé.

His hips stutter as his pace slows, his cock dragging out of you sluggishly. The hand around your neck slackens, traveling to your chest to cup your breast.

His head falls into the crook of your neck as he nears his peak. You’ve learnt to recognize the signs now. His flushed cheeks. His hollow breaths. The way his thick lashes flutter right before he comes undone.

He thrusts inside you deeply one last time. Your eyes widen, your back arching as tingles dance through your core.

You and Coriolanus come apart together.

A throaty moan climbs up his throat. He spills inside you, like he’s done all night long. The sticky excess trickles down your thigh. 

When he’s done, a heavy breath flows from his lips and tickles your neck. Still nestled in your wet heat, he trails soft kisses alongside your throat. You shudder. For some time, the blonde stays like this, seeming to bask in the feeling of your core fluttering around him, your skin flush against his, your soft breaths mingling with his. Eventually, he rises. 

You lie unmoving on the sheets, feeling dead inside. You blink. There’s a lot more light in the room now, you realize.

The morning light illuminates his naked form, dancing over his bare muscles. His blonde locks glow like spun gold in the sunlight. Your stomach lurches.

How can someone this beautiful have such a hollow heart?

The muscles of his back ripple as he stretches his neck. He strolls to the closet and pulls out a crimson silk robe that he tosses on himself.

He circles back to the bed.

You tense when he bends over you, expecting the torment to start anew. Trembling, you close your eyes.

He unleashes a heavy sigh, the click of the handcuffs being unlocked reaching you.

“It’s alright, princess,” he says. You gasp, opening your eyes. He seizes your untied wrists, his thumbs sweeping over the swollen dents on your flesh. You flinch at his touch. His forehead creases. “I’m sorry it came to this. If only you hadn’t been so difficult.”

He leans to drop a tender kiss on your cheek. He strokes the crown of your head. Your hair is a matted mess. You must look a fright.

“I’ll have a bath drawn for you. It’ll make you feel better,” he chimes, your heart bouncing when he suddenly gets to his feet. He ties the silk belt of the robe to cover his nakedness and strides out of the room.

You note that he doesn’t lock it. Should you make a run for it, part of you faintly wonders. 

Perhaps, you could try to rush down the stairs and reach the front door. Then what? Too many people stand between you and freedom. Even Tigris, who betrayed you. She’d send you right back to her cousin. Back for more punishment you doubt you’ll be able to withstand.

You bring your knees to your chest and huddle against the headboard.

William crosses your mind. What must he think? You sent him away, you avoided him. He must be so confused. Maybe he even hates you now. And your parents…They have to be wondering where you are by now. The thought of causing them any stress or worry makes your chest ache. They don’t deserve that, especially after what they’ve been through these last few months.

The door opens and several maids carrying pots enter the room. They empty steaming water into the clawfoot tub near the wall. They then scatter rose petals and a few drops of essential oils in the water. You observe them absently. Even from where you sit, the head-spinning smell of flowers and oils reaches you.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” you announce to the maid.

She tosses you a skeptical look. “Master Coriolanus said-”

“Would you rather I soil myself like a child?” you snap, your tone more strident than you intended. Wide-eyed, you burst out an exhale. You don’t remember ever sounding this angry. But the emotion had been building for a while inside you. All the hurt, the ire is making your overwrought edges crack at the seams. And now, you’re overflowing. 

You doubt you’ll ever be the same. Whoever you were before has forever been altered.

The maid stiffens. “No, miss.”

Your brows twitch when you climb off the bed, pain thrumming through your body.

The sticky sensation between your legs makes your insides clutch in horror.

You stagger through the bedroom, knees threatening to buckle with every shaky step.

The maid trails after you as you go outside. Stepping outside the room feels forbidden. You dread to find him hiding in a corner, ready to chastise you for wandering without his permission.

Even in the toilet, you hardly get any privacy, the maid lingering by the door the entire time. You feel self-conscious as you empty your bladder, the dripping of water awkwardly filling the silence. As soon as you get out, she leads you right back to the room.

Your heart jumps.

Coriolanus is back. He’s casually sitting on the bed, one knee bent, the silk robe barely covering his nakedness. The maid flushes hotly, a string of apology pouring from her mouth before she takes her leave. The door slams shut behind you and you tremble.

He approaches you, his strides smooth and his eyes on you sharp. He gauges your shivering form. Your lips tighten as you stand still, so dizzy with fear you feel as if you might pass out any minute. He tugs on the string of your nightgown. The sheer fabric loosens around your chest. He pulls down the sleeves. The material pools at your feet, leaving you completely exposed. Goosebumps erupt on your flesh, from the cool air or the intensity of his cobalt stare; you can’t say.

He hoists you in his arms. You don’t resist, falling limp in his embrace. He gingerly places you in the bathtub. Ribbons of steam float around you as you sink into the warm water.

The potent smell of the oils has your mind swirling.

He sheds his robe. Your breath is caged inside your lungs, fluttering like a bird struggling to get free, while you gape at him. 

He climbs inside the tub. You freeze, stiff as a board when he settles behind you. His large body encases yours. His chest grazes your back. He pulls you against him and despite the warmth surrounding you, a chill travels through you.

His breath flows over your scalp.

“You’re not speaking to me.”

You let out a wry laugh.  “What is there to say, Coriolanus?”

“No more Coryo?” His light, teasing inflection causes your hackles to rise. You recoil when his knuckles skim over your cheek.

“I know I said some bad things last night. I didn’t mean them, I was just so angry.” He pauses, placing his thumbs at the base of your neck. Sincerity vibrates in his tone as he continues. “The night of the party. I…I may have done some things, but it was because you confessed how you felt about me all these years. I guess you felt safe enough around me to admit it.” 

Doubts creep inside you. That night is a blur, most of it an all too vivid nightmare you could only retrieve distorted glimpses of. Still, you remember doing shots and laughing with Coriolanus and his friends. Liquor made your tongue looser that night. And you may have shared certain secrets with him you wouldn’t have otherwise. 

Perhaps there was even talk of a childhood crush many years ago.

Heat sneaks inside your cheeks.

“You’re remembering it now, aren’t you?” he hums, stroking your hair.

“Maybe…I don’t know…”

He chuckles softly. “You are.” 

His damp locks brush against your cheek when he rests his chin on your shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist below the water.

“Then we got into that room.” All the hairs on your body stand on end. His voice lowers, whisper-soft. “I wasn’t planning to do anything at first but you looked so tempting and I couldn’t resist. I know it’s not right but I couldn’t stop myself, princess. I realized…I felt something for you too. Something I couldn’t fight or ignore.”

Your lip quakes. Confusion twirls in your mind with his words, a weakness you thought buried long ago unfurling within you. A younger you would have died if Coriolanus said such things before. You remember when you were little, hanging to every word spilling from his tongue, flustered every time his eyes would find yours in school.

Frowning, you’re yanked back to reality by the press of his pillowy lips on your neck.

Right. The picture of the beautiful boy with gilded locks and bright blue eyes slowly chars in your mind, curling and twisting until it’s a pile of smoking ashes.

Coriolanus isn’t a little boy anymore. And you’re not a little girl.

It’s time to grow up.

Your mouth tightens. “You hurt me.”

“Well, you hurt me too,” he instantly replies.

Water and petals ripple around you when you rapidly whirl in the tub.

“What?”

His fingers seize your chin, his heated gaze enthralling yours.

“The things you said about Sejanus. That was cruel.”

"I d-didn’t-” you stammer.

Coriolanus doesn’t let you finish, squeezing your jaw as you wince.

“He really was my friend. The only real one I ever had.” His eyes flicker, his voice trembling ever-so-slightly. “Perhaps not at first, but in the end…If you don’t believe me, believe this at least, princess. I wouldn’t be who I am without your brother. I owe him for that.” His thumb traces your shuddering mouth. “No one but me can understand the depth of your loss, princess. Not even William. I’ve seen how he is with you. He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t understand you, not in the way I do.”

He cups your cheeks, looming over you. “You’ve put on a happy front for him, haven’t you? Even if grief’s been eating you up inside. Every second of every day…right?”

You blink furiously, chest igniting as he speaks. Confused thoughts collide into each other in your head. His words ache, but not because of all the awful things he did…but because they ring somewhat true. You have lied to William. You have smiled, laughed and shoved away your pain in order to not push him away. He was your sunshine and you’ve been afraid your dark clouds would dim his glow. You’ve pretended, with him, and with everyone else.

Coriolanus is the first person you haven’t needed to wear a mask with, your scars and wounds always in full display around him. You could talk to him for hours, sharing stories and anecdotes about your brother without fear of judgment. You could confess how much it still hurt, how you weren’t sure you’d ever manage to stitch back the torn pieces of your heart, that it felt like a piece of you shriveled and died with him.

Your own parents wouldn’t hear any of it, too cloistered in denial.

“Coryo…”

When you try to turn away from him, he lifts your head so you’re forced to drown in a sea of dizzying blue.

“You’d never have to pretend with me,” he promises. You unleash a shaky exhale. You hate that he sounds sincere. Tears rush behind your eyes, hanging precariously beneath your lashes. Coriolanus plucks at them, gentle and meticulous in collecting each one that spills.

His deep voice comes out calm as he says matter-of-factly, “I think, when the time is right and you’ve gathered yourself, we should tell your parents.”

You gasp. “Tell my parents what?”

He smirks.

“About our engagement, of course.”

The blood drains from your body, all of it seeming to plummet to your feet.

“Are you crazy?” you whisper, shock snagging the air from your lungs.

His lips expand to a wolfish grin as he cradles your face.

“Come on, princess. Be reasonable.” His gaze travels along your naked frame. You tremble. “After all, what man will want you now?” He snickers. “Even your beloved William. Do you truly think he’ll want you back when I tell him all the filthy things I’ve done to you, and how you clenched around me every time, desperate for more?” Dread grips your chest, your face set ablaze by his arguments.

He tilts his head, his expression smug.

“I could have any girl I want, but I’ve chosen you. So really…I’m the one doing you a favor.”

Coriolanus studies you for a while before adding, “Besides, half the Capitol already knows about us.”

Shock trickles inside you. “I thought you said…”

He shrugs, smiling. “I know what I said but Clemensia…she could never keep her big mouth shut.” Your chin lowers. He bends over your ear to mumble, “How do you think that would look, princess? Parading around with another man when everyone knows you’ve been in my bed.” Your heart misses a beat. “Appearances are everything in the Capitol. A single word in the right ear can make or break you. You’d disgrace William, and your parents.” Coriolanus gives a long sigh, his finger outlining your shaking jaw. “Is this really what you want? For them to suffer even more after Sejanus?”

“No…” you quaver, heavy breaths bursting from your throat.

He plants a soft kiss in the crook of your neck.

“Exactly. So let me take care of you. Let me protect you. Let me cherish you. Just give yourself to me, princess, and I promise you everything will be easier.”

Your mouth opens and shuts, ache bleeding from your chest. You find it hard to argue with him now, each of his honeyed words chipping at your resolve and confidence.

Perhaps you were mistaken all along. Perhaps you are right where you need to be, away from the people you could hurt, and right besides the one person who gets you the most. And as much as it tears you apart to admit, that person might be Coriolanus.

You’re not sure of anything anymore. 

He pulls you in for a kiss, sluggish at first, then deep and hungry. As he explores your mouth, feverish tongue sweeping over yours, you don’t fight back. He hums, licking his swollen lips, as he parts from you.

“I have business in the city so come down for breakfast with Tigris and Grandma’am when you’re ready,” he chimes.

Water splashes when he heaves out of the tub. Droplets drip onto the carpet as he makes his way to the bed to grab his silk robe.

Once dressed, he returns to you and fondles the back of your head, crouching near the tub.

“I’m not closing the door because I want to give you a chance to prove to me what a sweet, obedient girl you can be, just like you’ve been this entire morning. Don’t disappoint me. I don’t want to have to use the handcuffs again.”

He drops a fleeting peck atop your head before rising.

“I know we can move past this, princess,” he says cheerfully as he leaves.

For a span of time that stretches like an eternity, you do not move.

You stare at a random spot on the wall in front of you vacantly. The water turns cold around you. Your skin prunes.

The bathwater is freezing by the time you finally exit the tub.

Numbly, you get dressed and drag your feet downstairs.

You find Tigris in her chair by the window. 

As soon as she sees you, a panicked expression overtakes her features. She rushes to you and wraps you in a tight hug.

Dumbfounded, you blink at her when she releases you.

Her amber orbs glisten with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry. For everything,” she says, worry swimming in her eyes as she takes you in.

You shake your head. “What are you talking about, Tigris?”

A quaking breath leaves her as her hand flies to cover her mouth. She wipes a wayward tear and gathers herself. Peering right at you, she reveals, “Last night, I heard…” She blanches, swallowing hard. “I-I’m not sure what I heard. But I know it wasn’t good.”

Your jaw hangs slack. You wonder what thoughts ran through her mind and how bad it must have sounded to make her change her mind. Guilt bleeds in her tone. “I really really had hope for Coriolanus.” She squeezes your hands as her voice breaks. “I thought that’s what you were for him. His hope.”

No response flows from your lips. How ironic. It’s what you thought Coriolanus was to you. A shred of hope you sorely needed after the loss of your brother.

If you weren’t so numb, you might burst out in laughter.

Tigris grabs your hand and ushers you to the front door of the penthouse. You don’t react as she fumbles with the keys and opens it.

The two of you take the elevator down to the lobby.

When the elevator opens, she races to the exit door and you follow quietly behind her.

She pushes the door open.

A cool gust of wind sneaks inside the lobby from outside.

Shivers bloom on your skin.

“I called a car for you. It’ll take you home straight away.”

You look ahead. There is indeed a car parked out front. Tigris tosses concerned glances inside the building.

“You need to be quick before the staff notices I opened the door for you.” She gives you a little shove when she notices you’re not moving. “What are you waiting for?” she whispers urgently.

“I…I don’t know.” You peer down at your wrists. The marks left by the handcuffs are still embedded into your flesh. “I don’t know…” you repeat, stunned to realize how disturbingly true your words ring.

You look at the car again. Your ticket to freedom. It could take you back home. You could be ensconced in the familiar warmth of your own sheets in less than an hour.

There’s just one infinitesimal issue…

You genuinely aren’t sure you even should, or want to go back home.

[scrawldust]

httyd x vld i love you beyond words. some scene redraws from race to the edge!! done in sepia to save my sanity

(screencaps from s1e3 "imperfect harmony" // the intro sequence // s1e9 "quake, rattle, and roll")

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 24: Moze x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 4045

Warnings: Afab!reader, cnc, to be clear that is consensual nonconsent, knife play, piv, a bit of breath play

A/N: Alright, now I'm a FEW days behind but that's okay, we'll get there. 👏😤

⭐

You’re not quite sure what wakes you, only that you have indeed been awakened by something. 

Half asleep and not entirely aware of your surroundings yet, you pry your head up off the pillow to squint through the darkness of your room. Everything is completely silent and still, just as it should be. But that does not change the fact that you’d been roused from a very deep slumber and you could only assume whatever it was must have been attention grabbing enough to warrant your scrutiny if it had managed to accomplish that much. 

The longer you lie there listening to the quiet sounds of the night, the heavier your eyelids start to feel though. You wanted to drift off again, return to whatever dream you’d been meandering through even if you couldn’t fully recall it now and revisit this mysterious happening in the morning. It probably wasn’t anything to get excited about anyway. 

Groaning a tired sound, you relax back down into the bed and tug the pillow closer to you, rolling over to sprawl out half on top of it. You’ve just closed your eyes to get settled in again when a purposeful, heavy creak sounds just behind you to accompany the abrupt dip of the mattress. 

You’re suddenly wide awake and your eyes fly open with a startled, rattling gasp. 

Instinctively you try to shove yourself upright so you can flee. But you only make it halfway through the motion before an arm comes over your shoulder to press a rather sharp blade across your throat, and you freeze. The ice cold panic grips you in such an immediate, debilitating chokehold that for a long stretch of seconds you can’t make any sense of what’s happening. 

And then whoever is kneeling behind you leans close to put their mouth next to your ear. “Don’t even think about screaming for help.” 

Recognition clicks somewhere in the back of your mind in a blind rush of understanding. It was Moze. He was — 

Nudging the knife further under your chin to force your neck back at a vulnerable angle. You uncontrollably quake against him even as you comply, the numb rush of relief that slams into you deliciously intermingled with a potent surge of hot, squirming arousal. 

Yes, now you remembered. You’d asked for this. 

“As long as you cooperate you won’t get hurt.” He rumbles, speaking right against the side of your head to make his gruff baritone echo on an endless vibration through your subconscious. “I’ve just come to take what’s mine and then I’ll be on my way. Do not make this difficult.” 

You let out a slow, shuddering breath to ground yourself and calm your buzzing nerves, fingers numbly clenching into the sheets, but that’s as much as he allows you to react. 

His other hand comes up to palm the back of your head, the blade slipping away so he can shove you face down into the pillow. You squawk a surprised sound, completely muffled by the soft cotton now blocking your nose and mouth, and you come alive underneath him to struggle against his hold. It’s utterly useless though. He was much too big, much too strong and he had you pinned in such a prone position that escape was wholly impossible. 

Everything was happening much too fast for you to fully quell the initial panic still searing through your veins, and your limbs feel like rubbery noodles as you mindlessly thrash in place. Even knowing it was Moze, even recalling that you’d invited him to come take you by force whenever the mood so struck him, the animal part of your brain still registers the danger of the situation and you can’t quite get a solid grip on it. 

It’s at complete and total odds with the tight, eager clench of your cunt which only further exacerbates your disoriented state of mind. That was likely his goal in not giving you enough time to relax, keeping up the pretense of this being not only a casual encounter but an unwanted one as well. It really feels like you’re being attacked by an unknown man in the dead of night, your fear so real and palpable that you very nearly choke on it when he shifts to kneel directly behind you. 

Catching one of your flailing legs under his own, he leans his weight more to that side to stop your frantic kicking. Your other foot jerks through the air in an attempt to catch him and shove him off you, but he’s much too solid for you to budge like this. All you can manage to do is awkwardly twist yourself up into a bent, stiffly trembling position that leaves your spine bowed. 

And Moze takes advantage of that to shove your nightgown across your back, the cling of gauzy silk pooling around your heaving ribcage. You let out another muffled shriek when you feel him reach for your underwear next only to go stock still again when the sharp point of his knife just touches your bare skin. 

Over the dip of your waist, your hip, skirting right over the elastic band to reach lower and tease a light line across your defenslessly upturned ass. The sensation as much as the inherent danger of this kind of game makes goosebumps erupt all over your body and you shake for him, noising a plaintive mewl when he directs the blade inward to touch your cunt with it. The subtle scrape of incomprehensibly sharp metal catching at the woven fibers along the gusset has your skin crawling as reflexive tears spring up in your eyes to wet the pillow in a sudden rush. 

Just as you’d expected. He was good at this kind of thing, almost exceptionally so. If anyone knew how to intimidate and scare a victim it was certainly him, and you can’t quite decide if you were more excited or terrified by what was happening. 

It must be some deadly combination of the two, you think, as he carefully catches the tip of the knife into one side of your panties so he can slip it underneath the fabric. You shake so hard in response that the bed rattles faintly but you don’t dare move any more than that when the flat side of his blade is right against your labia. All it would take was one careless movement from either of you and you’d be nicked in a place you really did not want to be nicked. 

But Moze is in full control of his hand and the blade by extension. With one, firm twist of his wrist he catches the seat of your underwear and shreds right through it with a deafeningly loud rip. The abrupt rush of air against your pussy when the delicate silk falls away leaves you reeling, and you sway unsteadily at the potent surge of relief you feel as he takes the knife away. 

You’re given a brief moment to actually process the situation a little bit more while he fumbles with what you can only assume is the front of his pants, working to free himself with only one hand. The other is still pressing down on the back of your head to keep you in place and the subsequent lack of oxygen makes you feel incredibly dizzy. All you can do is lie there and listen to the rattling click of his belt, the rustle of clothes sliding off and the eventual zrrrt of his zipper being yanked down. 

He’s leaning over you then, pressing himself flush across your back, and you squeal a frantic sound when the fleshy head of his cock immediately presses into your cunt from behind without any pause or preamble. All at once he’s bullying his way inside you and the friction of his skin against yours registers as painful when you weren’t nearly wet enough yet to facilitate penetration. What meager bit of arousal had started to gather at your entrance wasn’t enough to make for a smooth, easy glide and the sheer girth of him wasn’t helping matters either. 

You mindlessly jerk and twist in an attempt to escape the demanding push of his hips, wailing into the damp pillow. But he persists and just settles more of his weight on top of you to keep you relatively still so he can continue to demand your body take him. Your unpinned leg desperately kicks at him again, managing to get one good, solid hit in on his side but Moze is quick to hook his foot under your knee and spread his thighs out, forcing you into a prone sprawl underneath him. 

Completely helpless like this, all you can do is seethe and squeal a series of muffled sounds while he nudges his cock further into your constricting passage until he at last settles against you an eternity later with nowhere else to go. It’s only then that he adjusts the hand on the back of your head to take a biting fistful of your hair and roughly pull your face up, leaving you wildly gasping for air while he lays himself out across your back. 

It feels like he’s crushing you under his sturdy weight but he’s got you so thoroughly immobilized that you can’t even think to fight it when he slides the knife around to lightly touch your cheek with it. Letting out a pitiful little sob, you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your neck but he holds you fast. 

“You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you? Let me take what I want and deserve.” He murmurs, warm breath ghosting over your face when he speaks from this close up. “I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time now. Couldn’t wait to sink myself into this tight little pussy and make it mine.” 

The heavy weight of him just sitting wedged inside your body is so distracting that it takes you a moment to rouse yourself enough to comprehend what he’s saying. 

Right. That was the game. A stranger taking what he wants by force. In this moment he was not Moze anymore, nor was he your sort-of-not-quite-significant-other but rather a complete unknown. 

“You’ll p - pay for this.” You warble with no shortage of effort when you were still struggling just to draw enough oxygen into your lungs. “Just wait until — until my lover finds out about this. He’s going to make you regret - -“

“Oh, but bǎobèi. Don’t you realize he won’t be able to do anything at all if he’s already dead?” 

A sharp inhale accompanies the jolt you give at that. You hadn’t expected him to say that or take this in that particular direction, but you don’t get the chance to say anything else on the matter. 

He’s leaning even closer then to truly box you in and trap you underneath him, crowding his face so close to yours that you can’t make out anything beyond him anymore. Just the sharp glint of the blade directly in your peripheral, and you whimper a helpless little sound when he angles his mouth to just touch your lips. 

“Forget about him. I should be the one you want. You’re much better suited to being my cock sleeve, aren’t you?” 

Your inner walls tightly clench at that, squeezing down around him and making Moze feel twice as big inside you. The hard weight of him is just as unrelenting and merciless as every other part of him is, and you seethe a wounded sound in response. 

He nudges the flat of his blade against your cheek then as if to ensure you’re paying attention, keeping you in place physically as much as by way of threat as he closes his mouth over yours to kiss you. Stubbornly keeping your lips pressed into a firm line, you don’t make a move to reciprocate the gesture but that doesn’t bother him one bit. He just becomes more demanding and forceful with his ministrations, giving you no choice but to whimper a plaintive sound when he angles his hips back only enough for you to feel the drag of him inside your cunt. 

Then he’s pushing back in, pushing, pushing, pushing until he seems to reach the end of you and a starburst of discomfort flashes through your punchdrunk mind. 

Involuntarily gasping, you realize your mistake a second too late when Moze shoves his tongue into your mouth to possessively swipe it across yours. Your squeals effectively muffled now, he starts up a steady rhythm that sends his cock pistoning in and out of you. His range of motion is limited like this but it’s more than enough to have you drunkenly jolting underneath him, unbearably hot and suffocating under his solid muscle mass. 

And he just keeps kissing you, clearly taking care to make sure you were perfectly claimed and violated from both ends at the same time. The sharp, meaty slap of his pelvis driving into your ass again and again sounds utterly deafening in the otherwise silent room, so much so that you almost miss the soft click of your own pussy when it becomes increasingly damp for him. You can clearly feel your excitement rapidly mounting though, every single inch of your body shuddering with each and every one of his quick paced thrusts. 

It’s a delirious experience being taken like this, hard and fast under the pretense of having a strange man force himself on you this way. Your resounding helplessness only serves to add extra fuel to the fire, as does the constant pressure of him drilling you down into the mattress. It felt like you were already teetering dangerously close to a nauseatingly powerful orgasm and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stop it. 

Even when he slides the hand on your head down to wrap it around your throat, pulling back just enough to breathe a terse, masculine grunt into the scant space, you just happily let him do it. This was in many ways exactly what you’d wanted when you first suggested it to him. And of course Moze had looked at you like you were crazy and he was only just starting to realize that. He’d said he would think about it at the time, after you’d explained your thoughts on the matter and the fantasies you sometimes had. 

There’d been a very real part of you that thought he’d never come around to the idea — not because he was too soft for such rough treatment, though he certainly did have his fleetingly brief moments at times. It was more so because he typically only drew his blade against people he actually intended to slay, which as far as you knew did not apply to you in the here and now. Or at least you certainly hoped it didn’t, anyway. 

But given that he was here now, vigorously slamming his rigid cock in and out of your softly squelching cunt, you can only imagine he must have needed this too. Perhaps something to take off the edge from his recent trip to the Luofu or maybe it was just because he’d missed you too much to hold himself back now. It also could have been that he was simply far more prone to degeneracy than his usual neat freak behavior suggested, but either way, regardless of the reason, you’re incredibly glad for it all the same. 

Because Moze wasn’t always the best lover in the sense that his moody disposition and his obsessive compulsive tendencies occasionally meant he’d pull away or become distracted in the middle of doing something. He also wasn’t always the easiest to read and he was keenly averse to prescribing anything beyond a strictly superficial label onto what was going on between you and him. It’s like he’s let some of his walls come down though in coming to you like this, as a nameless stranger rather than someone you were intimately familiar with, and he appears to be fully locked into the fantasy as well. 

His relentless thrusts show no sign of stopping anytime soon, and his stamina seems endless. He openly lets himself grunt and moan against your face instead of trying to hold it back. And, perhaps more importantly of all, he’s not handling you like a fragile piece of glass that was likely to shatter at a moment's notice in his monstrous hands. 

All the usual pretense and consideration for you is gone, and in its place is a deep seated need to take, take, take and bury himself in you as far as he can go. To claim you and to have you, to bend you to his will. That feels like the only driving force behind his powerful thrusts, and he just keeps fucking into you until you finally cum with a strangled gasp. 

And he continues to fuck into you even after that, dragging your orgasm out well past the point of mere pleasure until it starts to bleed into high strung, sensitive distress. 

It’s only when your half choked moans start to take on a truly dire tinge does he finally push himself off of you, cock slipping out with an obscenely wet slurp when he shifts back onto his knees. You’re still wildly trembling with the last lingering spasms of your release, dizzily wheezing into the mattress. So caught up in the dreamy, intoxicating rush that you don’t have the wherewithal to fight it as he grabs around your waist to drag you down a little lower and then flip you onto your back in one smooth motion. 

Suddenly finding yourself looking up at him, you stiffly arch your spine to push your tits out, and he happily obliges you by shoving your nightgown up in the front. Your nipples are already standing up in stiff, attention seeking points and they drag against his rough palms when he gropes at you, indelicately kneading and squeezing the swell of your chest to make your toes curl.

He’s not gentle about it though, and you seethe when he pinches around the meat of your breasts in a too tight hold to make the tips of them push out and up. Folding himself over top of you, Moze takes one puffy teat into his mouth so he can hungrily suck it towards the back of his throat with a stunning amount of sharply applied suction. It registers as being just short of painful and you writhe underneath him, blindly reaching down to shove at his broad shoulders. But he’s just as unbudgeable like this as he was before, suckling at your breast so insistently that when he lifts his head the weight of it lifts with him. 

A tender little sound slips out of you at the sight of your own tit pulled taut between his mouth and your chest, fiercely shuddering in time with the deep, pulsing throb that starts up in your cunt. You wanted him to fuck you again, you realize in a numbly distant sort of way, not yet sated by just the one orgasm. 

Your shoving at his shoulders quickly morphs into needy grabbing and tugging, hoping to get his attention so he’ll sink himself inside you again. And Moze does stir after a moment, slackening his lips to allow your swollen nipple to slide out with a weighty bounce of your breast when it settles back into place. But to your groaning frustration he just redirects his attention to the other where he takes a moment to just flick it back and forth with his wet tongue before finally sealing his mouth around that one too. 

“Please,” You outright sob even as you toss your head back against the rumpled sheets, needily squirming under him. “Want your cock again, want your cock …”

Rumbling a low sound of warning into your chest, Moze works your stiff nipple around in his mouth until he can bring his teeth down on either side of the puffed up bud. He worries it briefly before slowly leaning back to tug on it and stretch the pliable flesh just enough to make you squeal, letting it go to watch this breast jiggle back into place again as well. 

“Victims don’t get to make demands.” He reminds you in that low, masculine tone, making you shudder again for him. 

“Am I, nnghn … really a victim if I’m enjoying it?” 

He scoffs a quiet sound at that as he sits back on his haunches to look down at you, and you take that moment to shoot a hungry glance between his legs. His cock is still achingly hard and rigid, standing straight up out of the front of his pants, and even in the low quality lighting of your darkened room you can make out the wet glisten of your arousal coating his skin. 

The visual alone is enough to make you bite at your lower lip, eager and not yet satisfied. You momentarily consider climbing on top of him and taking his stiff length into your body of your own volition, but he must see the thought cross your mind because he reaches out to take your ankles in hand before you can act on it. 

Yanking you further down the bed to slot your hips between his knees, Moze uses his hold on your legs to bend them up towards your chest and leave you once again vulnerable to the nudge of his cock. You start to reach up for him, thinking you wanted to run your hands through that surprisingly soft nest of hair on his head, but he’s quick to grab at your wrists and shove them above your head so he can pin you there against the bed. 

You issue a breathy little moan at the feeling of helplessness as much as the demanding nudge of him against your cunt as you wrap your freed legs around his waist. There would be no escaping you either way and he huffs a quiet breath in response. 

“You’re insatiable as always.” 

“And you still haven’t cum yet so I’d think you would be more keen to keep going instead of stalling like this.” 

“It’s called pacing myself. You should try it some time.” 

Giggling softly at that, you dig your heels into his lower back to encourage him forward and he grudgingly acquiesces with a stilted thrust of his narrow hips that sends his length skirting through your labia. You were more than sufficiently wet now and he just harmlessly glides right through your lips to give a fleshy nudge against your clit and make you twitch. 

“Oohn … I don’t think now is the time for pacing, Moze. I want you inside me again.”

He blinks at you through the gloomy shadows of night, the violets in his eyes reflecting the faintest glint of streetlights through your window on the adjacent wall. “What happened to the anonymous encounter you wanted?” 

“I’m afraid you ruined that when you flipped me over and I could clearly make out your face. It’s hard to imagine I don’t know you when I’m looking right at you.” 

“What? Are you telling me I should have kept you on your stomach the entire time?” He demands, sounding more than just mildly affronted by this information, and that makes you giggle too. 

“Don’t worry. It was still a good try. Maybe next time you could wear a mask?” 

“Who’s to say there’s even going to be a next time?” He grumpily intones, keeping his voice pitched low and dangerous. It was his usual shtick though and you were more than used to it by now, so you just give his waist an encouraging squeeze with your legs. 

“Just call it a hunch.” You murmur, grinning up at him now. “Something tells me you’ve enjoyed this game more than you’ll ever admit so I’m sure it won’t be the last. But until then I’m glad you’re home, Moze. I missed you.” 

Grunting a rumbled sound of agreement, he leans down to catch your mouth in a slow, savory kiss that speaks volumes louder than his words could ever hope to. Welcome home indeed.

⭐

Crossposted: here

[altocat]

When Sephiroth tries to picture a hometown, what does he see? What landscape? What does his house look like?

He always pictures a warm little inn or cottage far out in the middle of the mountains. Fireplace roaring. Peeling wallpaper. A desk with a pitcher of water. Outside--worn country roads and heavy pine trees. Thick, heady air. A cool breeze lurking somewhere behind those rattling walls.

And a woman. Writhing and gasping in bed, struggling beneath the sheets as a circle of white-coated men coax and comfort her. Sharp metallic objects. Hushed pleadings and protests. Warm skin. Warm hands that just barely--barely--brush his skin.

Then Sephiroth can sense something, some violent, serrated tearing. A sense of sudden loss. An anguished tug. He's being pulled away. Away from grasping hands. He hears her desperate shrieks ringing in his ears, his head thrumming, his little lungs expanding into a single quaking, squalling wail.

Down a dark tunnel. White halls. Lifted up into a waiting truck, the road jostling and bumping left and right. The lights are too bright. He can just barely make out the sight of the gated mansion courtyard in the far distance, the rolling black mountains looming above him, towering, beckoning. It is beginning to rain.

And he can still hear her screaming. Forever screaming.

Screaming for him.

Screaming for him.

Screaming for--

He wakes up with a gasp, warm sweat dampening his brow, long silver bangs plastered against his face as his chest heaves, his eyes focusing blearily in the gloom of his bedroom.

Just...just a dream.

[roseandxanderfics]

The White Flame in Battle - AesSedai!reader x Warder!OC

Summary: A White Ajah Aes Sedai isn’t meant for battle—but here she is, fighting with cold precision. An unbonded Warder saves her, drawn to the way she wields logic like a weapon. Others say they fight like they’re bonded. They aren’t. But what

———————

The ground quaked beneath her boots, a low, rolling tremor that spoke of death on the horizon. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood, the acrid burn of charred wood, and something deeper—something wrong. A sickness clung to the wind, a stain of Shadow pressing against the fabric of the world itself.

She stood upon the ramparts of the crumbling fortress, her white-fringed cloak abandoned in the dirt somewhere behind her. There was no use for the formalities of the Tower here. Not when battle loomed, an inevitability stretching across the valley below like the tide before a storm.

Trollocs. Hundreds of them. Their hulking, misshapen forms lurched forward, a sea of bristling armor and blackened blades. The earth trembled beneath their charge, a grotesque harmony of snarls, shrieks, and the rhythmic pounding of hooves and clawed feet.

She felt saidar rise within her, cold fire threading through her veins, burning at the edges of her vision. It was intoxicating, the sheer power of it, and yet she held it steady, forcing herself to remain the eye of the storm. Aes Sedai did not panic. Aes Sedai did not falter.

Below, figures moved—Aes Sedai and Warders, preparing for the onslaught. Swords gleamed under the failing light, shifting cloaks blending into their surroundings. The Warders stood as an unbreakable line before their Aes Sedai, some already bonded, others unbound but sworn to fight.

And among them…

Her gaze caught on a single figure.

He moved differently than the others, his stance loose but measured, every motion economical, controlled. His sword rested easily in his grip, but she could see the tension there, the readiness to strike at the first sign of weakness. His dark hair was tied back, sweat-soaked but unruly, and his cloak barely stirred as he moved—silent, a shadow in the coming storm.

An unbonded Warder.

She had heard whispers of him before. A man who had once fought for a Green Ajah sister, lost her in battle, and never sought another bond. He drifted from battlefield to battlefield, fighting where he was needed, protecting those who could still be saved.

And now, here they both stood—two warriors of different kinds, about to be swallowed whole by the tide.

The first wave struck with the force of an avalanche.

She did not hesitate.

Saidar roared through her, and she reached for the threads of Air and Fire, weaving them together with the sharp precision of a knife. A single gesture, a twist of her fingers, and the air around her compressed—an invisible wall slamming into the front ranks of the horde.

Trollocs screamed as bones shattered, bodies hurled backward as if tossed by a giant’s hand. She shifted, weaving again, this time splitting the ground beneath them. Earth buckled, jagged rock spearing upward, impaling some of the creatures where they stood.

Still, they came.

A Myrddraal slithered through the chaos, its eyeless face twisting in a grotesque parody of a grin. It moved unnaturally, flowing like liquid shadow, black blade raised in a killing arc.

She turned to strike—

Too slow.

The Fade was faster. Closer.

And then—

Steel met steel, ringing sharp in the air.

The Warder was there.

He had moved faster than she could track, intercepting the Myrddraal’s strike before it could reach her. Their blades clashed in a deadly dance, his movements precise, methodical. The Fade hissed, recoiling, but he did not give it a chance to recover.

A step forward. A feint. A twist.

And then his sword drove through its heart, twisting as black blood sprayed across the stone.

The Myrddraal’s shriek was an unnatural, soul-rattling sound, one that sent a ripple through the battlefield as its dying thrashes sent its bonded Trollocs into frenzied agony.

For a brief moment, there was stillness.

Then, he turned to her, breath heavy, sword dripping with darkness.

“You’re White Ajah,” he said, voice edged with disbelief. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

She lifted her chin, breathing hard. “And yet, here I am.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes flickering over her. “I’ve fought beside Blues, Greens, even Browns before. But never a White.” There was something unreadable in his expression—something akin to fascination. “Your sisters are usually confined to the Tower, buried in books and philosophy.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She had heard this before, the quiet dismissal, the assumption that the White Ajah existed only in the cold halls of Tar Valon, debating logic while the world burned.

But logic had brought her here.

“I do not fight without reason,” she said simply. “And I do not waste my time on things that do not matter.”

His gaze held hers for a long moment before he let out a low, amused sound. “I suppose I should be grateful, then.”

The battle raged around them, and there was no time for argument. Another wave surged forward, and this time, they fought together.

She wove, striking with Fire and Air, driving back the horde in controlled bursts of destruction. He moved with lethal efficiency, his sword finding weak points between armor, felling enemies as quickly as they came.

It was seamless.

As if they had fought together before.

As if—

No.

She did not dwell on that thought.

The battle stretched into the night, until her limbs ached and her mind was raw with the strain of holding the Power for so long. But she did not stop. Neither did he.

By the time the final Trolloc fell, the fortress walls were slick with blood. Bodies littered the ground, the acrid scent of death mingling with the first hints of dawn on the wind.

She exhaled, releasing saidar, the loss of it leaving her hollow, drained.

The Warder stood beside her, his sword still in hand, though his grip had loosened. He was watching her.

She met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

“You fight like one who sees the battlefield in numbers and logic,” he said at last. “Like a puzzle waiting to be solved.”

She tilted her head. “And you fight like a man with nothing left to lose.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, wry and tired. “Maybe.”

Silence stretched between them, weighted but not uncomfortable.

Finally, he sheathed his blade. “I’ve fought beside many Aes Sedai,” he said. “But none quite like you.”

She did not know what to say to that.

Another Aes Sedai passed by, glancing between them. “You fought like you were bonded,” she mused, before moving on.

The words lingered.

Neither of them acknowledged them aloud.

Instead, she turned to leave, but as she did, she felt the weight of his gaze still on her back.

She told herself it did not matter.

And yet, for the first time in a long while, she wondered what it would be like to fight alongside someone not out of necessity—

But by choice.