#sleepless prisoner | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writeyouin · 2 years

Text

Dream (Morpheus) X Fem-Reader – Sleepless Prisoner - Chapter 1 - Dreams Meet

Description: As the daughter of Roderick Burgess, you find Dream locked in the cellar, but upon trying to free him, Roderick decides to lock you up with him, expecting that you will eventually die. However, influenced by rare magic, you don't die, and instead, you become Dream's only friend for 100 years.

Male Reader Version

Non-Binary Reader Version

Warnings - Physical abuse.

Rating - T

You sat at the top of the stairs, clutching the rails tightly and holding your breath as people robed in blue streamed out of the basement. At any moment, you were ready to run, though in which direction, you weren’t sure. If your father, the self-proclaimed Magus, was successful then you would run down the stairs to embrace the brother that you had lost to the war. He had been your best friend once, and the only protection from your father’s wrath and venomous hatred.

However, if the ritual had failed… Well, you would have to run far and fast to escape your father’s fury. Of course, that left your younger brother Alex alone and defenceless, but he never listened to your advice to stay away from Roderick. Instead, he forced himself to try and impress Roderick, wishing that he might be as wonderful a son as Randall had been. Well, if Alex wouldn’t listen to you, then he would have to suffer the consequences on his own.

Despite your anticipated scenarios, it seemed that nothing you had predicted had come to pass. As the Magus, Alex, and his followers emerged, Roderick was neither accompanied by Randall nor upset by the perceived loss. Instead, he was carrying a monstrous-looking helm, the likes of which you had never seen. A pouch was wrapped around his wrist, and he also held what appeared to be a ruby, though you couldn’t tell for sure, as far away as you were.

In a battle against your cautious nature and your curiosity at the strange turn of events, you went against your better nature, heading downstairs to see if you could get answers about what had occurred. However, instead of going straight to the source, you avoided your father and snuck downstairs into the cellar.

Every step felt deliberate and slow, as you tried to keep quiet on your journey. Then, on the last step, your breath caught in your throat at the sight of an unconscious, naked being, stripped of everything he once held. Seeing such a person, who looked so human yet gave off an ethereal presence, you immediately understood that you were looking at a God, or perhaps a demon.

Had you gone uninterrupted, you weren’t sure what you would have done next. Perhaps you would have tried to rouse him, or maybe you would have just run away like you always had when it came to difficult situations. As it was however, your choice was stripped away from you, much like the being had been stripped of his cloak, because a robed guard had been left behind to watch over the prisoner.

You yelped at being grabbed and pulled away, frightened at what your invasion might lead to.

“Best get yourself out of here,” The guard sneered, recognising you as the Magus’ daughter.

“Magus doesn’t want any interference with his guest.”

The implication that a prisoner, summoned by strange magic was a guest reminded you just how evil your father could be and how he could twist anything he saw to suit his vision of the world. If he heard about your snooping, he would claim that you were trying to use the prisoner’s powers for your own personal gain and he would use that as an excuse to harm you.

So, you did what you did best and ran away, however, on your way up to your room, you were unlucky enough to bump into your father, cowering away as he sneered hideously at you, as if you weren’t his child, but rather his greatest burden.

Usually, such a discourteous manner of running into your father would have earned you a severe punishment, but he was still pleased with his spell, even if it hadn’t immediately brought the desired results; after all, there was still a chance he would get what he wanted when his unwitting guest awoke.

In an attempt to make amends, you bent into a clumsy curtsey, squeaked a hurried apology, then hurried past Roderick, seeking the quiet refuge of your cramped room.

Only a year prior, you had had quite a luxurious room, filled with treasures and trinkets from your brothers, and a few which were left behind by your mother. But, after Randall had passed away, your room had been repurposed for the Magus’ magic, and your most precious treasures had been sold to fund his hunt for rare magical artefacts.

However, the smallness of your new room didn’t bother you. Instead, it made you feel safe and secure, and you had squirrelled away a few precious items before the Magus could sell them; among them was a teddy armadillo that your mother had made you upon seeing the strange creature in a book, He was old, musty, missing an eye and in need of a good wash, but you loved him greatly and had named him Daffodillo, combining your mother’s favourite flower with the creature’s name. You also had several story books which had inspired your most vivid dreams.

Although you were much too old for it now, you hugged Daffodillo to your chest, breathing in his comforting scent, and all the while thinking. You had expected that you might eventually fall asleep, but there was far too much on your mind, and sleep illuded you. You wondered what the man inside the binding circle was like and whether he could really bring Randall back. You also wondered if he might seek revenge for the manner in which he was so rudely summoned, and for the items that were stolen from him. There was so much to think about now that you knew that magic was real, and you worried about all of it.

The next morning, you were still thinking about the being in the cellar, and wondering whether you could be brave enough to speak with your father about it. You didn’t get a chance to dwell on that thought however, as you went downstairs and saw a stranger, donned in a white suit and wearing glasses the likes of which you had never seen before. Fearing the worst from the stranger who carried himself so arrogantly, you hid. Yet, feeling that he might be important, you opted to stay close by, listening to what he had to say.

Your heart beat heavily in your chest as you quietly stalked the stranger and your father, listening to their conversation. As it turned out, the being your father had summoned was Dream of the Endless, something more than a God, and now your father had plans to keep him, all while using his vestments for wealth and elongated life.

Nothing about the situation felt right. Who was your father to keep anyone prisoner, let alone the being responsible for dreams? Moreover, the Magus was not only a captor, but a thief as well, and one who planned to use Dream’s items to his advantage. Even if you believed that the Magus was doing the right thing, you didn’t trust the stranger in white. Although you hadn’t gotten very close to him, he already scared you, despite his charismatic persona; he smelled like blood and fear itself.

For once in your life, you knew that you had to do something and that if there was only one time in your life when you didn’t run away, it should be this one. Still, just because you weren’t planning to run away, you also weren’t going to act rashly; you needed a plan.

Under the pretence of taking a turn about the gardens, you thought about the conundrum that you were faced with.

You were pretty certain that you should free Dream from your father, but if you did, would he seek revenge on everyone in the house? You didn’t want him to hurt Alex; he was just a child, after all.

Then again, you were basing all of your ideals on the fact that Dream was a good person, but why would such a good person create Nightmares?

Well, good or not, you weren’t willing to let the Magus keep Dream the way he kept you. To Roderick, you weren’t his child, but rather an ill-treated pet to take the brunt of his vile hatred for the world, never free to make your own choices, and always fearing the day that he wouldn’t be able to reign in his rage before he killed you.

Restless and annoyed, you ran back to the house, only slowing when you got inside. You had missed the man in white’s exit and with it any information about Jessamy that might have helped you save Dream.

Although you had hoped to get close to Dream again, he was too heavily guarded now, with your father paying his temporary guards more than they had seen in their lifetimes.

Perturbed, you changed direction, and were soon in the Magus’ study, searching for the combination to his safe so that you might at least gain access to Dream’s 3 most valuable possessions. You weren’t very successful in your search, finding nothing but strange papers, some of which contained the instructions for real magic and others which were cheap imitations made by con artists long ago.

“Searching for something?” The Magus sneered from behind you, scaring you in a way only he could.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stood ramrod straight, “I- I was-”

“TURN AROUND WHEN YOU’RE TALKING TO ME!” The Magus barked, transforming you from his daughter into his shivering slave.

You spun around hurriedly, staying perfectly still under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Now tell me what you’re doing rifling through my papers.”

“I- I heard you speak with your guest earlier,” You admitted haltingly, trying to keep your breathing under control.

“Eavesdropping, is it? I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Yes Sir. Sorry, Sir. It’s just that I heard that you had captured Dream of the Endless, so I was looking for the spell that did it. I was thinking that it might be a starting point for learning to summon Death. You know… For Randall.”

Despite your fear, you managed to lie well, having learned to do so in a way of self-preservation over the years; it was a skill that Alex had never learned.

Despite the convincingness of the lie, The Magus still glared at you with hatred and a hint of revulsion.

“You were trying to improve on my spells?” He glowered at you.

You bit your tongue so you wouldn’t remind him that they were never his spells to begin with, but rather something he had found by pure chance which happened to show the way to genuine magic.

“I am the Magus here and you are but a slave meant to serve me. You do not have the right to even look upon my work, or try to improve upon the spells which have been delivered to me by the righteousness of my cause.”

You dipped your head lowly, trying to placate your father in a manner that you rarely attempted.

“You’re right, Father. But please, if I am not worthy, then let me attempt to become so. Let me be the one to guard Dream, so I can prove that I might one day be a good disciple to you.”

The Magus barked a short cruel laugh that was devoid of any real joy. The laugh ended too quickly and the Magus struck you down, with a hard slap. You didn’t cry out as much as it hurt, knowing that to do so would earn an even harsher punishment.

“My disciple,” The Magus scoffed. “You’re not even worthy of the Burgess name.”

With that, he left you, and you were as powerless as ever.

Over the following weeks, you were unable to stay focused on your goal to reach Dream, finding yourself afflicted with the inability to sleep. You weren’t the only one affected, and there were thousands of others suffering the much worse sleepy sickness, forced to sleep and unable to wake. The papers reported both illnesses as a mystery, but you were one of the few people that knew the reason for it.

Exhausted, you did everything you could to muster some energy, despite wishing only for a chance to rest. Now more than ever, when so many people were suffering, you knew that you had to pull yourself together and rescue Dream. The only problem was that you couldn’t get to him. The Magus had been keeping a close eye on you since your stint in his study, and unlike Alex, he wouldn’t even let you see his prisoner.

However, as you grew weaker, Roderick became less vigilant in watching you, assuming that you were far too frail and cowardly to get in his way again. Finally, thanks to Alex’s invasion of the prison, you were given an opportunity to see Dream.

While Roderick awaited the arrival of his guards and Alex hunted the grounds for a pesky bird that apparently bothered your father, you managed to make it to Dream’s cell.

Upon entering the room, his eyes immediately found you, tracking you like a hawk watching its prey. You hadn’t seen him since he was summoned, and seeing him awake was entirely different.

“H-Hello,” You started uncertainly. Glancing back at the stairwell, you licked your lips and began to speak hurriedly. “Look, I don’t know anything about magic, so just tell me, how do I let you out?”

Dream didn’t speak, apparently mistrusting that this human should be different from the others in the house. All the same, his eyes revealed his desires and he glanced down at the binding circle.

You followed his gaze, uncertainly moving forward to scrub at the chalk. You were robbed of the chance as a raven flew into the room, clawing at your head and making you fall to the ground. You backed away, shocked and confused until the bird attacked the glass of Dream’s orb.

You looked from the bird to Dream who finally seemed responsive, touching the glass as if he might reach his bird. Forgetting the binding circle, you looked around the cell, grabbing a discarded baton that the guards usually kept on their belts.

Joining the raven, you attacked the glass cage, though it showed no sign of breaking, having been crafted by the best workmen. It would take a lot of damage to break the glass. Fearing for lost time, you hit it harder with renewed vigour, desperate to save Dream and the millions affected by the sleepy sickness, as well as those such as yourself who were wasting away, unable to sleep.

BANG!

You screamed at the sound of a shotgun, blood coating your cheek, the remains of the Raven splattered across the glass. Turning around, you saw Alex, who looked terrified at the sight of you and his actions.

“What have you done?” You whispered, your voice faltering.

A moment later, Roderick appeared, and upon assessing the situation, he became furious, reaching for Alex and you. Although you were more afraid than you had ever been in your life, you knew this would be the last chance you ever got to rescue Dream.

Hurriedly, you resumed your attack on the glass sphere, beating harder against it, to no avail. It wasn’t long before Roderick had grabbed you, but you struggled against him as he attempted to subdue you.

Dream, as hurt as he was by the loss of his most loyal friend, watched you intently, his hands pressed against his prison as if he might somehow be able to reach you.

You had never fought against your father before, but you did now, kicking, hissing, screaming, and making things as difficult as you could. Adrenalin powered your moves, giving you more energy than you had had in weeks, but you knew it wouldn’t last long and that you would have to act soon.

“NO! WE HAVE TO FREE HIM. HE ISN’T OURS TO KEEP. ALEX!” You reached for your younger brother, desperately thrashing so you wouldn’t be carried out of the room. “ALEX, HELP ME!”

Alex shrunk away from you, too scared to act against the Magus. “ALEX! SET HIM FREE! NOW!”

Roderick held onto you tighter, bellowing into your ear, “STOP FIGHTING ME!”

“NO! I WON’T STOP. I WON’T EVER STOP. THIS IS WRONG, THIS IS ALL WRONG!”

You tried in vain to move forward, making any effort you could to scuff the chalk of the binding circle, falling just short of its reach.

The Magus let you go and your heart fluttered with renewed hope, but that too was in vain. The only reason that Roderick ever let you go was so he could grab the baton you had dropped, and with it, he clubbed your head. Although you were incapable of sleeping or fainting, the hit subdued you into a half unconsciousness wherein you were blearily aware of some of the things happening around you, but unable to move, speak, or do anything to save yourself.

One of the things you did see was Alex grab the baton from your father, running away with it before he could club you to death. You were thankful for that; just like you, your brother at least knew when to run away.

Too dazed to pay attention, you fell into a world of daydreams that spoke of a concussion, but it was nothing close to what real sleep could have been.

When you became fully aware of your surroundings again, you were still in the cellar, but in a cruel twist of fate, you were now imprisoned as well. Just like Dream, you were suspended in a glass sphere. Although you hadn’t seen the second sphere before, you shouldn’t have been surprised that Roderick had had a spare one built, just in case any damage should befall the first.

You reached up tentatively to touch the glass, and for one uncertain moment, you thought that everything leading up to this moment had been one terrible nightmare.

Yet, seeing a hand reach for you from the corner of your eye, you looked at Dream, who seemed furious at your incarceration; you were the only human who had ever tried to help him, and that brought a sense of unjust solidarity to the situation.

You reached towards him, managing to burble out a weak, “Sorry,” before the two of you were interrupted once again.

“Why apologise to him when you should be apologising to me, your own father,” Roderick said grimly, drawing your attention to him.

You looked down, taking in the rest of your surroundings before answering. Your orb was almost identical to Dream’s except for the fact that it wasn’t suspended above a binding circle, for no magic was needed to keep you contained. You took up most of the remaining space to Dream’s left side, and you were held just as securely in place as he was. The one saving grace to your predicament was that you at least were allowed to keep your clothing.

“Answer me, girl!” Roderick hissed, never raising his voice.

“You are not my father,” You spat, defiant for the first time in your life.

“Oh, how I wish that were true.”

“You’re not even a Magus,” You continued, despite the interruption. “You’re just an evil old man who lucked his way into the right books, and you have no right to keep Dream prisoner.”

“You speak so highly of him, yet you seem to have no regard for your own safety, foolish girl.”

“I don’t care what you do to me anymore.” You murmured bitterly. “Beat me? You’ve already done that for years, and I’m done being afraid of it. Kill me? That would at least be liberating. Keep me hostage? Well, I’ve lived with that all my life, why should now be any different? You want me to be your possession? Fine. But Dream isn’t yours to keep. He doesn’t belong to anyone and he won’t give you what you want.”

“He won’t?” Roderick repeated your refrain, a malevolent glint reaching his eye. “So, you have been speaking with him?”

“What? No, I-”

“LIAR. I see now that this monstrosity has poisoned you to me. Very well then-” Roderick switched his attention to Dream, ignoring you to address him. “(Y/N) here seems quite eager to serve you. Let’s see if you are as fond of her as she is of you. She will stay here, un-watered and unfed until you give me what I demand of you. Do so and you shall both be free. Ignore my wishes and you will remain trapped here while she dies.”

While you had been brave earlier in what seemed to be a moment of madness, you were afraid again now, terrified by the thought of starving to death in what was little better than a gibbet, though at least in the glass orb there would be no creatures to eat away your dead flesh.

Dream, unable and unwilling to give into Roderick’s demands did not respond. Disgusted by both his prisoners, the Magus walked menacingly away, leaving you frail, scared, and hopeless; Dream was in a similar state to yours, but he was never devoid of hope.

Although Roderick had expected you to waste away and die within a week, you were seemingly unable to die. You didn’t need to eat or drink, you were unable to sleep, and for some mysterious reason, your muscles didn’t atrophy; yet you did still wish to move around and stretch them.

Neither you nor Dream understood how a human could be so resilient in this manner, though Dream wouldn’t have spoken to you even if he did know, determined to stay mute lest his captors hear him, even though he longed to speak with you.

The fact was that you were alive because of the strongest magic of all, love. It was not romantic love or even the love of a friend. It was a very rare strain of love, reserved for those who longed for justice and freedom, but not for themselves. On the rare occasions that humans felt this for one another, it could invigorate them for short periods of time until justice was served. You however, were not feeling such love for a human, but for one of the Nine, and it was because of that that you needed for nothing, and survived your imprisonment.

Occasionally Alex would visit you, under the guards’ watchful eyes. He would try to reason with you, or to get you to give up your quest for Dream. You initially tried to get him to see things from your perspective much in the same way that he was trying to change your mind, but when it became clear that he would always be too terrified of your father to free you and Dream, you gave up on him, ignoring him when he came; under such a strained relationship, Alex quickly began to loathe you in the same complex manner that he loathed Dream.

Sometimes, you would talk to Dream, even though he never spoke back. You would thank him for the dreams you used to have, ask rhetorical questions which he didn’t have answers for, and sometimes try to come up with stories that would act like dreams to try and cheer him up, since like you, he didn’t sleep during his captivity. Now and then, you would sing a tune or hum a few bars of songs that you had forgotten, but more often than not, you would also remain silent, hating that you would never get any privacy from the guards, whom you never acknowledged or responded to.

Dream’s hope was fuelled by your words. He listened intently to everything you said and respected everything you didn’t say. Dream had always enjoyed the company of the few humans who had found him in his realm, even though they always forgot him upon waking. Now he had found a human friend; his only remaining friend in this world now that Jessamy was gone.

You weren’t sorry when the Magus died, having long since renounced him as your father. Yet, with Roderick’s death, you had expected that Alex might finally free you and Dream, but fearing Roderick even in death, Alex couldn’t bring himself to do so. He might have freed you if he wasn’t so terrified of the repercussions from Dream, but as it was, he left you both in the cellar.

A century passed, and just like Dream, you didn’t age, thanks to that same strain of rare love that had protected you during your captivity.

You suspected that the outside world must have changed greatly based on the changing guards, their clothing, weaponry, and the radio they brought in which spouted music you didn’t like and news you tried to understand.

You had never liked any of the guards, who always seemed to lack humanity, but you hated these new ones even more, as they occasionally tapped your glass, suspecting you of being a ‘Dracula’ or other such monstrosity. If they had actually read the book as you had when you were young, they might have learned that what they spoke of was a Vampire and that it wasn’t a wholly uncommon term.

It wasn’t until one fateful day when Alex claimed he was visiting for the final time that his husband Paul (whom you rarely saw and would have liked to meet under different circumstances) accidentally smudged the marks of the binding circle.

With one final look back at the circle, Paul took Alex away, performing the first act of kindness that you and Dream had seen in one hundred years.

It wasn’t long before Dream used his newly re-instated powers, gaining freedom for himself, and you in turn. Although he was weakened by the lack of his tools and his captivity, Dream still managed to take you into the realm between his and the waking world which you had come from. He planned to take you to his home, but for the moment, he left you in the in-between, invisible to the humans around you, and lacking a physical form as if you were a ghost.

Dream didn’t explain where he had gone, and you hoped that he would come back so you wouldn’t have to live like a spectre. You weren’t afraid that he would abandon you, certain that he was your friend, even if he had never said so.

You weren’t left long, as Dream returned, taking your hand in his. He thought better than to tell you the punishment he had devised for Alex as he took you from your realm to his, where he might finally speak to you for the first time since meeting you a century ago.

Weak and tired, Dream didn’t land well, finding himself in the desert beyond his castle.

“Sir? Oh my goodness, Sir!” Lucienne, the ever-loyal librarian of Dream’s realm ran to her master frantically, having waited for his safe return since he left.

She helped him up, and for the first time since leaving his realm, Dream smiled, ecstatic and relieved to see his old friend and his home.

Upon regaining his balance, Dream looked about him, seeking you out.

“Sir?” Lucienne questioned him, fearing that he had lost something important. She glanced about her, stopping short when she spotted you a few paces away. She had seen humans long ago, but never one whose full being was in Dream’s realm; it was usually just their psyche that touched upon their astral plane.

“A human?” She wondered aloud.

“Yes,” Dream informed her, noting that you were unconscious for the first time since his capture. It seemed that in his realm, you could not help but sleep. You were not afflicted with the sleepy sickness; you were merely exhausted and now able to rest thanks to Dream’s escape.

“Her name is (Y/N),” Dream explained. “She was my only friend for a century.”

Curious by nature, Lucienne’s mind filled with questions, but she knew better than to ask them when her master was in need of rest.

Instead, she asked only what needed to be known, “Should we wake her?”

“No. Let her rest for now. She is in much need of it.”

With that said, Dream scooped you into his arms, carrying you through what little remained of his home. He did not know whether he had done you a service by bringing you here, but he would have to wait to find out, for there was still much work left for him to do.

Like My Work? Buy Me A Ko-Fi @ https://ko-fi.com/writeyouin

595 notes · View notes

llitchilitchi · 2 years

Photo

Fever ridden nights

#dnf #dreamnotfound #georgenotfound #c!george #georgenotfound fanart #dreamwastaken #dream fanart #c!dream #dsmp #dsmp fanart #monarchy restoration au #I completely forgot to hit 'post' on this one #anyways early days monarchy restoration?#dream's recovery post prison break brought on quite a few sleepless nights since his wounds got infected #but fear not! george is here to save the day

322 notes · View notes

befuddled-calico-whump · 1 year

Text

Waiting Game (Tower: Day 29)

For Angstpril, Day 7: Sleepless Nights

cw: imprisonment, isolation, mentions of violence, dehumanization

Masterlist ///// Next

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

His head hurt.

It was strange, after everything that had happened, that he could focus on something as small as a headache, but maybe that's why he did it.

He'd lost a fight. No big deal, he'd lost plenty of fights, but this one didn't end with a defeat or retreat or even just an arrest. Overkast hadn't stopped after a blow that knocked Lex senseless, after beating him until he could barely move, even after tearing off his fucking limbs when he'd tried to counterattack with his fire.

Lex hadn't been conscious for long after that.

He'd woken up in a cell, if you could even call it waking up. Half-dead, unaware of anything but the pain and the fact that he'd been caught. He'd tried to fight his way out, ignoring how much it hurt to move, how weak he was, but his fire wouldn't come. His blows wouldn't connect. They must've sedated him after that, because he couldn't remember much else.

He didn't know how much time had passed since his arrest. All he knew was his freedom was lost, and his arms were gone.

And his head hurt.

Alexei's cell was small. He supposed all cells in the tower were; they were designed to contain, not offer comfort. The floor and walls were dense stone, and there were no windows; no light save for the scant amount that crept from the slots in the heavy metal door.

One ankle was connected to the wall with a few feet of chain, the other was fitted with a power-dampening cuff. A metal cot lined with a thin mattress hung from one of the walls, and a metal toilet sat in the corner across from it, barely within the range the chain allowed him.

The idea that this might be the rest of his life was too big, too painful for him to swallow right now. It didn't feel real. One slip up, one fight he'd been just a hair outmatched in, and his world had ended. The weight of that reality would crush him if he let it.

So much of him didn't want to believe it. Surely, he'd find a way to escape, or his friends in the Underneath would come and free him, or some fucking natural disaster would turn the tide in his favor.

But of course that wouldn't happen. If he wanted things to return to any semblance of normalcy, it was entirely on his shoulders.

Meals came twice a day, as far as he could tell based on his sleep and hunger patterns. A cardboard tray filled with cold, shapeless food, pushed through one of the door slots, along with a shallow dish filled with water. Eating on his knees, face in the bowl like some kind of animal was a blow to his pride, but he'd take it over being fed by one of the guards.

He hadn't seen another person since coming fully into consciousness, when they'd finally brought in someone with healing powers to seal his wounds. That had been a few days ago. A week, at most.

He knew he shouldn't care if he saw guards or not, and he was used to spending plenty of time alone, but the emptiness, the quiet of the cell was starting to eat at him.

Whatever. He could use their inattention to his advantage. Based on the fragments of memory from his weeks spent half-conscious and healing, he knew he was imprisoned at the Tower, one of a handful of places in the city designed to hold criminals with powers. Staffed by powered guards, equipped with plenty of countermeasures… breaking out would've been a challenge before he'd lost his arms. Now it'd be all but impossible.

Lex could bide his time. Get stronger, act weaker. Catch them off guard, take a hostage through the damned door slot if he had to. Anything to get away. Anything to avoid the fate the city had chosen for him.

But he knew that even if he could manage it, (he would, he had to) it would take time to find an opening, to plan. And that time would be spent here, whether he liked it or not. He'd heard stories of the Tower from other Neath citizens. Horror stories designed to shock their listeners; tales of human experimentation and violence and removal of rights, of guards torturing or violating prisoners just because they could. All second-hand. Once someone was taken to the Tower, they were often never seen again. Strange to think he'd joined that number. Strange and terrifying. But he was determined to change the ending of his story.

If that meant suffering through whatever the Tower had to give, he'd bear it.

At least that's what Lex told himself as he lay flat on his back, staring up into the darkness of the cell. He'd bear it, but 'it' filled him with a smothering dread.

And there was nothing to do but wait through it. He felt helpless, an object waiting to be acted upon—a bitter, sickening notion. He had nothing but his own body—or what remained of it—and the ragged clothes on his back.

The cell was sanitized of anything he could make use of; even the water tray was tinfoil, and he'd learned quickly that if he tried to remove it from the reach of the slot, the guards simply wouldn't refill it. The single sheet on the cot was thin enough that it wouldn't see much use before tearing, and what could he do with that besides set it on fire, destroying one of the few comforts he'd been granted?

He had his teeth, his eyes, his mind.

And there was nothing to do but wait.

Lex lay on his back. Trying to sleep, failing to sleep. Reciting old poems under his breath just to hear a voice, to keep the darker thoughts at bay, keep the despair from consuming him.

He closed his eyes, and he waited.

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing

#angstpril2023 #fic #day 7 #sleepless nights #wildefire #sad lad #this felt incomplete but there was also nothing more to say so #whump #angst #assassin whump #imprisonment #prison whump #isolation #tw violence

36 notes · View notes

inspectorspacetimerevisited · 4 months

Text

While it’s never shown (and rarely discussed) on screen,

the Inspector does actually sleep for short periods of time (at least, according to the novels).

#Inspector Spacetime #The Sleepless (trope)#The Sleepless #the Inspector (character)#Twelfth Inspector #12th Inspector #Infinity Knights #actually does sleep #for short periods #catnaps #often standing up #never shown on screen #never discussed #Inspector Spacetime novels #Inspector Spacetime novellas #Prisoners of Ulimphos (novella)#fell asleep standing up #according to the novels #not canon

2 notes · View notes

thekingofchungus · 1 year

Text

okay. healthy coping mechanisms. okay i got this. this is easy. okay i got it. 2000 word thinkpiece on why tobias finch is the saddest little pebble

#chatbox #i dont know why revisiting the repo ost sparked this in me but i really want to write about tobias #and what trauma + chronic fatigue does to an old babygirl #i feel like. hes so tired all the time and he knows this but also what if its compromising his only family left what if they cant trust him #and like he wishes sleep worked he wishes he wasn't like this he doesn't know when it got so unbearable #maybe its leftover insomnia from his days as a questioned prisoner #or was it those agonizingly quiet first few nights as a fugitive of the monarchy?#or was it every minute he was so afraid that what if his newborn daughter's killed in the middle of the night #because what if he's caught off guard and can't prepare. what if someone he loves dies. its so tiring but he cares too much to stop #how many of his sleepless nights have just been him thinking why can't he just be that well meaning awkward sea-happy teenage boy again #and tobi. honey. its because he's tired. he's so tired because he cares because YOU care #pirateverse #hashtag pirates #sailing sodomites #tobias finch #in this essay

2 notes · View notes

miryum · 2 months

Text

☆ 18+ minors dni ☆

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who comes over to your house just at first to get away from Crime Alley and his parents. Your parents welcome him with open arms and encourage him to come over because they don’t want to see him stuck at home with abusive and addicted parents

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who doesn't think much of you at first – you’re just another person in his sphere of knowledge. You’re just the little sister of his best friend and someone else who sits at the dinner table when he stays over

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who begins to notice you once you enter high school after him and your brother. His place in your family is becoming more solidified as the years go on and as his father is sent to prison

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who begins to tease you when he comes over to hang out with your brother. He begins to ask offhandedly where you are and seems a bit disappointed whenever you’re out with friends or at an extracurricular

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who tags along to see all of your performances or sporting events or concerts and sends you a little smirk after each one, congratulating you along with the rest of your family

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who slowly becomes more integrated into your world and who you begin to notice – not as simply one of your brother's friends, but as a potential crush as high school continues

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who makes sure to smile at you in the hallway during passing times and who never acts like the stuck-up upperclassman who’s too good for you (even if that’s how your brother acts)

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who begins to routinely flirt with you whenever he comes over. Snide little comments like “Y/n knows what I’m talking about” and “Princess, you want me to proofread your essay? Lord knows you need it” with that infuriating smirk

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who gets a glow-up over the summer between 11th and 12th year and sends your little 10th grade heart beating wildly

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who sees this and sends a simple wink your way

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who spends sleepless nights debating whether he should act on his feelings or if he was just being creepy thinking about an underclassman

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who can never explain why he doesn't go on any dates anymore and stays stubbornly single even when your brother begins to date more steadily

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who won’t ever admit that thoughts of you on your family vacation to the lake that he was invited on, wearing your swimsuit, water dripping down your body after he threw you in the lake, enter his mind when he has his hand down his pants

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who cheekily asks you if you have a date to his senior prom, heart actually beating in his chest, worried you would just see him as a friend of your brother’s

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who picks you up in a handsome suit and tie, hair coiffed and jaw dropped when you hurry down the stairs in your prom dress, your mom gushing over you two. Your brother’s brows furrow slightly when he sees Jason’s blush and wide eyes, but doesn’t say anything of it

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who makes sure he’s the only one who dances with you at prom and brushes aside any glances of a senior and sophomore together. There are other sophomores there, but usually in a friend group comprising of both juniors and sophomores

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who corners you after prom before school, beginning the conversation all smooth and suave with “how’d you like being on my arm last night, sweetheart?” but by the end of the conversation he’s a bashful little boy, stuttering out how he knows he’s a senior and going off to college soon, but also really likes you and was wondering if you wanted to go out to a movie or get ice cream later

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who tells your brother he’s officially dating someone, but doesn’t say who. Never mind that you’ve been coming home more happy and blushing

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who, once he turns 18, gets a little nervous that people will think of him as a paedophile. He worries that once he goes off to college, you’ll forget about him and move onto a “younger” man (even though Jason’s only two years older and is going to Gotham University so he’ll still be close by)

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who takes you out on the weekend of your seventeenth birthday (you told your parents your friends were taking you out, which wasn’t lying, per se) and treats you how he always thought you should be treated

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who books you two a hotel room that night and positively keens at the idea of taking your virginity

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who lays you down on the hotel bed and takes his lovely time with you. Whenever you mutter, “if my brother finds out…” he rewards you with a little swat to the thigh and replies, “I don’t wanna be thinking about your brother right now”

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who finds that sweet spot behind your earlobe and a million other sweet spots all while circling your clit over your underwear. “Oh, sweetheart, look at how wet you are for me,” he coos and when you blush, he kisses your cheeks and says, “no, no, it shows me how much you want me”

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who gets addicted to your pussy. He decides that your pussy ruined all other pussies when you clenched around him; but what really did it for him was that little whimper you made, murmuring out his name, when he first pushed into you, bottoming out

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who makes sure you spend the rest of the weekend trapped in his arms, his body braced above yours. He treats you to a bubble bath and kisses and cuddles afterwards, gently massaging your clit, another hand cupping your breast

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who drives you back home and finally has to confront your brother, who’s standing, cross armed, in the doorway of your home

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who carefully explains the situation to your brother, making sure your brother knows you were fully consenting, and even then, if there was any blame to place, it would be on him. Your brother finally relents on the condition that he would beat Jason up if he ever hurt his younger sister. Jason replies, “you won’t have to worry about that. If I ever hurt her, I’ll beat myself up”

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who makes time on weekends and in between college courses to visit you and who even “helps” you with homework (i.e. distracts you by pressing lazy, open mouth kisses on your neck from behind as you try to study)

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who spends even more time at your house now, an arm around your shoulders and kissing your forehead every three seconds. Your parents are much more chill with Jason dating you than your brother and officially think of him as part of the family

Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd who, by the time he’s picked out the engagement ring, your dad is already calling him “son”

#miryum's dc universe #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd #headcanon #brothers best friend #hear me out here #we love jason todd #age gap?#dc x reader #dcu #dc comics #jason todd didn't die #not proofread

865 notes · View notes

konigbabe · 11 months

Text

PERISH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x gn!reader Word count: 1.6k Tags/warnings: no y/n; manga spoilers (post Shibuya timeline); canon-compliant; angst; death; emotional breakdown; hurt/no comfort; loss; grief Summary: For the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks. Happy start of JJKS2 writing week.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

November 2018 8 minutes until Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

"Don’t worry, I’ll make it on time. I’m right behind the corner."

"We can wait," Yuji’s voice carries through the car, the static of the Bluetooth speaker occasionally cracking.

It feels like years have passed since you last saw him. Sealed away in the prison realm, Gojo’s state remains a mystery. There’s no telling how being locked in a place where time and space don’t exist can affect even the strongest minds.

That’s what worries you. What if he’ll break? What if he goes crazy on all of you? What if he explodes; wipes you all out with his technique? An endless sea of ‘what if’ swirls inside your mind as you take another turn, the mountains on your left with an ocean view on your right.

"Don’t," you reassure the youngster, "don’t wait any longer."

"You should be here, though," Megumi jumps into the conversation, "You’re closest to that idiot. He’ll want to see you."

His words draw a smile on your lips. It’s finally happening. The sleepless nights are coming to an end with the arrival of your lover.

"Then I’ll just opt for a dramatic entrance while you keep him busy," you respond before tightening your hands on the wheel. A familiar feeling washes over you; sudden knowledge of a new presence. Heart picking up, your eyes search the road for the source while the car’s speed slowly drops.

32 seconds; that’s how long it takes you to locate the source. A curse spirit manifestation stands in the middle of the road, blocking you. Its small hunched build stands a mere meter above the ground; four arms decorated by translucent fins hanging by its body, the prehnite skin glistening in the last rays of today’s sun, giving off a wet, moist appearance.

"Boys," you announce, stopping Yuji’s and Megumi’s bickering while still keeping up the cheerful, light voice in an attempt to not raise suspicions about your current predicament, "don’t wait any longer. Unseal Satoru and stop worrying ‘bout me. It’ll be fine."

Bringing the car to a slow halt, Yuji’s tone shifts into a more attentive one as your name seeps through the speaker before you hang up after one more reassurance.

As you step out of the vehicle, the curse's malevolence engulfs the air, almost tangible in its intensity. It clings to the atmosphere like a poisonous fog, penetrating your senses with a pungent sulfuric odor that threatens to overwhelm you.

Your hand slips inside your jacket to retrieve a carefully preserved seal, reserved for such precarious situations; just like this one.

"I’m sorry," with every footfall, the curse seems to shrink in size, yet its malicious nature grows stronger, the smell of sulfur almost suffocating, "but I’m in a hurry right now and you," pointing the parchment paper towards the spirit, "are in my way."

Swift and precise, your movements carry an aura of practiced precision. With little effort, you firmly press the seal upon the spirit's head, causing it to stumble momentarily before dissipating into thin air, vanquished by the power contained within the sigil.

Yet, the energy lingers.

Stronger than before. Stronger than a second ago. Its absent defense, non-existent attempt to fight or flee…it all makes sense now —

A powerful grip; a strong hand adorned with talons as keen as the finest blades dig into your shoulder as an inhuman force pushes you to the side.

As you're thrust aside, your vision catches a subtle glimmer of chrysolite, a hue that seeps into your perception; its scales are sturdy, each edge honed to a dangerous sharpness. Driven by instinct and the will to protect yourself, you reach out, your hand making contact with the curse spirit’s scaly hide.

The jagged edges of its scales cut into the delicate flesh of your fingers, leaving trails of crimson in their wake.

— it was a decoy.

Your body collides with the unforgiving side of the mountain, back meeting the rough and unyielding surface. A symphony of pain resonates within your bones, their structural integrity compromised as multiple cracks reverberate through your form.

Gasping for breath, your body instinctively seeks solace, but find none amidst the terrain. The curse doesn’t wait either. Swiftly moving forward, it lunges at you. Unforgiving. With a clear intent to strike. To kill.

During Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

There is no pain. The moment the curse’s hand breaches the barrier of your chest, you expect it. Expect some kind of visceral reaction. But there’s none — a gentle pinch, akin to a fleeting touch when the sharp claws first pierce through the protective layers of your breastplate. A slight discomfort upon the feeling of having a foreign object that’s found its place within the confines of your ribs. The barrier of your rib cage offers minimal resistance, yielding to the relentless advance that seeks to reach the very core of your being. The heart.

It all feels confusing.

"Kenjaku sends his regards," it whispers, the words slurred by the razor-sharp fangs that protrude from its mouth.

October 31, 2018 — 8:09 PM

"What’s the worst that can happen?"

Satoru saunters around the corner of the table, his presence punctuated by the audible slurping of juice from a small cartoon container. All while your palms rest on top of the said furniture, fingernails tapping at the surface.

The news has spread fast through the jujutsu community, faster than wildfire. Whispers of an unknown curtain cast around Shibuya an hour ago, trapping all non-sorcerers, innocent civilians, inside its insidious grasp with only one demand: Bring Satoru Gojo.

"Don’t say it like that, Satoru," you turn to face the man whose casual and dismissive demeanor only adds fuel to the worries setting inside your bones.

"They’re a bunch of curses," his hand finds its place on your hip bone while placing the empty container away, "Some special grades, yeah, but they’re weak compared to me. I’ll deal with them, save some people in the meantime, and bam," he snaps his fingers loudly, "We can go home. Get that sunset date you’ve been babbling about. Life is good," he finishes with a kiss on the crown of your head.

Life is good.

You watch the sun dip below the horizon behind the curse spirit’s back, indulging the sinister being in a halo glow.

Yeah. In the end, life was good.

2 hours and 48 minutes after Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

For a moment, he stands still. Unable to look down; frozen in time. The weight of it all seems to bear down upon his shoulders – now that Sukuna’s taken over Megumi’s body, Nanami’s and Yaga’s death, Suguru’s body being used as a vessel, the slow crumbling fall of the Jujutsu world – and now you; being gone.

Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer of the current time. Yet even his immense power proves futile as the people he loves keep dying on him…because of him.

A burden that threatens to crush him beneath its insurmountable gravity.

The air around him hangs heavy with sorrow, as if the very essence of grief has manifested itself in the atmosphere. A storm of emotions swirls within him; a combination of disbelief, anguish and a gnawing ache that gnashes at the core of his being.

He clenches his fists, fingers trembling with a mixture of sorrow and determination. In that agonizing moment, he finds the strength to finally lower his gaze, to confront the devastating truth that lies at his feet.

Everyone holds their breaths, the weight of his misery echoing in the silence as his eyes meet the lifeless visage of the one he holds dearest.

Of you.

Hand reaching out, his fingers graze the once-soft flesh of your hand; now cold and stiff. It serves as a confirmation of reality. There’s no getting you back, no way Shoko can nurture you back to health with her technique.

You’re gone.

And in that harrowing instant, the façade crumbles. The walls he built to contain his pain come crashing down, and Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks.

Crumbling down on his knees, the vulnerability that spills forth from his broken form is raw and unrestrained. Only a handful of those closest to him stand behind to witness the symphony of torment that pierces the silence. Tears stream down his face, each drop carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words, moments you two could’ve spent together.

One hand covering his mouth to silence the guttural sounds, the other reaches out to you, tenderly cradling your lifeless head upon his lap. He clings to the fragile hope that if he could provide just enough warmth and love, you might return to him.

Yuji looks around the room, at the people who silently observe their friend fall apart. Taking a step towards the hunched man, a soft grasp stops him mid step; Kiyotaka shakes his head, pushing his glasses back in place as Shoko looks down. For the first time, she’s unable to figure out her classmate, her childhood friend, the man whose side she’s always stayed by.

"Gojo," Yuji doesn’t allow Kiyotaka to stop him. Believing in what’s right, he stands behind his teacher’s back.

Hand laying on the tense muscle of his shoulder, he doesn’t attempt to comfort Satoru with any words — no words in this universe would bring you back anyway. Instead, his hand just rests there. Unmoving. Gentle.

"Who did it," his words cause Shoko to look back up as Satoru, stone-faced and stoic, speaks in a firm, devoid voice. Imagines of unspeakable horror flashes in his mind as he stands up, towering over the wide-eyed Yuji.

"Tell me now," his eyes search Kiyotaka’s, voice filled with undeniable authority, "I’ll kill them, kill them all."

#fun fact this is the first time I’m actually writing death and mourning #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo angst #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk angst #gojo satoru angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x you #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #moni writes #moni's writing week #jjk writing week #angst

3K notes · View notes

barbieaemond · 7 months

Text

A curse for a curse

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, sub!Aemond, smut, oral sex (f and m receiving), overstimulation, orgasm denial, p in v, chains kink (idk if that’s even a thing but it’s there)

Word count: 8.5K

Author’s note: PLEASE READ THIS ->There's a little canon divergenge as in Rook's Rest is not happened yet, so Aegon is King and Aemond went to Harrenhal. Based on a request I got for sub!Aemond.

Taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @ashovertheriver

Harrenhal tastes like curse and smoke when she enters the blackened and ruined walls.

She is sure, as she is sure that dragons are real, that this place has been cursed over and over since Balerion and Aegon the Conqueror proved that not even stone was safe against dragonfire.

The air is heavy in her lungs, as breathing through a thick layer of wool and her steps echo down the corridors in a strange way; it seems like a never ending sound, echoing through the walls and many lost ages.

But her stride is steady, her eyes fixed on the doors of the Hall of One Hundred Hearths where she is sure to find him, where she will end this thing for which she has no name, and yet it is draining her, wearing her out like a starved leech.

“When is Aemond coming back?” the Queen Mother asks, and then little Jaehaera asks the same question, even Helaena, in those rare moments of clarity, wonders about her brother. And each time, she doesn’t know what to say. Her lip grows stiff, her jaw clenches and she wonders obsessively from dawn till dusk. What is he doing there?

Why has he not returned now that Harrenhal has been taken?

What is he doing with that bastard woman?

“They say she’s a witch.” King Aegon says with his glassy eyes, putting down his cup as he looks around to choose a target on which to pour his anger. Wine seems to not work anymore, it is not enough to quench his thirst for revenge, and unfortunately, she happens to be the easiest mark.

“He killed everyone in that gods-forsaken place. Everyone except the witch.” He leans forward, watching her with amused anticipation just like a child who waits for his favorite toy to break. “Why did he not do it, sweet good-sister?”

He wants her to snap, and surely something does snap inside her, but she refuses to be humiliated like this.

“I do not know, your Grace. Perhaps my husband learned the Gods’ mercy and decided to spare a woman.”

His chest shakes violently as he laughs, and there’s nothing more humiliating than his laugh, not even the whispers traveling all the way from the Riverlands.

He’s taken her as his prisoner, keeps her in his chambers.

She has utterly bewitched him.

Every word is a stab to her heart and every time his word reaches her through a raven, the wound splits more open and festers.

He does not mention the bastard witch. He says nothing on the matter. He informs her of the war progressing, tells her he will come back soon.

Soon.

Soon was two moons ago and he’s still there.

It doesn’t matter anymore, she thinks as she reaches the doors of Harrenhal. Soon is now.

The look on Ser Criston Cole is almost comical as two soldiers open the doors of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. “Princess?”

She immediately looks around, but there’s no silver in that huge black hall.

“What are you doing here?” the Hand asks, walking to her “It is not safe for you—”

“Where is the Prince?” she cuts him off, her tongue hitting her teeth like a blade cleaving the air.

Ser Criston looks puzzled for a moment, and even if she doesn’t show it, anguish twists her gut. But then he says “The Prince is not here, your Grace. He’s out, on the battle camp.”

She looks at the soldiers in the room, watching her like some kind of weird creature—a lamb in a den of wolves. That is no place for a princess, no place for a woman. And yet, it is precisely her place.

She belongs to his side. As he belongs to hers. It’s what she’s been telling herself for two moons of sleepless nights.

She should have come here with him in the first place, war be damned.

“Leave, please.” She orders the men “All of you. I need a word with the Hand.”

They may not be used to taking orders from a woman, but they immediately leave the Hall like a pack of unruly children.

The thud of the doors is like some kind of curtain falling and she is finally free of this act, free to snap.

“What is going on here, Ser Criston?”

He shifts on his feet, looking down, looking utterly incapable to answer her question. “The situation in the Riverlands is quite delicate at the moment—”

“I don’t give a shit about the war, Ser Criston.” She almost hisses “You are perfectly aware of what I’m asking.”

His mouth shuts and she resists the urge to use her hands as talons to part his lips and grab the truth from his throat.

“What is going on between Aemond and the witch.” she states, she is not asking.

The Hand sighs deeply and takes a step closer. His whole demeanor changes, becomes confidential, almost fatherly. “My Princess, you must not believe the foul whispers that have been spread.”

She feels a glimmer of relief blooming in her heart, but not strong enough to relinquish the leeches sucking at her bones. “What should I believe then?”

“It’s true. The Prince spared her life.”

“Does he keep her in his chambers?”

“What? Seven Hells, no. She has her own chamber. A little room in the wing intended for servants.”

“Did she ever visit his rooms? Alone?”

Ser Criston looks down for a moment, his lips contracting. “You must understand, my Princess. There are no servants here.”

The wound between her ribs cracks open.

There are no servants here. Did she help him dress? Did she help him bathe? Did she do all the things she used to do? All the things only she was entitled to do?

“I want to see her.”

“Princess, it is not wise.”

“I believe it is very much wise, Ser Criston, since my marriage is at stake here.”

Ser Cole sighs again. “She’s…dangerous, my Princess. She’s eerily persuasive.”

“So, you think it’s true? That she’s a witch?”

“I’m not sure about her powers, my Princess. All I know is that…one of our soldiers spat in her face when she was still a captive by order of the Rogue Prince and she just…murmured something to this man.” He swallows lowering his gaze and takes a deep breath. “The next day he ripped out his own tongue with his bare hands, bleeding to death.”

Disturbing as these words can be, she keeps a steady and cold face.

“She claims she can read the flames. That they speak to her, that she saw all of this happening—the Prince coming here. She claims she saw the fate of the war.”

A long silence stretches between them, but however right the Hand’s reasoning may be, she is not keen to let magic and superstitions take what she has come here to retrieve. “Take me to her.”

Ser Cole stalls for a moment, trying to make her give up by merely looking at her. But at last, he caves. “As you wish, my Princess.”

Her room is completely bare, save for a hearth and a bundle of dirty covers and a pillow thrown on the ground.

She enters and the air feels even heavier, more cursed. She feels it like something weighing on her shoulders, drying her throat.

There’s a woman sitting before the fire, clad in rags with long black hair falling down her back. She seems to register the door opening and closing only minutes later, as if she was too focused on her fire staring. But then she turns her head and looks at the woman before her with a strange smile.

“Alas, you have come.”

The Princess blinks quickly, watching the woman stand up and walk closely to her, chains on her feet and hands. She feels something unsettling under her skin, behind her eyes, as if she can’t stop looking straight into the green eyes of the witch, not even if she wanted to.

“You must be Alys.” She says, quickly scanning the witch before returning, inevitably, like a magnet, into her bright green eyes.

The woman, whose age is impossible to determine, keeps her smile as she looks at the Princess from head to toe. “You are exactly as I saw you in the flames.”

“That will save us some time, then. No need for introductions.”

“No. I know who you are.” The witch says, curling her cracked lips some more “I can see his mark on you.”

“His mark?”

“Yes.” She says, unnaturally widening her eyes. “He leaves a mark on everything. Things, places, people. Much like me, I’d say.” From her throat gushes a high-pitched laugh, jarring and spiteful. “We have much in common, the Kinslayer and I.”

The way she utters the last words makes the Princess grind her teeth, as if they were…what? Friends? Allies?

Lovers?

“Have you been in his chambers all this time?” she finally asks and the witch has the boldness to roll her eyes. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To know if he cheated on you?”

“Answer my question.” The Princess orders.

“Darling, If I wanted to fuck him, I would’ve done it ages ago.” She starts laughing again, grinning mischievously and then she sighs. “You left your mark on him as well. I can feel you in his head. And you are so heavy.”

She doesn't know what to make of that. There is not a single reason why she should trust her word. And it's not just the alleged powers this woman may possess. It's her whole demeanor. Haughty, even though she is a bastard. Mocking, as if she looks at the young woman before her, and sees much, much more.

“Just as you, I’d say, since he’s forsaken his family and his wife to do whatever you’re making him do it with your witchcraft.”

She bursts out laughing, so loud that the Princess flinches and takes a step back.

“I’m not making him doing anything. I can’t play with his head. He’s too stubborn. I did not curse him, sweetheart. Your beloved prince is already accursed.”

“Then what do you want? Gold? Lands?”

“I do what the flames command. I serve no God, no King, no Lord. And neither does your husband. It was his choice to see.”

“To see what?”

“What the flames choose to show. I know how this war will end. I know which color will stain the other for good. I know who will sit on the Iron Throne.”

The Princess furrows her brow, confused and puzzled, apparently pleasing the witch who smiles again and nods. “Oh yes, he will make a sight to behold wearing the Conqueror’s Crown.”

Who? Aemond? On the Iron Throne?

“So that’s how you’re keeping him here. With visions and fantasies.”

“He asked me to. At the moment I’m more valuable to him than all his generals and soldiers put together. Besides, I know how to deal with him.”

The Princess almost laughs at this. “I see. You think you can handle him, don’t you? A wild dragon for you to tame, is that what he is for you?”

“Well, I’m not denying he’s handsome enough to please my eyes.”

“And once you have tamed him, what will you do? How will you handle him when you scratch the surface, and you see the neglected son? Lonely, misunderstood, maimed. The boy no one cared for.”

It is the first time the witch does not have a quick biting answer. It makes the Princess rejoice.

“All your witchcraft won’t be enough to handle him.”

The witch falls silent. There is a distant look in her eyes as she observes the Princess and the more she stares, the more the younger woman feels dreadfully uncomfortable. She starts to feel something in the back of her mind, like a gentle abstract push.

“Ser Criston." she says suddenly, swallowing but keeping a collected mask. "The keys, please."

“Your Grace, Prince Aemond will not be ha—”

“I’ll deal with Prince Aemond.” She says, looking straight at the witch and the ghost of a superb smile hovers on her lips “I know how to handle him.”

The Knight slides the keys from his armor and hands them to the Princess. She is ready to free the witch’s wrists, but she stops, locking her eyes on Alys. “There is a carriage outside. And some guards who will do whatever Ser Criston will order them. Take it and go wherever you want, there’s even gold in the—"

“I told you, I don’t want—”

“I don’t care of what you want!” The Princess snaps, raising her voice, and the pushing dissolves. “You live to serve the flames? Fine. Do it elsewhere, far away from us.”

Alys shuts her parched mouth, and simply nods. “As you wish, Princess.”

She removes the shackles from her feet, and then from her hands, holding the chains between her fingers. Alys touches her hurting wrists, before tilting her head down in some kind of bow, or maybe a mocking gesture. The Princess cannot bring herself to care.

The witch makes her way past the younger woman but at last, she stops for a moment, leaning back her head of dark curls to say “I did touch him, just once. He put a knife to my throat.”

Vhagar likes to nestle on the burned blackened towers of Harrenhal, like some kind of dreadful reminder of the legacy of ruins and ashes Balerion the Dread has unleashed on this cursed land.

Aemond enters the castle walls with his circle of counselors and generals. They crowd on him like bees with honey and he knows why. He knows that most of the time they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. They hang on his lips and jump like little good soldiers, jostling with one another in the hope of gaining something more when the war ends. A land, a title, one of them had even had the guts to offer a daughter to marry.

“I am not sure of what you are implying, my Lord.” He had said to the Lord with a dangerous black glint in his eye, as the fool thought it was wise to remind the Kinslayer that he and his wife had had no children yet. “Whether you are insulting me or my wife. I am sure of one thing, though. You will shut your hole before I take your tongue and feed it to my dragon.”

There were no more talks of unwed daughters between those walls.

“My Prince, if you allow me—” one of them says as they enter the Hall of the Hundred Hearths “We should give the lords who pledged for the Blacks more time to consider—”

“I gave them enough.” He says turning with a glare, looking even taller than he is, with his silver armor streaked with gold and the long green cloak. “They will pledge to my brother before dawn or I will bring dragonfire to their lands. Then we shall see where their loyalty lies while they burn to the crisp.”

They all shush and Aemond almost thanks the Gods for this brief blessed moment of peace. He ponders for a moment and then looks at a young soldier behind him.

“Summon the witch.” He orders “Bring her to me.”

He looks down to remove his riding gloves but out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the boy is still there.

“Uhm, my Prince, the witch is not here anymore.”

“What do you mean she’s not here?”

“S-she left, your Grace.”

The last word does not even leave his mouth the poor soldier feels a hand around his neck and the Prince is easily lifting him from the ground as if made of feathers. “You let her flee?!” he rages with his eye blown wide.

“I-I did—not your Grace!” the boy manages to croak while he’s choking, legs kicking like a chicken in the butcher’s hands.

“He’s right. I did.” Her voice cuts through the air and Aemond turns his head in a blink, looking positively stunned to hear his wife, to see her there.

He lets the soldier boy go and stares at her on the threshold of the huge Hall. He blinks with disbelief, as if he’s finally able to see after days and nights spent in a cloud of fog. Something shifts inside him him—something that has been wandering ceaselessly day and night, lifting the weight from his shoulders, from his black heart. Not Harrenhal’s weight, not Alys’. A weight far darker, a curse far more dangerous.

“Out.” he orders the Lords “All of you.”

They obey at once, scattering down the Hall only to stop for a moment before the Princess, to pay their respect.

The doors close but she stays on the threshold. His eye roams on her figure, once and then twice. He has never seen her wearing such a simple dress, easy to disguise her noble roots, her royal ones. And even though the mere sight stokes almost three moons of ugly and burning desire, it only makes him angry. It only makes him ashamed.

“What in the name of the Seven are you doing here?”

She walks to him and without uttering a single word or even sparing a glance to him, she begins removing the heavy armor plates from his body.

“What are you doing?” he asks with deep wrinkles on his forehead.

“My duty as wife.” She replies sternly, holding his arm “Or did you forget you had one?” she looks at him and sees rage blazing behind his eye—rage and maybe a tinge of hurt.

“Am I doing it right?” she asks removing the armor plate from his forearm “Was your witch friend better than me?”

The metal clatters on the ground as he grabs her arm, hard, pulling her close. “I asked you a question. We’re at war and you go strolling around the continent? Have you lost your mind?”

She tries to wriggle herself out of his iron grip, unsuccessfully as always. “How strange, that is a question I should ask you.”

“Enough.” He says grinding his teeth, digging his fingertips into her skin until her mouth twists with pain.

“Enough was two moons ago, Aemond. When you were supposed to come home, to your family, to me.”

“In case you didn’t notice, we’re at war, my dear wife. Things in war don’t go exactly as you planned them—”

“Oh spare me!” she cuts him off, freeing herself “Spare me the war talk, that’s all I’ve been hearing from you.”

“What did you expect exactly? Love letters?”

“I expected what I deserved. To know the truth. You have not mentioned her. Ever, not even once. Do you have the faintest idea of what I’ve been through all this time? Of all the dirt they have been spreading behind my back?”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” He says turning his back on her, as if he had not done that enough.

“No, you will.” She promises, circling him to look straight at him again. “They said you were so besotted with her to deny her leaving your chambers.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” He says again, closing his eye for a moment.

“They said, and this was from the wretched mouth of your beloved brother, that you put a child in her womb since I was not able to give you an heir.”

“I don’t want to hear about it!” he shouts, and she knows she hit a nerve there, because he never shouts.

“Why? Does it make you ashamed? It should. I had to hear all of it. I had to endure it while you stayed here playing fortune teller with your witch whore.”

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and raises his gaze to look at her, dead serious. “You know nothing about her powers. She saw many things, happened precisely as she predicted. I needed her. I needed her powers and you had no right to send her away.”

“You needed her?” she repeats, pale with utter disbelief. “You needed her for what? For her to tell you how good you’ll look wearing the Conqueror’s Crown? To feed you with fairy tales while we risk our lives staying in the capital, unprotected because Dreamfyre can’t fight and Tessarion is still in Oldtown. What if the Blacks decide to attack us now? They have a dozen of dragons, we have only Sunfyre.”

“The Blacks will not attack.”

“Did she tell you this? Did she see this in the flames?” she can’t fight back the contempt curling her lips “Are you listening to yourself? Flames and visions to win a war? You poor fool.”

“Watch your mouth, woman.” he seethes “You don’t talk to me like this.”

“Or what? Are you going to chain me up? I kept her chains, you know? I thought you’d like a token of your time with the witch.”

“Did you come here for this? To make a scene like some common girl who feels threatened by another woman?” his lips turn upwards, curling and twisting with ugly deprecation “What do you think you know about the war? What is your contribution while you lie around in a lavish castle waiting for me to come back and fuck you? I’ll tell you. None. You can’t even perform your duty to give me an heir. And you come here to lecture me?”

The wound is rotting from the inside and he’s pouring salt on it.

“I came here for my dignity. As a woman, I have nothing else. I came here for your mother, who I fear will go mad with worry just as your sister. And lastly, to tell you that I’m with child.”

Aemond stills completely, so much that she thinks the witch’s curse is hitting him right now, no matter how far she is, turning him into stone.

“But it seems utterly irrelevant to me right now. So, go. Hurry! You might still find her.”

She moves to leave the room and he does it at the same time, trying to reach her, to stop her, but she flinches as he tries to touch her, battling his hands away.

Aemond utters her name, softly, and it makes her stomach turn.

“I will leave at dawn.” She informs him with a blank face “I won’t disturb you and your precious war any further. Fret not, husband. I will stay in my lavish castle like the good soldier I am, waiting for you to come back and fuck me.”

This is place is not only cursed, but it is also so freezing cold that she wishes for one of those direwolf furs the Northerners use to wear as she sits before the hearth in what she assumed to be Aemond’s chambers. The room is large, even larger than the ones they share in the Red Keep, but it’s completely bare and almost ominous with its black walls that stink of ash and smoke.

A cursed place, fitting for a cursed woman.

She has been for quite some time. Because she chose to stay by his side, because she chose to love him.

“We could turn to a Septon. Annulments are rare but possible. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins.” Her father had said in a letter, in the aftermath of Lucerys’ death.

As if she could leave him, as if she could turn her back on him and marry another man.

As if he hadn’t left his mark on her.

She thought the Gods had cursed her for good, that was why, however much they tried, she couldn’t bear his child.

“A child is the highest of the blessings from the Gods.” Her mother had said during one of her last visits to the capital “How can they bless your union with a man so accursed?”

And yet.

She is impatiently waiting for the sun to set. Even if her limbs have never been so heavy, as much as her heart, she finds no reason to stay here, not when she can’t stand even the sight of him. But of course, how can there be peace in such a cursed place?

She hears the door opening. She knows his gait. She wished to hear it for two moons as she lied alone in their bed.

She hears him approach until he is beside her, but she does not look at him. She only sees his arm holding out a small tray.

“Eat.” An order, not an invitation.

She doesn’t even bother to look at the food, keeping her cold gaze on the fire. “I’m afraid I lost my appetite, dear husband. You can thank yourself for that.”

She can feel his eye piercing, burning her skin, the air coming from his nose short and harsh.

“Eat or I’ll feed you myself.”

She doesn’t bother to even answer this time.

Aemond stares at her, waits for her to look at him, he needs for her to look at him. “Is it true?”

“What?”

“That you’re with child.”

“In my husband’s lovely words, I lie around all day so I guess I’m capable enough to notice if I miss my moonblood.”

He leaves the tray on the stone mantelpiece, noticing a pair of chains lying there, and then looks down at her. “You will stay here with me.” Another order.

Another rejection. “I will not.”

“Yes, you will. You are not going anywhere, not in your condition.”

“I see. Now I’m worth something to you, am I not?” and finally she looks up “My duty is fulfilled, my womb is finally swollen. It’s a shame your witch left, we could have asked her to look in the flames and tell us if it’s a boy or a girl.”

Aemond lowers his shoulders and grabs her chin with the same cruelty he is used to brandish his sword, tightening her cheeks to prevent her from uttering another word. “I said enough.”

He watches as she tries to escape his grip, pushing his shoulders as her eyes grow more and more scornful, and he knows he deserves it. But that ugly thing breaks, snaps like a thin rope pulled too tight.

His mouth is on hers, fingers squeezing her cheeks to force her to take his kiss, which is not really a kiss, but more of an act of war, a relentless and rather quick siege, because she was already starving. She opens his mouth and this alone makes him whine with relief as his tongue slides between her teeth. Her hands grab his doublet collar, knuckles turning white and she angles her head, only to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He winces as he pulls his head back and sees her licking her lips, a dead distant look in her eyes. But her hands move, gently, through his silver strands. "My words are but blunt knives on you. I must hurt you in the only way I can."

“I did not touch her.” He says like an oath “Ever.”

“I know you didn’t.” she reassures him, but her eyes stay distant, as if even being this close now, they are also miles and miles apart. “Maybe it would’ve been better if you had.”

“Did you want me to fuck her now?”

“I wanted you to need me, not her.”

His eye is on flame, rage and shame dancing together, but it’s not aimed at her. He finds that the only person on the receiving end is none other than himself.

Something dies in his eye, his shoulders slump and his head falls forward, hiding what no one would dare even think of seeing on the stern, cruel face of Aemond One Eye.

He kneels before her and lays his head on her belly, catching her off guard. She can't see his face, and yet she has it before her eyes, clear and indisputable as something carved into stone.

The surface has never been so frail. She doesn’t even need to scratch it, she only has to lift it.

No man is so accursed as the Kinslayer.

She had thought it true enough, but what about Aemond’s curse?

“I know you feel guilty.” She says, or rather whispers, as if she’s being blasphemous by accosting such a word to such a man. “I know you feel guilty for Jaehaerys. For Helaena.”

His answer is mute, but it’s the loudest confession she could get.

He fists the fabric of her gown between his hands, knuckles turning white on the verge of breaking. She feels him nestling further inside her, like a child, and she closes her eyes for a moment, placing a hand on her wound to stop the bleeding, and leans over him, sliding her hands on his back, softly but firmly, as if helping him to stay whole, as if preventing him from breaking into pieces.

Aemond didn’t believe in curses.

He did not regret, not even for a moment, the murder of Lucerys. He did not care that the Gods had turned their backs on him. They had done it a long time before. He did not care of how people called him, of how they would baptize him in the annals of his lineage.

He had started to care, to feel guilt, after he actually killed his kin.

For he had killed Jaehaerys, he had killed Helaena.

Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer.

In his head, he heard that word with his mother’s voice, with Aegon’s, Helaena’s.

He found some kind of peace, of solace, only in his wife. But then the war was calling and he fled to Harrenhal. It was his duty, it was his way to try to make things better, to get revenge.

He had taken Harrehanl back and he knew he should have come home. But then the witch, the very same who had forced a man to rip out his own tongue, had spoken to him, talking about visions and flames, of predictions that happened to be alarmingly accurate, of him sitting on the Iron Throne with the Conqueror’s Crown on his silver head.

And he saw an opportunity, however blurry, to set things right, as they should have been in the beginning. He saw a way to get the upper hand in this war. And furthermore, as much as he did not realize it, he had found a way to stay away from the Keep. He would rather dare with witchcraft than return home and hear Helaena's wails cutting through doors and walls, and through his heart.

But next to the guilt had come the shame, for he had turned his back on his wife, for he could imagine the filth their enemies and non would spread, like shit flowing in the sewers.

He had tried to confine her to the back of his mind, but she became heavier and heavier as the days passed, along with the scarce letters in which he never mentioned the Rivers bastard.

She, of course, had sensed it immediately.

“You can’t win this war if your mind is elsewhere.” She had said one night, on one of his visits to her room.

He always stayed on the threshold, arms laced behind and poorly disguised distrust stretching his features.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking head.”

“You need not worry, my Prince.” She retorted with a chilling smile “I can’t play with your head. It’s too heavy…and ugly. And this woman…oh, she’s eating you alive.”

The witch is gone now, and yet she is still there.

She lingers on the walls of his chambers like a ghost, she imposes a wall between him and his wife and perhaps neither of them is strong enough to climb it. So, for days they just circle one another like wounded animals.

The Princess is staying with him of course. He has forbidden her to leave his side and she has caved, on one condition though. She has given him three days to deal with the Riverlands and then they will go home, together, where they are needed, where the mighty dreadful Vhagar is needed.

The day before their departure, Aemond returns victorious from the Riverlands. He has gained the allegiance of the lords in a way Visenya Targaryen would be proud of.

He will never forget the Lords' faces draining of color, probably pissing themselves, as Vhagar roared a war chant in the sky, and tongues of fire brushed the lands as warning.

He enters the chambers quietly and sees her crouched on the floor as her hands dig into a drawer, pulling out papers that she carelessly drops to the ground. Aemond closes the door firmly, announcing his presence, and she looks at him for a single moment before sighing in defeat, closing the drawer.

“Looking for my love letters?” he teases, for the first time after days of loud silence.

“I was looking for ink, actually.” she says looking below a paper left on the table. “Besides…love letters from you? Ghastly.”

He can’t fight back the smirk curling his mouth as she walks close to him and begins removing the armor. He looks at her face and she’s stern, almost rigid in her gestures, in the way she touches him, as if she despises doing it and yet she can’t help herself.

He doesn’t have a clue.

He doesn’t know that her stiffness has nothing to do with contempt. He doesn’t have a clue of how much she aches for him. Of how much she wants for him to take her, fast and rough, as he often used to do, because she can’t stand to be treated like some porcelain doll to be cocooned thanks to his child growing inside her belly. She wants to be more than that, she demands to be his wife again.

“Have you eaten?” he asks her, gently, and she wants to break something.

She can’t stand it anymore. She can’t stand all the questions.

Did you eat? Did you rest? Did you sleep?

“Is this how is going to be from now on?” she asks looking up “You acting as if you are my maid?”

He clenches his jaw and his face turns stern just like hers.

“First you accuse me to have forsaken you and now you don’t want my attention. Make peace with your mind, wife.”

“I want you to be my husband.” She says getting close to him until she smells dragon and ashes.

She wants to bathe in it. “I want to be your wife.”

Aemond’s eye lingers down on her throat, on her constricted chest, and his lips part. “You are.” He vows, locking his eye on her.

“Prove it.” She whispers tilting her head with a challenge dancing on her parted lips, hovering against his.

He is one breath away from swallowing her whole but he stops, melding their breaths in one, and he grins. “Are you going to bite me again?”

“As if you didn’t like that.”

A moment later his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her lip, her neck. His hands are everywhere, frantic and needy. She can feel he’s restraining from holding her too tight, but she wants, no, she needs more. She wants him in her bones.

They move without logic, clinging to each other, trying to assert dominance on one another. He grabs her wrists and forces her down on the chaise beside the hearth. He is looking at her in the same old way, as if he’s blind to anything else. She aches so much for him that she’s breathing hard, the word please climbs her throat, slides on her tongue, but she will not beg for him.

In all truth, she doesn’t have to.

He kneels on the ground like a pious man at the altar, and she hikes up her skirts, spreading her legs to place them on his shoulders, heels pressing on his back to bring him close.

“You know what you want, don’t you?” He teases with a feral grin.

“Curse you and your hideous smirk.” She says sliding on the chair to bring her apex close to his overly talkative mouth.

“You love my smirk.” He says grabbing her thighs to secure them around his face. “Besides, I’m already cursed.” He leaves a red mark biting on the soft skin of her thigh, looking straight at her and how she startles, whining in half pain half pleasure.

She catches a glimpse of the sapphire glinting between her thighs before her eyes fall shut and she moans unnaturally loud as he licks a stripe along her wet folds and up to her apex.

She is trembling with anticipation, with arousal that pools from her, glistening his mouth and nose. Her hips begin bucking against him and he moans contentedly as he buries his tongue inside her, lapping and tasting like a starved beast.

Her breath grows shorter and shorter for how close she is already, so much that he stops to look at her with a spiteful grin. “Already? Gods, you must have missed me terribly.”

“Shut up.” She whispers hoarsely and pulls herself up just enough to grab his head, pulling his hair to force him to take where he left off. Her hips are rocking on their own against his face, nails scratching his scalp harder and harder as she comes undone in his mouth, while he hums with pleasure, drinking of all her. Eye fixed on her as he watches her throw her head back, spasming and trembling with a loud moan.

Her back hits the back of the chaise as she catches her breath and looks at the black ceiling in a moment of pure bliss. Two moons of anguish are but a distant memory, her mind is foggy, she doesn’t even remember the face of the witch.

He dismantles her legs from his neck and she looks down at him, cheeks red, watching as he climbs on her, unbuckling his belt.

“No.” she says, and she stops his hands. “Do you think I would make it so easy for you?”

Aemond looks at her, half puzzled half curious, and then she pushes him down, overturning their positions so now she’s sitting on his lap, feeling all of his hard length against her.

“It’s my turn to prove it.” She says raising an arm that goes on the mantelpiece behind them.

“Prove what?”

“That you’re my mine.” She promises, and Aemond hears the distinct sound of metal clinking.

She lowers her arm and he sees a pair of chains between her fingers. He is bold enough to smirk at her. “I thought you were the one who wished to be chained.”

“I’m not the one in need of a lesson.”

She grabs his wrist but he easily pulls away. “What if I don’t want to?” but there’s an intriguing glint in his eye, on the edges of his arched mouth.

“Then who will take care of you?” she asks with fake innocence, grinding on his cock, and she smiles as the air comes out of his mouth in a hiss. “Are you sure your hand will suffice?”

He looks at her with challenge, breathing slowly through his mouth, and he caves.

“Chain me.”

She smiles darkly and grabs his wrists, fastening the chains and then locking them to the sides of the chair. She stands and grabs his legs, sliding his back further down.

She notices his eyebrow rising and she looks at him. "I want you to be comfortable. I'm afraid this will not end so soon."

He swallows with anticipation and watches her as she slowly climbs back on top of him and begins to unbutton his doublet., pushing the fabric aside to reveal his diaphanous pale chest and her hand slides over it, over his ribs, stomach, and navel, halting his breath.

Her lips hover against his, swallowing his shallow breath, but suddenly her head dips down, leaving a trail of little heated kisses on his neck, on the planes of his chest.

He watches as she does that, feeling her lips like burning embers marking his skin. Her eyes lock on him and she opens her mouth engulfing one of his nipples, circling her tongue around it. He tilts his head back, lips parting to let a puff of scorching air out, and then she's grazing her teeth over the soft pink skin.

The chains metal clink as he winces.

She grins pulling herself up and slides a bit down his legs with her bottom, so she has open room to his belt. She begins unbuckling it, looking at him, watching the glare he’s giving her.

“I can’t tell whether you want to kill me or fuck me.”

“I need you to fucking do something.”

“Like what?” she asks, palming his cock through the fabric “Tell me, husband. I may grant your wish.”

He rocks his hips in one slow movement, trying to feel every inch of her hand, but it’s a faint touch that only makes him ache for more. “Move, grind on me.” His voice is imperative as always, but his tone is different—all heated and husky.

She frees him of the constricting belt and breeches and lays on him, releasing a blissful sigh when she feels the hot hard flesh colliding perfectly against her core. The chains clink again as he tries to move and she smiles, caging his snatched waist between her legs.

Aemond is panting quietly, trying to get a grip on his own body but he finds it’s a useless fight when he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt.

But then his wife seems in favour of granting him some mercy. She starts grinding on him and his lips part some more, panting loudly this time, as he feels, and hears, the beautiful obscene sounds her wet flesh is making rubbing on him.

“Lift up your skirts. Let me see.”

She stops grinding and he almost whines with annoyance, moving his chained wrists in a useless attempt to grab her waist and force her to move again.

“I don’t like that tone, husband.” She says, and her voice is husky as well, her breath labored “Ask nicely.”

Aemond is silently starting to regret this whole thing. Patience was never one of his virtues, if he even has virtues. He’s completely at her mercy and cannot do anything but comply.

“Please. Lift your fucking skirts and let me see.”

“Hmm.” She hums smiling. “Better.”

Her skirts turn into a bundle of fabric around her waist and he dips his chin, looking straight at their flesh as she resumes her torture.

“Fuck” he utters, his eye growing heavy but he keeps looking, and he doesn’t have a clue whether it’s the rubbing or the mere sight of her coating his cock that draws a moan out of his throat.

“Do you see how I much I’ve missed you?” she asks hoarsely, grinding more and more firmly.

His head hits the back of the chair as he keeps panting and rocking his hips against her, lifting his waist as if desperately trying to slide inside her.

“I touched myself every morning. I woke up all wet and aching for you. And where were you? Here, plotting with your witch.”

“Enough of that fucking witch.” he croaks, a sheen of sweat is ghosting on his forehead. “Faster.”

She does the opposite. She stops altogether. And this time, he can’t do nothing to muffle the whimper gushing out of his trembling mouth.

The Princess tilts her head, savoring each moment, and soon his piercing glare comes back even sharper. “Once I’m free of these fucking chains, I’m going to fuck you senseless till morning.”

“Unless you are still chained to this chair in the morning.”

He watches as her hands hover on his thighs, a feather touch that drives him mad, that makes his hips buck uselessly. His lips twist, swallowing a plead his pride won’t allow him to let go.

But she hears it nonetheless, in the way his fingers flex and twist, in his chest raising fastly. It may suffice, but it doesn’t.

“Stubborn, are we?” she teases, just like her hands, barely touching down his navel. “Your witch got it right. She said you are too stubborn, that’s why she couldn’t play with your head. She couldn’t handle you.” her fingertips finally dip down and she can see the silent plead in his eye.

“I can, though.” her palm brushes the tip and he whimpers, again.

“Please…” he whispers impossibly low, too low for her liking.

“Louder, my love.”

His mouth twists again but the need, the ache is so heavy that it burns out all the pride numbing his tongue.

“Please…” he begs freely “Please, touch me.”

A groan rolls out of him as she finally grabs it, squeezing softly before starting a slow rhythm up and down. He pants loudly, hips moving on their own as he tries to fuck her hand with a steadier pace. “Don’t rush it.” she scolds him, placing a firm hand on his waist to stop his frantic movements.

“I can’t take it…let me come…”

“Already? Gods, you must have missed me terribly.”

“You’re cursed, woman.”

“Takes one to know one. A curse for a curse.”

She looks at him, hair all ruffled and sweaty on his forehead, a painful pleading expression twisting his sharp features and she smiles victorious. “I have half a mind to leave you like this.” She says and for a moment, he dreads she’s being serious.

“Luckily for you, I’m just as greedy as you are.”

In a swift moment she nestles between his legs and he’s moaning loudly before he even has time to register anything, except her lips locking around his tip, sucking so harshly he thinks she’s going to utterly drain him.

She starts a steady pace, just as he likes it, taking all of him, down to the base untili it hits the back of her throat. The chains clink and clink against the chair as he twists his wrists, bucking his hips harshly to fuck her mouth as deeper as he can, enthralled by the lewd sounds she’s making.

“Gods, yes…” he moans watching carefully as he slips in and out of her “Yes…just like that, just a little more…”

She feels him tense inside her mouth, she feels him tense all over and she knows he’s dangerously close. She stops for a moment, licking her lips and looks at him. “Don’t tell me you’re going to break the rule.”

Aemond groans with frustration, not having the faintest idea of what she’s talking about. He isn’t even sure he remembers his own name. He is just blood boiling and bones so tense they’re close to snap.

“What was it again?” she asks “Ah, yes. My seed belongs in your cunt.” She leaves a trail of soft kisses on his hard flesh and he whimpers once more. “My ever-romantic husband.”

“Fuck the rule, you’re driving me mad. Let me come.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please.” He begs “Please let me come in your mouth.”

The Princess is merciful enough to grant his wish. She engulfs him once more and he moans loudly for how sensitive he is. She picks up the pace and pride washes over her, pooling between her legs, as she sees him writhing beneath her, moaning with his mouth open, eye closed shut and the chains clink like a frantic bell while he twists his scratched red wrists.

He curses and mumbles nonsense under his breath until he stills completely letting out a long and loud grunt, spilling abundantly inside her mouth. She swallows to the last drop, gently sucking the pulsing tip.

The chains are finally still and silent. He’s breathing hard and short with his head thrown back, staring at the ceiling without seeing anything.

That is until he winces, feeling her hand on his sensitive skin. He raises his head to look at her, almost puzzled. She smiles slyly, moving her hand up and down. “Did you think it was over?”

If he did not feel so spent, he would be utterly thrilled and definitely flattered.

“Seven Hells, woman, give me a bre—” words die on his tongue wiped out by a hoarse gasp as she takes him in her mouth again. But this time, she sucks so slowly that Aemond actually whines in pain. And she looks straight at him, while her head bobs, relishing every moment, watching as he comes undone beneath her, babbling pleads, begging her to stop and a moment later to keep going. His voice is breaking, cracking as he whines and whimpers, poised between pain and pleasure.

Soon though, she hears more whines of pleasure than pain, as gets harder and harder in the hot haven of her mouth.

Suddenly she stops, and just stares, savoring the sight before her. The cruel Aemond One Eye, chained to a chair in a mess of sweat and sobs.

“Untie me…” he says, trying to make it sound like an order, but it’s a pale imitation of his usual tone. His words are slow, sluggish.

“You are not in charge here, my love.”

“Then quit the act and fuck me.”

Perhaps, if she wasn’t so equally desperate for him, if she wasn’t leaking between her thighs, she would have prolonged this torture, this excruciatingly sweet punishment. But she can’t take it anymore.

She climbs on him, and it takes her the least effort to let him slide inside her. He slips his back further down that chaise so that his hips are angled just enough to thrust into her, fast and steady.

“Oh Gods—yes!” she moans throwing her head back, frantically bouncing on him.

“D’you miss this?” he rasps, with a tinge of his usual infuriating confidence “Did you think of this when you touched yourself? Missed my cock inside you, hmm?”

She clamps a hand on his mouth to shush him and he bites her palm, thrusting even harder, making her whine loudly until her throat goes dry and her sight go white. They fall in a wild frenzy, utterly intoxicated with each other, leaving bites and marks all over, sealing one inside the other with a curse much more dangerous than any kind of witchcraft.

They come together, as she clutches his head to her chest so tight that he can barely breathe. He rests his head on the chair, slowly catching his breath, and she nestles against him, still sank on him.

He moves his hands to touch her, wincing for his aching wrists.

“Untie me now, would you?” he asks softly on the crown of her head.

“I’m not sure.” She muses against his chest. “I’ve quite enjoyed having you at my mercy.”

“Who said I didn’t?”

She moves her head to look at him, a little smile starting to light up her face and he looks down at her lips, mirroring her.

“Besides, it’s your turn.”

She raises her eyebrows fighting back a smile. “Now?”

“Haven’t you heard? No man is so accursed as me.”

#a curse for a curse #liv (in la vida loca)#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond x wife reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x wife reader #aemond smut #hotd fic #house of the dragon #aemond one eye

2K notes · View notes

dixons-sunshine · 27 days

Note

Sleepy!reader falling asleep all the time on Daryl’s shoulder,Chest,Arm anywhere in car ride or meeting with group and everyone teasing him and her about it

Sleepyhead | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: Life in a world ravaged by the undead was hard. Constantly wondering where you'd find your supplies, whether your loved ones were safe and whether you'd die that day was exhausting. That exhaustion caught up with you, but thankfully, Daryl was more than willing to be your temporary pillow, even at the expense of getting teased about it.

Genre: Fluff.

Era: Prison, post season three, pre season four.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sleep deprivation.

Word count: 768.

A/n: This is really short, but I really didn't have it in me today to write anything long, so I wrote this little fic instead. I feel like this isn't exactly like what was requested, but I hope you like this nonetheless!

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

“Aw, the two of you are so adorable.”

“Glenn, get your camera. We need to get a picture of this.”

“Who knew you could be so soft, Daryl?”

The sound of laughter pulled you out of the black abyss of sleep you were nearly lost in. As everyone continued talking to the archer who's chest you found yourself rested against, you could clearly hear the teasing tones in everyone's voices, and it nearly made you smile—however, that would blow your cover and show everyone that you had woken up again. You wanted to see how Daryl handled the situation.

Barely even fifteen minutes prior, you had been sat against the wall of the lower level of the cellblock as everyone participated in a game of truth or dare. However, not too long into the game, you had yawned and rested your head back against the wall. You were extremely tired, the nights of sleeplessness finally knocking on your door in the form of exhaustion. As you had closed your eyes, you could distinctly feel the arms of someone wrapping around your shoulders, and your cheek had found itself rested upon a firm yet soft surface—that surface you now knew to be Daryl's chest—and a blanket had been draped around you.

“If y'all dun' shut the fuck up righ' now, I'll throw this goddamn pot at yer heads,” Daryl grumbled, subconsciously tightening his arms around you and readjusting the blanket that he had draped around the both of you to fight off the chill the night exhibited. “She ain't been gettin' any sleep lately. S'the first time she's slept in days. If y'all wanna make fun'a me, do it tomorrow when ya dun' run the risk'a wakin' her up.”

“Aw, Daryl,” Michonne awed teasingly, sharing a small laugh with Carl, who watched the exchange in amusement. “You're so sweet. Who would've thought that you'd actually be a big teddy bear instead of this brooding, scary guy you pretend to be?”

“She did,” Rick laughed, motioning over to you. “Look at her. She managed to make Daryl hold her in front of all of us. I thought that would be impossible.”

“Piss off, Grimes,” Daryl replied, ducking his head to hide the blush that spread over his face. Somehow, without even having to shrug you off first, Daryl got up and held you bridal style, regarding the amused faces of his friends once more before turning around. “M'takin her to bed. Nigh', assholes.”

Laughter followed him as he climbed the stairs to your shared cell. You nuzzled your face into his chest and tried to hide your smile, vehemently amused by the situation Daryl had just escaped. You knew that the two of you wouldn't hear the end of what had happened downstairs, but you had no problem with a little teasing over something as tender as Daryl holding you.

Soon, Daryl layed you down on the bed and climbed in behind you, adjusting the covers around the both of you. The archer grumbled something to himself before pressing himself against your back, wrapping his arms around you.

Finding it the perfect moment to add some teasing of your own, you rested your hand over his that rested around you. “They're right, you know. You are really sweet.”

A few beats of silence passed until Daryl spoke up. “Ya were awake the whole time?”

“No, not the whole time,” you corrected. “I woke up because everyone was laughing too loud. I'm glad I did, though. I'd hate to miss any opportunity to see you get so flustered.”

“Yer the worst,” Daryl mumbled, nuzzling his face into your shoulder blade.

“Yeah, I am,” you giggled. “You love me, though.”

A long moment of silence passed. You thought that Daryl had fallen asleep already, but soon he tightened his arms around you and pressed a kiss to the exposed skin on your shoulder.

“Yeah, I do love ya, sleepyhead.”

684 notes · View notes

goldenlikedayl1ght · 6 months

Text

born to die - m. murdock

a/n: IM NOT DEAD i am very busy with finals but this has been rattling around the old noggin for a while now. i took a lot of inspiration from @ellephlox 's fic strawberry rhubarb which i 100% reccomend bc its better than most fics including this one! hope you enjoy! as always reblogs and comments are always appreciated! <3 warnings: oh boy. torture (cutting, burning) some sexually suggestive talk (nothing happens but it's not consensual) readers dad abused her, nightmares, lots of major character death (but not permeant) ANGST!!! but with a happy ending! kidnapping, medical stuff, cursing, and if i missed anything, let me know! word count: 4.8k summary: as matt murdock's wife, your life is rather full of surprises. getting kidnapped by wilson fisk takes the cake as the worst one. pairing: matt murdock x wife!reader now playing: born to die - lana del rey "choose your last words, this is the last time/'cause you and i, we were born to die"

You would think after patching him up too many times to count, five years without him, and countless sleepless nights worrying if he was alive, you would think you’d be used to Matt Murdock and his world of surprises.

And then you get kidnapped, so maybe you’re not so immune to surprises.

It’s really such a shame too, because you’re storming out of the apartment, too angry to take notice of your surroundings.

Silly, foolish, ditzy you.

Because it isn’t like Matt hasn’t told you time and time again that you need to be careful, especially when you go out alone at night. But he’s so angry that he doesn’t even think about the potential dangers of Hell’s Kitchen at three a.m. when Daredevil has been tucked away for the night and Matt Murdock comes back out to play.

He’s been taking more and more patrols because with Fisk being out of prison he can’t help but be constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

How silly he was to think that maybe he could have it all—A successful law firm, good friends and a loving wife.

Silly, foolish, ditzy Matt.

But after a week of nonstop patrols, you’re both fed up and tired, and above all, you’re yearning for each other. Neither of you allow yourselves to be totally happy all the time. It would just make everything too easy.

So, after yelling at each other over, what? Patrols? Cases? Burnt dinners? You’re freezing on the streets, and you get about five blocks before you stop and rub your eyes.

This is dumb, you rationalize. Of course, you’re both stressed out and tired, but you’ve gotten through rougher times before, and you both made an oath. To each other, in front of his God, to love each other no matter what.

You realize you left your wedding ring on the table, the ghost of the metal around your finger haunting you. You were dumb for leaving and Matt was dumb for telling you to go. You’re made for each other.

You turn around to go back to your shared apartment, and then, someone grabs you from behind. Your first instinct is to yell for your husband, but you don’t get the chance to before you’re knocked out, by what you can only guess to be a gun or maybe a large fist.

• • •

You wake up in this dingy room, the lighting not suitable for much of anything except to make you afraid. The set up is almost comical and in a fucked up away, stereotypical for a kidnapping. You’re tied up to a chair, and the lights shine only bright enough so you can see shadows and rats scurrying along.

The air is this weird musk of salt and earth, and you realize you’re near the docks, and that’s about all you know about your current location.

Your head is still pounding from whatever it was you were hit with, but you can see another chair a few feet from you and a wooden table with various weapons laying on it. You don’t feel good about this one. Also on the table is an old school record player. You have no idea what the intention is with it.

You try to keep your cool, knowing that wherever you wander, your husband will not be very far off. That whatever is happening, he will be coming to find you no matter how upset he is for whatever it was you were fighting about earlier.

And then, out of the shadows, there he is.

But he’s too big to be Matt, and he has a man standing next to him.

Frank, maybe?

And then you realize who this man is.

He’s Wilson Fisk, the kingpin who has done nothing but torture and kill people, shoving it in Matt’s face for years. Matt only met you after Fisk was put back in prison, and you know at some point in the five-year blip without Matt, he had escaped prison.

So, this is the first time you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Fisk. When he meets your eye, you do nothing but stare.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murdock. It’s a shame we must meet under these circumstances.” He tells you, taking a seat in front of you. His henchman stands behind the chair.

“It’s regretful to say the least.” You tell him, not intending to make any more of an enemy out of him than Matt already has, not right now.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your wedding. I remember my own, it was a rather special day.”

You know that was the day Matt took him down. The night that he, Karen and Foggy took him down.

“I’ve heard stories. It seemed like a lovely day.”

“You’re a much more gracious guest than your counterpart.”

“Well, I’m sure people say similar things about you and yours.”

He seems to consider this for a moment before nodding.

“You’re probably right about that, Mrs. Murdock. I wanted to tell you I’m terribly sorry these are the circumstances in which we are finally introduced. But it seems Mr. Murdock has been interested in finding out more about my endeavors. And you see, we simply cannot have that. I made a promise not to hurt Miss Page or Mr. Nelson but it seems you were not included in that deal.” Of course not, it had been a long time before you showed up. “So, you’re how we’re going to send Mr. Murdock a message.”

Huh.

So, this is how you die.

Well, you might as well go out with a bang.

“You see, Mrs. Murdock, When I was a boy—”

“I’m going to stop you, Mr. Fisk, because your sob story is rather dull. I know who you are. You were beaten by your father, just like I was. The difference is that I don’t use that as an excuse to murder my way to the top of the food chain. And you can torture me, assault me, whatever you feel you need to do. But if you think for a second that I’ll forget who’s coming to stop you, you are sorely mistaken. And if you think he’ll ever stop trying to find me, you do not know my husband very well.”

Fisk stares at you for a while, his gaze hardening into a glare.

“You’re right. You do know who I am. Because we’re rather similar.” He stands up and nods to the man nearby. “If Murdock can hear her far from here, make sure he hears her screaming.”

Then Wilson Fisk walks away, and you are left with the sickening gaze of a man who has no good intentions.

The man goes to the record player and starts to play a song you recognize quickly as “Fly Me To The Moon” by Frank Sinatra. As he does this, he speaks,

“Hello, Mrs. Murdock. I’m John.” You stay quiet, and he just enjoys the song.

He picks up a knife from the table and goes to you, this grin on his face that makes you sick.

But you remember a trick from not only your childhood, but also from Frank who told you the key to remaining strong under torture—Distraction.

You stare straight ahead, trying not to mind as the man runs the knife over your skin. You think about Matt. You imagine him in his wedding suit, the smile he had on as you approached him down that aisle. You think about when he asked you to marry him, and—

A sharp pain slashes down your arm, cutting open the shirt you’re wearing. You yell in pain, before moving in to try and take deep breaths.

You can do this. Matt will be here soon.

You continue to breathe through the anxiety and the pain, trying not to think too hard about when John hums along to Sinatra’s voice, guiding his knife around your skin. Another cut finds itself on your shoulder.

This goes on for a while, with the classic song looping over and over again. John never seems to tire of it, no matter how badly you will for it to end. As the song ends in one particularly good loop, John hits your face hard, and your nose starts bleeding.

You try to think of Matt’s voice. You don’t listen to John’s torments, knowing it will only egg him on further. You just want him to burn at that point.

By the end of… Countless Frank Sinatra serenades, you have cuts littered around your body, dry blood on your face from your nose and tears running down your face. When he’s eventually done, two men cut you out from the chair and drag you along to a smaller, darker room. You are left in there with a small meal, and you just huddle against a corner, nearest a barred window out of your reach.

And then, you begin to speak for the first time since you saw Fisk.

“Matt,” You whisper, “I’m by the docks.” You tell him, not sure if he can even hear you. “Please, I’m sorry for everything, please just come find me..” You mumble, too tired and aching to try and do more.

• • •

The next day, or what you presume to be the next day since you have no way to tell how much time has passed, you’re woken up by a loud banging on the door of your.. cell..?

The same two men enter and drag you back to the room, where John waits for you.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Murdock?” He asks.

You glare.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“What happened to the polite young woman Mr. Fisk and I met yesterday?”

You’re filled with unprecedented anger.

“I said, Fuck you!”

He wastes no time, grabbing a lighter off the table and starting the record player again. Once more, Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the room, and you’re pretty sure once you’re done with John, and then Fisk, you’ll bring Sinatra back from the dead just to kill him again.

You’ve never really been a violent person, but you suspect that it lives in the worst parts of you, just as it did with your own father. You’re much better at keeping it all at bay. Besides, it does you no good to be violent while you have Matt. He’s plenty angry for the both of you.

Oh, Matt..

This is how time passes for you. While John tortures you, burning you or carving into your skin, you think about how great it will be to choke the life out of the singer… And you think about Matt. When you’re in your dark little room, you talk to him. Even if he can’t hear you, you must hope that he’s looking for you.

• • •

Days pass. How long have you been here?

One night, you have the following dream:

It starts out as a memory. A memory of you and Matt. You’re lying in bed with him, and the sunlight is hitting his face just right. You love this memory, it’s one you recall often. He just has this angelic look to him.

Yeah, most people who encounter him, especially at night, meet the devil. But occasionally, you get glimpses of the angel you know he is. He’s sleeping, and you think in this state, he is the most relaxed you’ll ever see him.

Then, before your eyes, the dream shifts and you’re in this black void, on the ground.

Foggy, Karen, Frank, and Matt stand around you. You run to Matt but hit a clear shield keeping him from you. You bang on the glass, well, maybe it’s glass, you don’t know. You try to scream, but your voice never reaches your ears. You begin to look around, looking for a way out.

An eerie version of ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ plays as you glance over to Foggy and watch in horror as his body begins to turn to ash, just like Matt and Karen did when they were blipped. You scream, banging against the shield, but your screams are silent.

You glance back and see the same thing happening to Frank. No, no, no! It was never supposed to happen this way! Frank and Foggy, they lived! They got their time! They don’t die like this!

And then Karen starts too. You start sobbing, not wanting her to go. You had missed her so much, and you only just got her back. But soon enough, she’s gone too, and you’re left in front of your husband.

His hand comes up to rest on the forcefield and he frowns softly.

He says your name gently, and then adds, “You know it couldn’t last forever, right?”

And then just as quickly as before, he is gone again. You remain there in that void, sobbing and screaming though no noise reaches you. This can’t be it! You just got him back, you needed him! You couldn’t take being alone for another five years… Or more…

The dream transforms and you’re in this grand ballroom. People are dancing elegantly and you’re in this.. obnoxious ball gown. But across the room, you can see Matt. He’s dressed in an all-black suit, with a red masquerade mask covering his face. The mask has little red devil horns on it.

Now, the orchestra plays their rendition of Sinatra’s romantic classic. And you step towards Matt, attempting to make your way towards him, only to be met with a masked man, beginning to twirl you around.

You jump from man to man, until eventually, you’re dancing with a man in an all-white suit, a man you quickly recognize as Fisk. No matter how hard you try to escape his grasp, he holds on tighter. The two of you stop dancing now, amid the crowd of moving bodies.

Fisk grabs your chin and tilts it in Matt’s direction, just in time for you to see him bowing to another woman, kissing the back of her hand. Your eyes widen and you think, this can’t be real.

“When I kill you,” Fisk says, “He’ll move on. You’re easily replaceable, Mrs. Murdock.”

And then, in an instant, the woman with Matt pulls out a dagger and plunges it deeply into his abdomen. It’s then that the other dancers, besides you, Fisk, Matt, and this mystery woman, disappear. Matt turns to you and falls to his knees, clutching his stomach.

He tries to crawl to you, blood seeping onto his hands and the beautiful ballroom floor. He yells your name, and the woman stabs him again from behind, and you watch as your husband dies. You hear him screaming, hear him yelling your name. But Wilson Fisk keeps you in place. You can do nothing but watch as Matt Murdock meets his end again, unable to save him. You start to scream, thrashing against Fisk, ready to claw your way to Matt.

You wake up screaming, the nightmare haunting you. A guard bangs on your door, yelling at you to keep it down.

It was just a nightmare, you tell yourself. Maybe Matt heard your screams.

Maybe he’s already dead.

You force yourself not to listen to the voice in your head that says that.

• • •

One day, Fisk visits again, only this time, He’s covered in blood. That damn song is still playing.

You just stare. They have long since stopped tying you up, recognizing that you no longer have the energy to try and fight back. He has this sick grin on his face.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murdock.” You say nothing. “Have you been enjoying your stay with us?”

You glare.

“I hope Matt kills you when he gets here, because it will be a lot less painful for you if he does it instead of me.”

Mr. Fisk just laughs at this and tosses something at your feet. You get down off the chair to see what it is.

Your face goes pale with realization. You pick it up and slip it on your thumb, with it being too big for your other fingers. Matt’s wedding ring. You know it’s his, it has your name engraved in braille on the inside. How did he get this?

As if reading your mind, Fisk speaks again. “I took it off his body after I killed him.”

Your head shoots up to him. What did he say?

“No.” You deny. “Fuck off, I don’t—I don’t believe you.”

“Your husband is dead, Mrs. Murdock. I killed him with my bare hands because he was stupid enough to come after you. Your friends will mourn you and Matt Murdock for a while, and the city will come to the realization that Daredevil did nothing but harm. I win, Mrs. Murdock.”

You feel tears start to fill your eyes, and you realize, no. He hasn’t won because you’re still alive.

Maybe not for long, but you are.

You gather the rest of your energy and leap up, lunging at the large man covered in the man you love’s blood. And there’s a part of you that gets it. Okay, universe, you win. Most people don’t get a second chance like the two of you did. And now he’s dead, and soon you will be too. You can at least try to kill Fisk.

But you barely get a scratch in, yelling and screaming obscenities at him, as John grabs your arms from behind pulling you away. Fisk laughs and shakes his head again.

“It’s been lovely knowing you, Mrs. Murdock. I’m sorry you’ll have to die, you had so much potential. John, when you’re done doing whatever you’d like to her, kill her.” You hear him say it, but you’re blinded by rage, by grief.

John laughs behind you and forces you back into the chair, tying you back up once more. He looks at you, enraged and grief stricken, and just shakes his head.

“You and I are going to have a lot of fun.”

He leaves for a few minutes, and you realize this is the first time you’ve been left alone in this room. You tug at the knots and realize that while John is a gifted torturer, he’s not much of a knot tier.

So you manage to wiggle out of the rope, approaching the table in front of you. You don’t have much time. Okay, maybe you won’t be able to kill Fisk, but John will do. You take a golf club off the table in front of you and turn to the record player.

You begin to smash the thing in, angrily cursing at it as Frank Sinatra’s voice fades off into nothing. When the song ends, the lights turn off. And then, red flood lights turn on in their place.

A back up generator. Lovely. You think that your smashing of the record player couldn’t possibly make the whole building’s power go off, but you don’t really care at that moment.

You’re tired. You won’t make it far, but you need to try. You grasp the club and open the door, being greeted with a man you don’t recognize. You smack him in the face with the club hard enough for him to fall to the ground.

The red lighting adds an eerie tone to the hallways as you creep around, concussing various henchmen that Fisk has working for him. You don’t mean to kill these ones, only John.

But you’re running out of stamina, peeking around corners. And that’s when you see him. John is just standing there like he knows you’re there.

“Come out to play, Mrs. Murdock?” He calls, approaching the corner where you are waiting on the other side.

You focus on his footsteps, taking a swing around the corner when you know he’s close enough. You hear a sharp crack! As he falls, and you can’t see the blood in this lighting. Good. You begin to hit his head in, sobs mixing with yelling. You hate him. You want him to die before you’re killed.

But you don’t get the pleasure, because a pair of arms are pulling you off him, and you begin yelling.

“No!” You yelp. “No, Fuck you! Let go of me! Stop!” You think it’s another one of his goons, and you just want to be able to finish the job before you die. The figure forces you to drop the club. “Please, stop, don’t hurt me—”

But he’s saying your name and turning you around to see him. You know that voice.

“Sweetheart, hey, it’s just me—” He pants, his hands going to your cheeks. “It’s me, It’s just me. I’ve got you.”

And you can’t believe your eyes.

“Matt..?” You whimper, not able to believe it. “No, you’re dead, this has to be—”

And then, Matt does something he wouldn’t do for anyone who wasn’t his wife. He pulls off his helmet so you can see his face. Oh.

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.” He says softly, his thumb gently rubbing against your skin.

That’s when you start to sob, falling against him, no energy left to carry yourself. His arms wrap around you, and you say it again.

“He told me you were dead..”

“I know.. I’m sorry, I don’t know how he got my ring but we’ve gotta get you out of here.” He tells you.

You’re so tired. You’re slumping against him as you try to walk, the warmth radiating off his body just drawing you to sleep.

The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is Matt’s voice, begging you to stay awake.

• • •

You see flashes. Your parents, your dad. Nightmares of Fisk killing Karen, Foggy, Frank, and worst of all, Matt. You see John’s sickening grin on the body of spiders, and you’re chased by his cruel laughter.

But the dreams are filmier compared to what’s happening around you. You know Claire shows up at some point, and you’re thankful to her. Karen sits next to you sometimes, petting your hair, or sometimes it’s Foggy, talking your ear off.

You have fever dreams of Frank in full military gear, tormenting you.

“Not so tough now, huh, girl?” He teases. “You really thought you’d kill the big bad wolf? Solve all your boyfriend’s problems?”

You say to him, “Husband, He’s my husband.”

• • •

Even in your dreams, where you were slashed and burned aches, and you long for the pain to end.

You wake up only once throughout these dreams, and it’s when Karen is playing music to try and calm you from your insistent nightmares.

Only one song snaps you out of it, and you hear it clear as day.

‘Fly me to the moon,” Sinatra sings, “Let me play among the stars,’

He only gets through a few more lines before you’re sitting up on the couch, screaming.

“No! Stop, please!” You cry, and in an instant, Matt’s arms are around you. “Matt, please, don’t let him hurt me, please! Please don’t die, don’t let him keep hurting me!” You beg, in a hazed, frenzied state.

“I’ve got you, No one’s going to hurt you..”

Karen turns off the music somewhere deep in the apartment.

“No..” You begin to grow tired in his arms again. “Matty, please.. You can’t die, please..” You whimper out, continuing to mumble out pleads as you fall back into your weird dream state.

• • •

You really wake up two days later. Matt’s hand is clasped over yours, and he’s just.. Sitting on the floor next to the couch, praying into your clasped hands.

Praying for what, you don’t know.

Your body aches. But something in you tells you you’re safe.

“Matt…?” You whisper gently, and his head shoots up.

“Hey..” He says softly, one hand leaving yours, coming up to brush your hair out of your face. “There she is..”

“You’re alive..”

He seems a little concerned you still had some doubts about this.

“I am. Fisk lied to you.. He never even touched me.” You nod.

“Did I kill him? The man you found me..”

“No. He’s just in a coma, I checked. He’ll be brought to justice.”

“I only wanted him dead when I thought you were too..” Because really, you would have nothing if Matt wasn’t there. Nothing to live for. When he was blipped away, you had the hardest time readjusting to life. Now you know if he died again, you’d probably go off the rails.

No love story is saved more than once. You used up all your luck. Now it will be doomed if he’s ever killed again.

“I know.” He said gently.

“How long have I been out? How long was I in there?”

“A week, and then you were out for four days here. They got you good, baby..” He says gently. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you earlier.”

You frown softly.

“You did find me though. That’s all that really matters anymore.” You know you’ll be nursing scars for a long time. Physical or not.

“Still..” He said gently, and he brings your hand up to kiss it gently. “And I’m sorry I told you to leave that night. I was just upset, but this past week and half.. I feel like I’ve been going crazy without you. No matter how mad at you I am, I never want to spend another night without holding you. Knowing that you could have been…” His voice breaks, and he just sighs, taking a moment to lean his head on your hand. “I love you, so much.” He kisses your palm again.

How are you so tired again? All you’ve done is talk to him, but it feels like you just ran a marathon.

“I love you. It’s why I married you. Because you and I, we were always meant to be with each other. No matter what.”

He smiles weakly and reaches over to the coffee table to grab something. He slips it on your finger and for the first time in over a week, your wedding ring is back where it belongs. You see Matt is wearing his. Your Matt. Your husband. The only one you were ever meant to be with.

“Did Claire patch me up? I remember her being here..” He nods softly.

“Yeah, we.. we really owe her one. She was a huge help..”

“Karen and Foggy were here… And Frank?”

“No, no, Frank’s still in Illinois, I think?” You nod softly. “You were mumbling to him, though. I heard you… you were telling him you had a husband.”

You would laugh if it didn’t hurt.

“He called you my boyfriend. I had to correct him.” You grin.

“That’s my girl.” He hums. Matt gently lifts you so you can sit up and drink some water. Then, he climbs onto the couch and brings you close. His arms wrap around your freshly wounded skin and you have a rare moment of gratefulness for his blindness.

You sit in silence for a while.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

You think about it all. The torture, the cuts, burns, the small room. Fisk’s laughter, John’s grin. But something sticks out to you.

“Fisk said I was just like him.”

“What?”

“We.. We grew up similar, Matt, I mean.. What if he’s right? What if the only thing separating him and I is one bad move?”

Your husband frowns and shakes his head.

“Sweetheart, you are the.. the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You’re the complete antithesis of Wilson Fisk. Yeah, you grew up like him, but you’re living proof that you don’t have to go down the path he did just because of his background. You and I both know that there will never be a world where you end up like him. Especially not with me.”

You find comfort with his words. Not only did you make every choice not to be like Fisk, but you must’ve also made all the right decisions if in the end, you ended up with Matt. Oh, it won’t be easy, you know that for sure. You’ll never be able to listen to Frank Sinatra, and your upcoming nights are filled with nightmares and hauntings.

But one day you’ll be okay. One day You’ll be able to sit in the silence without thinking about it. One day you’ll get the image of dead Matt out of your head. You’ve spent many nights wondering about who will go first, you or him.

And then you realize the best-case scenario is that the two of you die at the same time, never living another moment without each other.

How would there ever be a world where you and your husband weren’t with each other, even just for a moment?

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil fic #netflix daredevil #matt murdock angst #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fic #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock hurt/comfort #matt murdock my beloved #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending

631 notes · View notes

nyrandrea · 8 months

Text

Restless

Summary: As your sleepless nights start to catch up with you, you turn to a certain vampire who might just be able to help.

Also available to read here on A03!

Word Count - 2.7k

Enjoy!

xxx

Sleep had always been something of an illusion to you.

Each night, as the world succumbed to slumber, you lay in your bedroll, with eyes wide open, gazing at the twinkling stars of the endless night sky. It was as if the world had pressed pause, leaving you to confront the shadows of your own thoughts. Your insomnia was a relentless adversary, a cruel warden that held you captive in the prison of wakefulness.

The nights stretched on endlessly, and as the hours ticked by, your exhaustion grew more profound.

Your mind raced with thoughts, a relentless carousel of worries, hopes, and regrets. You would toss and turn, your body tangled in the sheets, seeking elusive comfort. Come morning, the birds seemed to mock you, a constant reminder of the passage of time that slipped away while you lay wide awake.

By the time everyone else was up and refreshed from a good night’s sleep, you were still lying flat on your back, your bloodshot eyes stinging as you stared up at the pale morning sky.

“Darling, it’s time to get up,” Astarion said, standing above you with hands on hips, his expression somewhat bemused. “Honestly, you’re so lazy, just like Gale.”

He muttered that last part, glaring towards the wizard’s tent as a rumbling snore emanated from it and echoed throughout the camp. The vampire suddenly smirked, and you rolled your head to follow his gaze, only to see Karlach sneaking towards the tent with her hands out, ready to pounce.

The snoring was cut short with a high-pitched scream, followed by a roar of laughter, and a lot of cursing on Gale’s part.

“Good, at least that’s one of you up,” Astarion said, turning back towards you. “Now, are you going to follow suit? Or am I going to have to stoop to Karlach’s tactics? Brash as they are.”

“Hey! My tactics are quite refined, thank you very much,” Karlach rebuked, stabbing a thumb in Gale’s direction, the poor man stumbling to find his cloak. “Got him up, didn’t I?”

“That you did, darling.”

“I’m up,” you muttered hoarsely, wincing as you slowly pushed yourself up off the ground, your body feeling about a hundred years old. “I’m up.”

“Oh dear,” Astarion grimaced. “Looks like someone didn’t get their beauty sleep last night, hm?”

His tone was light but there was an almost... concerned note to it, as if he was prodding. You felt a pang in your chest; he only spoke the truth; your eyes, once bright and expressive, now bore the heavy bags and dark circles of sleep deprivation. Your skin had dulled and paled considerably over the past few weeks, and your hair was dishevelled and unkempt.

You almost certainly looked as bad as you felt.

Part of you wanted to blame the group: Astarion for nearly sucking you dry of your blood, Karlach for being so damn loud all the time, Gale for making demands of you every ten minutes, Lae’zel for very nearly causing fights everywhere she went with her brashness, Shadowheart for her condescending demeanour and Wyll for craving validation from you every time you had a chat with him. The only sane person here seemed to be Halsin, and even he was starting to grate on your nerves for just looking so damn well-rested and perky.

The other part of you wanted to cry, to apologise for being such a failure and run away into the woods to never be seen or heard from again and just succumb to whatever fate the mind-flayer parasite had in store for you.

Instead, you forced a smile, and lied.

“Just had a nightmare, is all.”

“Hm,” Astarion hummed, a simmering concern etched into the lines of his face. In that moment you felt a soft push in your mind, and the tadpole behind your eye squirmed as if responding to something. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions, a palpable tension that seemed to hang between you both.

It was only when you winced that the vampire averted his gaze, and the unseen force retreated from your mind.

“Terribly sorry,” Astarion said as you rubbed your head. “It would seem that my worm wanted to talk with yours; perhaps it was... concerned. Ooh, do you think that they’re best friends?”

“I doubt it,” you muttered, a little annoyed at his giddiness. “Maybe tell yours to mind its own business next time.”

“Of course, apologies again,” he said with that smooth voice and puppy-dog eyes of his, it was enough to make your irritation melt away. “But should a nightmare ever arise in that darling head of yours again, just know that you can seek me out.”

You blinked, a little surprised at the open invitation. You couldn’t quite tell if it was genuine; it was always hard to tell with him. The only times you had ever been intimate was whenever he sought you out for a bit of casual fun. He seemed confused as to why you never wanted to initiate, but you tried to explain that while you enjoyed your time together, you never wanted to invade his privacy as you respected that camp time was everyone’s chance for a bit of peace and were entitled to such.

This only seemed to confuse him further.

Still, this had to be a big step for him, to ask you to his tent -his sanctuary- and you didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

“I-I will,” you stutter. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, my dear,” Astarion smiled. “Now, shall we see what chaos today brings for us? It’s been far too long since we’ve had to kill anyone.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “We killed that group of bandits only yesterday.”

He returned the gesture with a sly smirk. “Exactly.”

During the day, you continued your journey with a fragile facade of normalcy, sipping on coffee like it was the elixir of life, desperately trying to stay awake. Your interactions with others were tinged with a weary detachment, as if you were viewing the world through a foggy pane of glass.

Emotions played hide-and-seek within your very soul. Frustration lurked just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. An innocent quip or question would trigger an unexpected wellspring of tears, followed by nervous laughter, leaving everyone in the group perplexed. You merely brushed it off as the tadpole messing with your head, but even that raised a few eyebrows as nobody else was acting up—it was a good thing you were persuasive.

You tried to avoid battles wherever and whenever you could, opting to take the longer roads or attempting to sweet-talk your way out of a sticky situation. However, some fights were unavoidable, and this was when your sleep deprivation was really put on show for everyone to see; your movements were sluggish, enemies were able to get more hits on you and you had to be helped back up to your feet on more than one occasion.

The others insisted on setting up camp a little earlier than usual so you could rest and, despite your trying to tell them that you were fine and wanted to keep going because these tadpoles weren’t going to remove themselves anytime soon, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

So, here you were again, on your back, staring up at the stars. Another night of having an existential crisis while everyone else slumbered on peacefully. Rinse and repeat.

You had tried everything to conquer your insomnia. Experimented with herbal teas, soothing music, you had even consulted a sleep specialist back in Baldur’s Gate who prescribed a cocktail of medications. But the battle persisted, night after night.

Sitting up and rubbing your dry, stinging eyes, you decided to try something else.

As you crept through the camp, you were careful not to wake anyone else up as you approached Astarion’s tent, tentatively peeking in through the flap before reprimanding yourself; even though he had invited you, boundaries were important, you couldn’t just go barging in. So, you gently knocked on one of the wooden beams that supported the tent.

“Astarion...?” You softly whispered, waiting for a response.

Only silence followed.

You knocked again, wincing slightly at the louder noise you made. For a moment you thought about abandoning this whole silly idea and going back to staring into space for the next eight hours, but desperation made you persistent.

Mercifully, you heard a faint shuffle come from inside the tent.

“Come in,” Astarion’s husky, muffled voice answered.

Nervously, you slipped inside, and a wave of warmth immediately washed over your face as you were greeted with the sight of a bare-chested Astarion sitting cross-legged on his bedroll. You were grateful he at least had pants on, otherwise you would have been out of there like a shot.

A mischievous smile spread across his face as he watched you squirm uncomfortably. “Whatever is the matter, darling?” His lips formed a perfect pout. “Come to ask me for a little cuddle to chase the bad dreams away?”

Your nostrils flared as you glowered down at him while he smirked smugly back up, because of course he would tease you about something like this. You should have known that he wasn’t going to take you seriously.

“Forget it,” you said, making a sharp turn to re-open the tent flap. “I-I never should have come here, I’ll just... leave you be.”

You missed the flash of panic on his face as he quickly got to his knees to reach out and grab your wrist before you could make it out.

“Wait!” He said, stopping you in your tracks. “I’m sorry, come back in, please?”

You slowly turned your head.

“I promise not to tease you.”

Begrudgingly, you allowed him to take your hand and escort you back inside, guiding you to sit down beside him on the floor.

“You’re having trouble sleeping again, I presume?”

Nodding your head, you squeezed the bridge of your nose and sighed, trying to swallow down the overwhelming urge to break down in front of him and cry in pure frustration.

“I... I’ve been struggling with insomnia for a while now.”

Astarion scoffed. “Well now, that’s a revelation.”

You had half a mind to slap him.

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating manner. “No teasing, of course, but come on darling, it was pretty obvious from the start.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your gaze cast downward, wondering why you even came here in the first place if he was just going to insult you.

“You’re still beautiful,” he said, softly caressing your jaw to angle your face towards him. “Very beautiful indeed.”

Your heart thumped wildly as the tip of your nose brushed his, and you would have crumpled into his well-tuned act of seduction if it were not for one burning question suddenly on your mind.

“How do you do it?"

“I- do what?”

“Elves don’t sleep, right?” You said, blinking curiously. “How do you... not sleep?”

“We uh... meditate, darling. Wait, how do you not know this?” he asked, pulling back with his eyebrow raised. “You must have seen me doing it at some stage or another.”

“...I always just thought you pretended to sleep,” you hummed in thought. “Now that I think about it, the way you lay down was always kind of strange looking.”

He snorted a laugh at your brutal honesty, and feeling a jab of guilt, you tried to back-track on your word vomit.

“Sorry! Um… no offence?”

"None taken, darling,” he said, waving a nonchalant hand. “I can see why my eloquent poses would look strange to you, but for elves, meditation is a common practice. Helps us to… calm down; be in the moment, as it were.”

A comfortable silence fell between you.

“Could you show me?”

Astarion gave you a questionable look. “You want me to show you how to meditate?”

You nod vigorously and cross your legs with your arms resting on your knees to show that you’re serious. It takes you a moment to figure out which fingers were supposed to touch together but you get there eventually.

With a bemused smile, the vampire shrugs. “Alright, I've had stranger requests.”

You wanted to question that but put a pin in it for another time.

"Are you ready?" Astarion asked. You nod, your heart fluttering with both anticipation and trust. “Now, clear your head.”

You give him a dry look.

He rolls his eyes back. “Yes, admittedly a little hard, what with the little residents living up there but just... trust me, alright? Close your eyes.”

You complied, and Astarion began to guide you, his words soft and rhythmic, like a gentle lullaby. "Breathe in deeply," he said, his own breath aligning with yours. "Feel the air fill your lungs, expanding your chest, and exhale slowly, try to let go of any tension."

You followed his instructions, your breath matching his like a perfectly choreographed dance. With each inhale and exhale, you felt a growing sense of calm washing over.

"Thoughts may arise, like passing clouds," Astarion murmured. "Acknowledge them but let them drift away. Return your focus to your breath.”

You found yourself navigating the currents of your thoughts with newfound ease, like a sailor guiding a boat through calm waters. The more you let go, the more profound your sense of inner stillness grew. You felt the weight of your worries begin to dissolve. The burdens of your leadership, of the mind-flayer tadpoles and the problems that came with it seemed to retreat into the distance, leaving you with a newfound clarity.

"Good," Astarion whispered. "Now, focus on your body. Notice any tension, any discomfort. Let it go with each breath. Feel your body becoming lighter, more at ease."

Minutes passed like hours, and the tent seemed to fill with an ethereal stillness. You and Astarion remained connected through your breath, it was as if time itself had become irrelevant, and you were both suspended in a moment of pure existence.

You could feel the tension in your shoulders and neck melting away. It was as if the cares of the world were simply slipping through your fingers.

Slipping...

“...Darling? Are you-? Oh.”

Astarion’s eyes widen, and he winces a little when your head falls into his shoulder. He catches you gently by the arms, so you don’t slip and go face-first into his lap; it was a delicious thought but for another time, when you were conscious and ready.

But right now, he isn’t quite sure what to do with you. He certainly knows he can’t hold you like this all night; it would be uncomfortable for both of you. His eyebrows crease as he frowns while he tries to slowly lower you to the ground.

To absolutely no avail; unconsciously you end up pulling him in closer.

“Oh, for Gods's sake,” the vampire huffs incredulously. “What am I, some sort of glorified teddy bear?”

Half-asleep and still nestled into Astarion’s chest, you mumble something incoherent in response, your breath warm against his skin. You snuggle even closer, your head burrowing into the crook of his neck.

For a moment, Astarion felt a flicker of irritation, his desire for a good night's rest warring with his affection for you. He yearned to stretch out, to find the perfect position that would allow him the bliss of undisturbed meditation. But as he looked down at the peaceful expression on your face, all traces of weariness and anxiety erased, he just couldn't bring himself to disturb you.

Reluctantly, he wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer still. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the slow, rhythmic cadence of sleep. The warmth of your body against his own gradually seeped through the cracks in his defences, and his irritation gave way to an overwhelming tenderness.

In that moment, he realised that the inconvenience of being your living pillow was a small price to pay for the privilege of holding you close, of being the one you sought comfort in. As you drifted further into slumber, Astarion closed his eyes and surrendered to the serenity of the night, the gentle weight of your devotion for each other enveloping you both, anchoring him in the moment and reminding him of the beauty in life's simple, sweet sacrifices.

xxx

Yyyyyeah I know this one has the same beats as 'Everything's Fine' but what can I say? I'm a sucker for begrudgingly soft Astarion ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Let me know what y'all think!

Links to my other Astarion works

'Everything's Fine'

Request - Astarion kills everyone in his path to get to you

#astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #my writing #tw insomnia #fanfiction #baldurs gate 3

626 notes · View notes

writeyouin · 2 years

Text

Dream (Morpheus) X Non-Binary Reader – Sleepless Prisoner - Chapter 1 - Dreams Meet

Description: As the child of Roderick Burgess, you find Dream locked in the cellar, but upon trying to free him, Roderick decides to lock you up with him, expecting that you will eventually die. However, influenced by rare magic, you don't die, and instead, you become Dream's only friend for 100 years.

Female Reader Version

Male Reader Version

Warnings - Physical abuse.

Rating - T

You yelped at being grabbed and pulled away, frightened at what your invasion might lead to.

“Best get yourself out of here,” The guard sneered, recognising you as the Magus’ child.

“Magus doesn’t want any interference with his guest.”

In an attempt to make amends, you bent into a clumsy curtsey, squeaked a hurried apology, then hurried past Roderick, seeking the quiet refuge of your cramped room.

Under the pretence of taking a turn about the gardens, you thought about the conundrum that you were faced with.

Then again, you were basing all of your ideals on the fact that Dream was a good person, but why would such a good person create Nightmares?

Although you had hoped to get close to Dream again, he was too heavily guarded now, with your father paying his temporary guards more than they had seen in their lifetimes.

“Searching for something?” The Magus sneered from behind you, scaring you in a way only he could.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stood ramrod straight, “I- I was-”

“TURN AROUND WHEN YOU’RE TALKING TO ME!” The Magus barked, transforming you from his child into his shivering slave.