sansa pitied them. sansa envied them.

adult ao3: rottenwomb

[rotten-womb]

price’s love language is laying you down to peel away your skin, dig through your tender flesh, & pull out your bones to lick them clean then fracture them to the shape he desires, & rearranges your bones in his image (raging god complex) (he also carves his initials into your rib) you’d slowly blink up at him & he’d meet your gaze & tell you he’s loving you. This is an act of love

[rotten-womb]

a lowly bar singer stuck in a dead-end town takes one look at the nebulous man at the far end of the room, at the violence amalgamated to his being, at the blood dripping from his gnashing teeth, and wants nothing more than to give herself in offering. (unfinished simon riley x reader)

—

Her lilting voice coils around the curls of smoke lading the pub in a whirling embrace.

The night was monotonous as ever, the walls filled with its eternal noises and smells: the incessant chattering, the repetitive clanging from the billiard table, noxious fumes that burned their way down her lungs, and the everlasting routine of lulling the bar’s gruff patrons into dipsomania until the only thing their cerebral cortex could fathom was the gentle note of her voice.

From her perch on the elevated stage, she sees him. Fixed in his usual corner, back to the wall and body angled towards all the exits with a beer held in his paw of a hand.

He never changes his spot, always in the same chair, in front of the same table, like half-rotten vines slithered out of the wall abaft his body and’ve writhen around him in a cage made up of their choking embrace, ensconcing him in a spot that seems primevally his.

He hasn’t been in town for long—not as long as she has, but his arrival had revealed to her a tapestry of wyrd woven long ago.

Simon was his name. She was told about him in hushed gossip, heard from a friend of a friend’s cousin’s dog walker: escaped convict on the run, a mercenary laying low after slaughtering hundreds, a bank robber in hiding—waiting for the perfect moment to run off and enjoy his spoils.

Nobody’d figured him out yet; he’d respond to every daring inquiry with a glare that’d send them fleeing with their tails tucked between their legs.

The town-wide result of a few weeks' brazen curiosity was the acknowledgment of the intrinsic instinct to burrow in a dark hole when you hear him coming—which you never will.

She considers him differently, though, and’s drawn to him in a way she’s never experienced before.

From the first time she saw his cropped straw-blonde hair, his tilted scar-riddled face, and his steely half-blind gaze looking up at her, she felt an inevitability of something menacingly hanging over their heads like an executioner’s sword, ready to swing and sever the seal obviating their desires from overflowing.

Even though she’s never talked to him, she feels a sort of kinship with him for reasons unknown to her.

He refrains from watching her like the others do, with flames of admiration and lust in their gazes, and it makes her blood seethe.

Doesn’t he know what’s coming? Can’t he feel it the way I do?

Setting her gaze on him, she gives him a private show, lets the rest of the world blur, and croons to him like he’s the only one watching. It’s an indulgent act she’s allowed herself from the first time she saw his behemoth of a figure brooding in the corner and set her body aflame.

But it never works, and she hates him for it.

There, under the dim lighting that illuminated her figure, with an antediluvian microphone held in her hand, she felt a burning hatred for him for not giving her the attention she felt entitled to.

So, she works harder for it—hooding her eyes demurely, gently pouting her lips while lowering her voice to emanate husky notes, and sensually commanding her hips in a gentle sway; all for him.

When she first ventured out of her shell, with goodbyes hapahazardly thrown over her shoulder and uncontained brightness in her eyes, when she thought this town would be nothing but a pitstop on her way to greatness, she set the stage alight with the sheer life coursing through her veins—so much so she couldn’t keep it bridled and just had to set it free before it burned her from the inside out, she’d twirl and laugh and give each night a blood-soaked, cauterized flesh of her esprit in offering.

It brashly tore it from her arms and bared its greedy mouth for more and more til she had nothing left to give.

Simon, in all his enigmatical glory, rekindled her vigour. Every night since he’d arrived, her soul has been varicosed with a lust for life she thought she’d lost forever.

For years, she’d (been stuck in this gloomy town) drowned in oppressive dysthymia. Her mind and body thoroughly reflected the town’s rot, she was resigned to its decay pervading her entire being, leaving nothing behind but a crude, derelict statue of where she once stood.

But now, with passionate vitality infused into her every word, her every move, her performance draws every beady eye in the room towards her—including his.

Her lips contort in a sly smile. Gotcha.

Scorched ardency replaces the usual indifference in his eyes, making her blood sing.

Focusing solely on him, finally giving him the show she’d wanted to, the dregs of her mind submerged in a fog.

The whole world was a backdrop to the game he’s finally playing with her.

She imagines herself as some '60s starlet edacious for stardom, she channels that sultry energy and lets it take over her body, and laced her every move with all that she’s left unsaid: you’re mine, I’m yours, we are tantamount, consume me, and let me rest near your beating heart.

She pulls the thread snuck in between the gaps of her left ribs, tangled with her heart and tethering them to one another, taut, teasing it with a coy gaze.

Her hand caresses her sternum, travels upwards to trace her collarbone lightly, then its fingers graze the length of her neck, while his eyes chase her every movement like a dog nipping at her heels.

Her set ends with wall-rattling applause and appreciative whistles. She gives a coquettish thank you, then tears her eyes off Simon to make her way to her friend tending the bar.

Leia meets her with an amused look, “What a show you’ve put on!”

She smiles abashedly, “Had to give those senile coots something to jerk off to.”

Leia responds with an exaggerated guffaw, “As if!” She grabs a tablecloth adorned with faded bunnies to wipe down the table, giving her idle hands interest. “I know who it’s really for.”

“God,” she rolls her eyes in exasperation, “for how disapproving you are, you’re obsessed with bringing him up.”

“I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

She snorts, “Please, if he were a woman, you would’ve smothered me in my sleep to eliminate the competition.”

A beat passes.

Then, “Fair.”

“Anyway, I just…” she trails off, trying to find the right words to describe the overwhelming adumbrate she feels affecting them, “I don’t know, inside me, I feel the weight of something so acutely between us, and it’s so heavy it crushes my chest, and I do—I know, you think I’m mad for it, but it’s going to happen for us. I don’t know what it is or when, but it will.”

Leia waves off a desperate patron salivating for her attention with a disinterested movement of her hand, “Fine.” She acquiesces, “Frankly, the magnitude of your belief terrifies me, so I’ll let you have it, just whatever it is you’re planning or feeling or whatever, be safe about it, okay?”

There’s no such notion of safety within her anymore. Her friend’s not wrong to worry, she’s throwing herself to the unknown head first, but she doesn’t want these feelings to fester in Leia, so she reaches for the hand worrying the frayed edges of the cloth, gives it a reassuring squeeze, and lies to her dearest friend, “I will.” She paints a gentle smile on her face, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me.”

Leia squeezes back, “Oh, I always will.”

Havoc from the other side of the room invades their private world.

From the fractures of the throng, she can see Simon’s immense figure looming over a bar regular, fist wresting the front of his shirt—Charles or Chuck or something, he practically lives on their supply of booze—the drunk was running his mouth on slurred words, his intoxicated mind not aware of the threat staring him down with with barely contained ferality.

People attempt to shut him up, to tear him away from Simon’s grip, but they’re both stubborn bastards. (like bulls, but one of them doesn’t know he has his balls cut off)

Next thing she knows, Simon’s frayed self-control had snapped over something Charles-Chuck had said, and he swung his fist across his face, and she swears she could hear the crunch of his nasal bone shattering from across the room. She and Leia simultaneously gasp and grip one another’s arms in a sudden instinctual movement at the violent act, at the blood gushing down the drunk’s face—Leia in abject horror, her at the sudden, heated shock she felt in her core.

The scars on Simon’s face twisted in anger, and she can practically see him foaming at the mouth, gnashing bloody teeth ready to tear his victim’s throat out, his eyes—one grey and filmy—were overwhelmed with rage. She pressed her thighs together in an attempt to soothe her ache.

He swings again, knocking the drunk to the floor. Simon follows him then punches him again—

and again, and again, and again.

Several men surround Simon and attempt to wrench him off the drunk, to no avail.

Simon clutches the man by the collar of his flannel, lifts him, only to slam the back of his head against the floor.

The man caught in his violent grip went as limp as a doll. His head lankly rebounded, then Simon raised him once again, tightening his hold before releasing his body to wilt to the ground.

It’s silent for a beat as Simon rises from the floor, eyes rigid on his victim. The sight lying at his feet was grotesque; the waned body’s chest rose and fell in uneven sputters, its head—unrecognizably bashed in and saturated with dripping blood—rolled to its side to weakly spit out a molar.

The bar manager’s bellows for Simon to Get the fuck out! bounce across the sticky walls.

Some men circle Simon, too scared to get too close but wanting to force him out with what seems like the sheer power of their will.

Simon’s head jerks away from the bloody sight to her, his eyes look her up and down multiple times, like he’s searching for something else to get mad over. He lingers on the vein jumping in her neck.

Then he tears his gaze off her with a growl and stalks out the doors.

The men nod at each other like they’d successfully stood big and strong and oversold their figures to a wild bear, they sit back down on their tables after righting their overturned chairs, and start waxing poetics of their bravery to one another as if everybody hadn’t seen them shake at the thought of having to be the ones to kick out Simon.

The manager hovers over the beaten man and starts cursing loudly. Despite him yelling for Leia to call an ambulance, she ignores him in favor of spitting rapid, sharp words at what took place, but she can barely hear a thing over the rushing blood in her ears and the pounding heart in her throat.

Leia, with rolling eyes, concedes to her boss as his voice grows more panicked and goes to the telephone, leaving her friend with a parting pat on her shoulder, leaving her sitting alone in the rickety chair she fears she’s flooded with her slick.

Her mind is stuck in a looping film reel of Simon.

I want him so fucking bad. / aching want carves itself in the soft tissue of your heart

—

She sees in him the divinity he has to offer (he in the parking lot leaned up against his Harley under the flickering street lights, trying to light a cigarette with a gas station lighter, but it’s not working, she remembers her father’s zippo in her back and makes her way to him) (he sees her, sees her shaky legs & sees something he must dust off the gentleness within him he’s never used to interact with)

(His love felt like being held gently in the jowls of a bloody beast)

[themonstrousother]

“To write, you have to want something to survive you. I don’t even have the desire to live, I’ve never had it strongly the way you have. If I could eliminate myself now, while we’re speaking, I’d be more than happy. Imagine if I’m going to start writing.”

The Story of the Lost Child, Elena Ferrante

[rotten-womb]

miss you, my loveliest.

dove

miss you more my darling

[rotten-womb]

emma always looking so primed & pretty & park obsessed w ruining that. tears turning her eyes red puffy from gagging on his dick, curls tangled & ruined from being pushed & pulled, fingers hooked around her mouth & denting her cheeks while he fucks her from the back w her cum filled mouth hanging open

[rotten-womb]

sweet nervous emma surprising park w a lingerie set she specifically bought for him & him ruining her w her lace panties pulled to the side & tits spilling from the lace bra cups

[cranialpressure]

Brandan Park x Emma Nolan meet"cute" CW: implied stalking MDNI

He ought not waste his time.

There's a carelessness inherent to it, one that inspires anger more than any ill-advised notions of protectiveness. She doesn't deserve his anger, probably, but Park's an angry man, and aside from his cock, that's all he has to offer. 

He's never been one of those surgeons who ascribe any level of heroism to his job. He cuts into people and rearranges them in his vision. Hard to confuse the two, in his opinion, but some men need that lie to cling to. He doesn't walk the streets of Pittsburgh tripping over his own dick as he tells himself all the people he shoulders past have a chance at a second chance because of people like him. Really, he couldn't give less of a fuck. If he didn't do his job, someone else would, and they'd be doing it for that pretty paycheck same as him.

Which is why he's so surprised at the surge of bitterness he feels when he finds the planner, and the dearth of personal information diligently filled out on the inside cover - please return to Emma Nolan. It's sitting just inside the hub, clutter taking up vital space when so much hardware has been wheeled out already. Park thinks it's yet more jarringly childish pictography he's supposed to be able to read at first, the cover boasting cartoonish hearts he wouldn't put it past hospital staffing to have once used as some sort of heart attack severity indicator. But the veritable bandollier of pens clipped around its edging gives him pause, something a bit too personal (expensive and well-maintained) about the neat, matching set. So he opens it, wondering if he'll be able to discern who he should be yelling at for taking up prime real estate when he comes up short. Name, number, street address. The school where she's (presumably) completed her program. Hell, she's even outlined a slew of socials where she could be reached.

For the first time, Park wonders why he bothers. He's not a general surgeon. Rarely involved in assault cases where knife wounds and GSWs necessitate more immediate intervention. He doesn't often find himself worrying about people's general safety consciousness. But this? Serving oneself up on a silver platter to anyone who happened to find her cute little book?

There's a debate - brief - about how best to approach it. He could ask Dana where her stupidest nurse is currently, but she's too busy in that moment to be bothered with something so asinine. So he pockets it, carries on with a sharp eye trained on the name tags of all the new nurses. If he's going to make one of Dana's new ducklings cry, he'd rather do it where she can't intervene anyway. 

But then he sees her. Perky, babyfaced despite the general air of being overwhelmed. She's cute, a problem considering the type of information she's leaving out about herself. Park draws to a stop in the middle of the hallway, feels the crowd part around him as they continue on their way. The current draws her closer, little fish into big jaws. She's deep in conversation with McKay, hardly even looking where she's going. 

She bumps into him with a quiet oof, her soft body pressing briefly against his own until McKay snatches her away with a wary look in his direction. "Doctor Park," she nods tersely, giving Nurse Emma a moment to right herself. When she does, the girl gives him a broad smile, chubby cheeks stretching around perfect, straight teeth. 

"This is Emma," McKay continues when the moment stretches long enough that her partner's smile falters. "Emma, this is -."

"Watch where you're going," Park barks, and the girl actually flinches. Someone's going to eat her alive, he muses, fingering the curled edges of the planner still stuck in his pocket. 

"S-sorry," she stammers, big brown eyes lowered all the way down to his toes. He thinks about telling her to pick up after herself, or brandishing her carelessness in her own face and telling her about all the men in Pittsburgh who would love to use it against her.

But showing his hand - he'd be burning the very bridge he's suddenly thinking of crossing. No, the less known the better, he thinks; a notion he'll have to teach Emma himself.

[rotten-womb]

something about shark only dealing w clean cuts that lead me to thinking about him liking the cute new nurse in braids, he’s in disbelief over himself staring at her gentle smile & big reassuring eyes pointed towards the nervous patient with a broken bone protruding from the thin layer of his skin & wondering what it would feel like if it was pointed towards him instead. he was in even bigger disbelief the more it kept happening.

like a tick in his brain that dug its chelicerae deeper & deeper into the muscle, making him wonder more & more, what it would feel like to be in the receiving end of that toothy grin or soothing smile, to be seen with those kind eyes.

it was a nuisance.

gaze sweeping across the patient’s room, hoping for her, a harsh exhale of breath when she’s not there, a slight curl of the lip when she is, before finally landing on the patient.

it was a distraction.

shark wouldn’t deign to call it a crush. he’d rather chalk it up to the hours spent cutting open flesh, blood warming up his steady hands, fixing bones & tendons, then sewing it all back up finally eating away at his mind.

because a crush on a bright-eyed, yet to be crumbled by the cruel hand of fate, baby nurse was pathetic.

the moment he caught himself wondering how those curls would feel being pet by palm to how they would feel wrapped around his fist brendon park accepted he was pathetic.

he is not one to half ass anything, so, he starts his hunt. follows emma with his hooded eyes. looks for her weak points. notices the bags under her eyes, & her weakened gait. hears her telling her fellow nurses her piece of shit car’s in the shop & she had to walk all the way to her shift. he got lucky enough to catch the name of shady garage she entrusted it to, went down there to strong arm them into lowering the price & to check over their shoddy work. the rush the buzzed through his limbs when emma came into work rested was intoxicating.

the hunger brendon felt when he didn’t get the chance to do it again gnarled him from the inside out.

so what if he did slice open a few bad things here & there just so he can dig his fingers in to snap it fixed before stitching it up. so what if he takes the long way to the er parking lot for his smoke breaks just to corner her when she’s trying to take a breather. to drown her in smoked nicotine knowing she’d think it would be too rude to walk away, an animalistic satisfaction curling around his chest from knowing she’ll walk back in sharing his scent after he’s done with his barbed ‘flirting,’ eyes sated from the visible heating in her cheeks.

emma gets a call in the middle of their forcibly shared breaks that her apartment flooded, he calms down her panic in that abrasive way of his, tells her he’ll take care of it, tells her to wait for him after their shift & he’ll fix it.

she didn’t know that meant he’d take her his apartment. pulling her dragging feet through the door before leaving to handle the mess with her shitty apartment & shitty landlord. 30 minutes in she lets herself sit on the leather couch & stare at the pitch black tv screen, 2 hours in she lets herself furtively explore the ground floor, he comes back to her staring at the unappetizing collection inside his fridge.

theeeeeeen something something he says her landlord’s a crook, she shouldn’t live there, he broke of her lease, gathered some of her essentials & told her she’ll be staying the night. he ignores her indignancy, forces some food in her belly & send her to the guest room with the essentials he packed. her breath hitches when she finds out part of those essentials was multiple fresh pairs of bras & panties.

then blah blah blah they end up fucking which w brendon includes making her cry + making her gag with his finger, a sharp tap to the cheek when he feels teeth (cant lose his money makers) + toes in his mouth & his dick deeeeeep inside.

practically traps her into a relationship.

yay

[thefudge]

doctor shark and baby deer, an emma nolan/ dr. park fic

“Excuse me. Sorry. Can I – can I borrow – I really need to use your phone. It’s an emergency.” The older doctor looks up sharply. It might just be the way his eyebrows are shaped, but his eyes are kind of terrifying, the way he's glaring up at her. (or, what if Emma runs into Dr. Brendon Park in 2x10)

[rotten-womb]

rereading a bit of my old works & damn i need to calm down w the unnecessary synonyms

[rotten-womb]

cussed him out cried in his arms sat on his face fell asleep in his arms

[ceilidho]

I know we talk a lot about Ghost having no problem resorting to cannibalism in a survival situation, such as a plane crash in the mountains, but we should also consider Ghost offering to let reader cannibalize HIM when they run out of food. He might even chop off a finger for her if things get desperate enough.

And it goes without saying that after they’re rescued, even though she begs him to not bring it up, he constantly talks about her having a piece of him inside her 🫩 never lets her forget who saved her ass out in the wild and kept her fed

[rotten-womb]

noncon!

yummy things happening in my mind rn… cigar buzzed price plowing u w shot after shot of vodka to get u all nice & drunk & deliquesced… limbs all mellowed out & easy for him to maneuver… pussy warm & wet & inviting… fat tears rolling down ur face as u try to make sense of the grunting sounds rattling around ur skull… cupping his hand around ur prone head & lifting it to lick a kiss into ur drooling mouth as he pushes himself flush into u & fills u up

[naughtystiel-deactivated2026052]

i stay awake and grind my teeth, i go to bed and walk around, around, around inside my head

[mummersknight]

There’s a recurring motif throughout the books where an innocent man, woman or (really most often) child of low birth, with no other connections to the games of the noble houses, is passed off as a highborn lord or lady and then harmed and usually even killed in their place. This happens to the miller’s boys who Theon kills and presents as Bran and Rickon, to Penny’s brother and the many other dwarves whose corpses were presented to Cersei as Tyrion, to Gilly’s baby who is switched for Mance’s son, and the list goes on and on. In the series, it functions as a very poignant metaphor for how the fighting between the lords of Westeros ends up causing more damage and suffering for the smallfolk than it ever really does for those directly involved, those who actually are responsible.

However, there are two instances where this motif is inverted: when Theon saves Jeyne Poole and when Brienne saves the children at the Inn at the Crossroads. In ADWD, Jeyne is made to pose as Arya Stark and then forced to marry Ramsay Bolton so that he can use Arya’s claim to Winterfell. At the Inn at the Crossroads, Brienne first mistakes Gendry for Renly, but, notably, there’s also another little girl who she briefly thinks might actually be Arya. To me, it seems significant that in both cases the girl is mistaken for Arya, specifically. Moreover, the two events are even further linked, as in both instances it’s the color of the eyes that don’t match, referencing the highly important theme of learning to “see” through deceptions in Arya’s arc.

Usually, with this motif, the POV characters believe that the lives of these smallfolk people are worth less in the grand scheme of things compared to the highborns they are replacing. Often, we as the reader are tricked into believing this as well. We’re meant to be relieved when we learn that it wasn’t really Bran and Rickon who died, just two random boys we don’t even know. But when the motif is inverted, it directly challenges this notion. When Theon saves Jeyne, it signals that his road to redemption doesn’t start with making it up to the Starks, it starts with saving a girl from a situation so similar to that of the two lowborn boys he murdered. And when Brienne, after she’s spent the entirety of her arc in AFFC looking for Sansa and Arya, finally has her big, climactic hero moment, it’s not about saving the lost princesses, it’s about saving a group of innocent orphan smallfolk children because, in the end, they are worth just as much.

As I said, I doubt it’s a coincidence that both of these inversions are linked to Arya of all people. Firstly, it of course mirrors how she herself has spent most of the series posing as a lowborn child and experiencing the suffering of the smallfolk firsthand. But there’s also a lot of Arya’s story that’s signaling that she, in the future, likely will be taking on the role as a champion of sorts for the common people. And so I think it’s very fitting that she’s then also so closely connected to these events where the smallfolk, for once, are protected.

[coffinvows]

in the woods somewhere

[rotten-womb]

john price world’s worst husband, workaholic, emotionally distant (locks himself up in his home office,) physically distant (constant time consuming missions,) his only saving grace is his dick — u ask for a divorce but he grovels & makes promises (that last for a total of two weeks,) he fucks a baby into u (that he proceeds to neglect) cause he thinks it’ll keep u busy. He’s the most divorceable man ever