DOUBLE ENTITY FUCK ME UP. DOUBLE ENTITY SAVE ME. MORE DOUBLE ENTITY IMMEDIATELY PLEASE. MORE PLEASE ASAP MORE DOUBLE ENTITY YES PLEASE.
part 1.
the bite mark heals wrong on purpose.
he lets it scar into the borrowed skin, a puckered crescent on the side of his throat that pulls when he turns his head. he touches it constantly. pressing his fingers into the ridge of it while he stalks through corridors, tracing the shape of your jaw in the tissue, remembering the crunch of your teeth through false muscle and the spray of black. the startled, furious blaze of your eyes as you spat a piece of him onto the floor.
what a mate you would make.
the thought keeps circling, lodging deeper with every orbit. your scent is fading from his skin. it's been weeks since the pinning, since the biting, since you carved an exit through his walls and vanished. the fading is a torment.
he presses his nose into his own forearm where the last trace lingers and breathes until there's nothing left. then he follows you.
across levels. through corridors. past the territories of lesser things that scatter when they feel him coming because he's meaner than usual. sharper. a predator with an itch under his skin that won't settle.
he killed a smiler last week for crossing his path at the wrong moment. tore it apart with an efficiency that was closer to irritation than hunger, and stood in the aftermath thinking about how your hands would look covered in the same black viscera. how your teeth would look buried in the throat of something that deserved it.
how you'd snarl at him over the kill, blood on your chin, daring him to come closer.
he wants to claim you so badly his form flickers when he thinks about it. the human suit rippling at the edges, destabilised by a want so vast it can't fit inside a borrowed body.
he imagines the weight of you beneath him. the clicking going soft. the purr breaking open into gentle surrender. the moment you'd stop fighting and let him in and the sound you'd make (that sound, the one he's never heard but can feel the shape of, the frequency that means yours, i'm yours, take me) and the imagining makes him grind his teeth so hard the false jaw creaks.
you've been avoiding level 0. he can tell. you're staying on the upper levels, keeping to territories he doesn't fully control, running your patrols through corridors where his influence thins. smart. strategic.
the fawn has learned where the wolf sleeps and is keeping her distance. and every day the distance lasts, the itch gets worse.
patient. he needs to be patient. he has three thousand years of patience.
the patience is wearing thin.
and then you get hurt.
he feels it before he sees it. a spike in the ambient frequency of level 4. your frequency, hot and bright and suddenly wrong. jagged. the clean hum of your power stuttering like a light about to blow.
he moves. fast. faster than he's moved in centuries, tearing through level transitions with a force that peels the walls behind him.
he finds you in a wide room with cracked ceiling tiles and two howlers circling your body. you're on your feet, barely, your human shape shredded and flickering. black blood (yours, not theirs) is pooling beneath you, dripping from a wound in your side where one of them caught you with a claw.
three wanderers are huddled behind you. you're shielding them. of course you're shielding them. injured and outnumbered and still putting your failing body between fragile humans and the things trying to eat them.
one of the howlers lunges. you catch it mid-air, your real teeth tearing through its shoulder, but the second one hits you from behind and you go down. your scream is layered in frequencies that crack the ceiling tiles above you and the sound, the sound of you in pain, reaches him at the doorway, and something inside him snaps so completely the human suit tears apart into ribbons.
the face dissolves. the borrowed skin, the careful muscles, the crooked grin, all of it shedding off him in strips as his true form erupts through the seams. vast and dark and jagged and furious. old fury. the kind that predates the concept of anger. the kind that lives in the marrow of a thing that has never, in three thousand years, felt protective of another living creature. white-hot, all-consuming, murderous rage.
he hits the first howler so hard it separates into two pieces against the far wall.
the second one wheels on him, snarling, and it's bigger than him. not stronger but bigger, all limbs and teeth and frantic desperate violence, and the fight is real. a genuine challenge. the howler catches his flank with a claw that tears through his true form, and the pain is exquisite but he doesn't slow down. he drives the thing into the floor with the weight of his full power, and it screams, thrashing, its jaws snapping at the place where his throat would be if he had one in this shape.
and then you're there. at his side. snarling, clicking that rapid threat-rattle, your human shape barely clinging to your frame. you latch onto the howler's back with your real teeth and rip. a long strip of the thing's hide tearing free in your jaws. the howler screams again, twisting, trying to reach you, and the momentary distraction is enough.
he pins the thing flat and tears through its core and the howler comes apart beneath him in a shower of dark matter and dying sound.
silence. the fight took less than a minute. the room is wrecked, ceiling half-collapsed, the floor slick with black.
the wanderers are gone. fled during the chaos. smart.
you're on the floor.
he turns and finds you curled on the cracked tile, shivering. your human shape is in pieces, flickering in and out, your true form bleeding through at the edges, too weak to hold the mask. the wound in your side is leaking bright, hot frequency into the air, your power guttering like a candle in wind.
you're spent. burned through your reserves fighting two howlers except you're young, your power is still growing, and you burned too bright too fast and now the tank is empty.
he approaches slowly. his true form folding down, condensing, the vast dark edges pulling in until he's manageable. still not human. he doesn't have the energy to rebuild the suit right now and doesn't care to. he moves close. crouches beside you. extends something that could be a hand if hands had too many joints and wraps it around you, careful, gathering your shaking form against his chest.
you flinch. a weak snarl vibrates through your body, but the teeth behind it have no force. you're trembling. the clicking in your throat has gone thin and rapid. not threat now. pain. fear. the sound of something young and hurt that doesn't know how to ask for help.
he lifts you. holds you against his cooling form and stands. you weigh nothing to him. you weigh everything to him.
backrooms bend around him and the corridors shorten, the exits realigning and he carries you home.
the nest is new. he built it after the bite. after the decision. after the word mine settled into his frequency and stayed. soft walls. low warm light. piled blankets and a temperature he's adjusted to run warmer than his default because you run hot.
he built it for two, and he laid the foundations thinking about you, imagining your scent soaking into the fabric, imagining your warmth pressed into the space beside his. a home. for a mate he hadn't claimed yet. presumptuous. he didn't care then. doesn't care now.
he lays you down in the centre of it. you curl into the warmth and a small sound leaves your throat, involuntary and exhausted, the hum of a creature recognising comfort even through pain. he starts rebuilding the human suit. pulling the face back together piece by piece. sandy hair. blue eyes. lean frame. it takes longer than usual. the fight drained him too. but he wants the human shape for this. wants hands that can hold you gently. a mouth that can press against your skin without tearing it.
the suit settles. he lies down beside you in the nest. presses close. his borrowed chest against your shaking back, his arm curving around your waist, and he clicks.
not the want-click. not the mating trill. a different frequency. older, softer. the sound an entity makes for injured young. he didn't know he knew it. didn't know it was in his repertoire. but it pours out of him, this low rhythmic clicking interspersed with soft chirring coos, pressed against the back of your neck. safe. here. rest. safe. i'm here. nothing will touch you.
you're not sleeping. entities don't sleep. but your body enters a stasis. a deep restorative stillness that draws the remaining power inward, concentrating it around the wound, beginning the slow work of rebuilding. your frequency dims to a whisper. your human shape stabilises into a thin, translucent hold.
so young. burning so bright and now so dim. he watches the light of you flicker and gutter and something in his chest (a feeling he didn't know he had, a feeling that has no business existing in the oldest predator alive) aches.
he clicks. coos. his borrowed nose nudging against your jaw. his mouth pressing against the skin behind your ear, making soothing sounds that vibrate through your skull and into the stasis.
he pulls the blankets tighter around you. adjusts the temperature of the nest warmer. checks the wound. it's knitting, slowly, the torn edges drawing together. good. you're healing. you're going to be fine. you're going to be fine because he will personally tear apart anything in this place that tries to hurt you again, starting with himself if necessary.
he's fussing. he's aware he's fussing. he doesn't stop. his hand smoothing your hair back from your face. his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. running his thumb over your brow the way he's seen wanderers do for each other.
tender, clumsy gestures copied from the creatures you love, repurposed for you.
and then, slowly, gradually, in a way that makes him itch, you curl into him.
your body turning toward his. your face pressing into the hollow of his throat. your arms winding around his torso and holding on. soft, needy sounds leaving your throat. the low keening hum of a creature in pain recognising warmth, recognising safety, letting itself be held for the first time.
your clicking has changed register. gone slow and rhythmic. a comfort-frequency. a sound you've never made for him. a sound you've never made for anyone.
he wraps both arms around you and pulls you flush against his chest and tucks his chin over your head and closes his eyes. the purr starts. low and deep and steady, rolling through both your bodies. your clicking syncs to it. two frequencies finding each other in the dark and locking in. harmonising.
he holds you while you heal. doesn't move. doesn't shift. barely breathes. his nose pressed into your hair, filling his lungs with your scent, and you're clutching him in your half-aware state, your fingers curled in the fabric of his borrowed shirt, your face buried in his throat where the scar from your teeth sits raised and permanent. you nuzzle the scar in your stasis. rub your cheek against the ridge of it. scent-marking the wound you made.
his eyes sting. he didn't know the suit could do that.
hours pass. your frequency brightens. the wound knits. your human shape solidifies and the translucence fades and your grip on his shirt tightens and he feels the moment consciousness returns because your whole body goes rigid.
one second you're soft and clinging and making comfort sounds against his throat. the next you're a coiled spring. you tense. process. assess. and before he can speak you've flipped your weight, thrown a leg over his hips, and straddled him.
your hands close around his throat. tight. your eyes blazing. your teeth, the real ones, bared behind lips that have forgotten how to be human.
he looks up at you. your hair wild. your eyes burning. your fingers digging into the false skin of his neck with a pressure that would crush a human windpipe. pinned beneath you, his hands open at his sides, his expression calm and warm and infuriatingly amused.
he chuckles. a low, fond, rolling sound. "unruly."
"where am I?" your voice is hard, layered in threat-harmonics that make the nest blankets vibrate.
"our nest."
the word our hits you like a slap. your snarl peels back further, inhuman teeth fully extended, clicking rapid and sharp. "your nest. where are the wanderers? what did youâ"
"they ran. they're fine. and it's our nest." his hands come up, slowly, carefully, and settle on your hips. his thumbs tracing circles through the fabric. "I built it for two."
you snarl down at him. every line of your body screaming threat, your hands clenching his throat, your true form pressing against the edges of the human shape.
he chuckles again. his head tilting back against the blankets. his eyes tracing your face with open, greedy admiration. "you're so pretty when you're angry. you know that? all teeth and clicking. you almost died tonight and the first thing you do is try to strangle me." his thumbs press into the curve of your hips. "I like you so much."
"let me goâ"
but you're not leaving. your hands are on his throat and your thighs are clenched around his waist and you're growling but the growl has a tremor in it, something shaky and unsteady underneath the fury, because you remember.
you remember the stasis. you remember his clicking, his cooing, the soothing sounds pressed into the back of your neck. you remember curling into him. nuzzling his scar. making that sound, that soft keening comfort-sound, that you've never made for anyone.
"you held me," you say accusingly. horrified.
his mouth twitches. "you held me back."
and the truth of it silences you for a beat. your grip on his throat loosens. your eyes flicker.
he moves. fast. his hands leave your hips and fold around your wrists and he draws them away from his throat and rolls you, tucking you into the blankets, curling his body around yours with a strength that isn't aggressive but is older, absolute.
you snarl and snap your teeth at his jaw and he lets you, lets the bite graze his chin, and wraps you tighter.
"you're not at full power." murmured into your hair. his arm banded across your waist, holding you flush against his chest. "you burned through your reserves fighting two howlers by yourself, which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and incredibly brave, and we'll discuss it later. right now you're running at half capacity. you're spent. and if you keep struggling you're going to put yourself under again, and to avoid that, i'll have to pin you properly and neither of us will enjoy that."
you snarl.
"okay, i'd enjoy it."
you bite his collarbone. through the shirt. he hisses a breath and his arm tightens and a clicking trill rolls through his chest. the want-sound, involuntary, because your teeth are on him and his body doesn't distinguish between violence and foreplay where you're concerned.
but the bite is gentle. that's the thing that makes his breathing stutter.
you bit down and held but you're not tearing. you're pressing your teeth into the meat of his shoulder and holding. your jaw locked, your eyes closed. growling. the growl vibrating through his collarbone and into his chest. and then your body softens, fractionally, grudgingly, and you're leaning into him. your face buried in his throat. your legs tangling with his. the growl thinning into a low, continuous rumble that's closer to purring than either of you would admit.
he sighs, long and slow and aching. pulls you closer. his hand cradling the back of your skull. his nose in your hair, breathing you in.
"there you go," he whispers. "easy."
you growl louder in protest. your hips grind against his. friction and warmth and the unmistakable heat of arousal bleeding through both borrowed skins. his jaw clenches, his arm tightening around your waist.
you're doing it again. the fighting-while-pressing-closer thing. snarling at him while rubbing against him. biting his shoulder while tangling your legs through his. every sound you make says enemy and every movement you make says closer.
two predators wrapped around each other in a nest built for mating, grinding together in borrowed bodies, clicking and purring and scenting each other's throats while pretending this is still a fight. his borrowed cock is hard against your hip and your body is hot and damp where you press against his thigh and neither of you is acknowledging it.
he runs his nose along your jaw. you tilt your head. involuntary. giving him access to your throat and then catching yourself and jerking back. he clicks softly, soothingly, nuzzling into the space you offered for half a second.
"you're healing faster like this," he murmurs against your jaw. "nesting and contact speeds the recovery. your frequency syncs to mine and the resonance compounds and you rebuild faster." a pause. the grin pressed against your skin. "that's why you should stay. it's purely medical."
"you're full of shit." muffled against his collarbone where your face is buried.
"i'm full of concern for your wellbeing," he says lightly.
"you're full of shit and I can feel your cock against my hip."
he hums, grinning. "that's also concern."
you bite his shoulder again. harder this time. he groans. the clicking in his throat becomes ragged and he rolls his hips against yours before he can stop himself, and the friction pulls a sound from you. a high, sharp, hungry sound that you swallow immediately but too late because he heard it. he always hears it.
"stubborn thing," he breathes fondly. "so stubborn. snarling at the one who carried you home and built you a nest and held you for six hours while you healed."
you chew on his jaw. "I didn't ask for any of that."
"you nuzzled my scar in your sleep."
silence. your clicking goes rapid and embarrassed.
"I was unconscious."
"you were in stasis. entities don't lose awareness in stasis. you knew exactly where you were and you chose to stay."
more silence. your face presses harder into his throat. hiding. your fingers curl into his shirt, holding on.
he runs his hand down your spine slowly, tracing each vertebra through the borrowed skin. you arch into the touch despite yourself, your body chasing his hand, and a low whimper escapes before you can choke it.
"stay," he says quietly now, the cockiness thinning into something bare. "stay and heal. let me take care of you."
"I don't needâ"
"I know you don't need it. i'm not asking if you need it." his hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the knob of your spine. "i'm asking if you'll let me."
you're quiet. your breathing is unsteady, hips still pressed against his thigh and the heat between you hasn't cooled. you're trembling from the effort of wanting and fighting the wanting for some reason he doesn't yet know at the same time.
"you can't keep me here," you say, smaller now.
"i'm not keeping you. the exits are open. you can leave whenever you want."
and you both know you're not leaving. not yet. not with his scent in your lungs and his warmth around you and your wound still knitting. your body syncing to his frequency with every breath.
you squirm, testing his hold. his arm tightens. you squirm harder, growling, and he sighs, rolling you onto your stomach in one smooth motion. his weight settles over your back, hips pressing you flat into the blankets, pinning you with his body. his chest against your shoulder blades. his mouth at your ear.
"stay." firm. warm. the cocky edge creeping back in. "stay and heal. orâ" his hips press down and the hard length of him grinds against the curve of your ass through the borrowed clothes and your breath catches. your fingers claw the blankets. "or I mount you right now, and I should warn you..." his lips brush the shell of your ear, his purr rolling through your spine. "the mating cycle, once it starts, is not going to be gentle. and it's not going to be short. you'll be under me for days. so if you'd prefer to heal firstâ" a kiss behind your ear, soft and tender. "i'd recommend staying still."
you go still, flat on your stomach, his weight on your back. his mouth brushes your ear. his hard cock presses against you through layers of borrowed fabric. and the sound you make, low and grinding and frustrated, is the sound of a creature that wants very badly to call his bluff and is just wise enough not to.
"fine." gritted out, your face pressed into the blankets. "fine. i'll stay."
"good girl."
you snarl. he grins against your neck. rolls off you, slowly, drawing out the drag of his body against yours, and settles on his side beside you. you stay on your stomach for a long moment, breathing hard. your fingers slowly unclenching from the blankets. then you turn your head and look at him with one furious, burning eye.
he's propped on his elbow. watching you with that infuriating, adoring, patient expression. he reaches out and brushes his knuckles over your cheekbone.
"such a stubborn, pretty thing," he murmurs, leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. your forehead. the bridge of your nose. the corner of your scowling mouth. soft and hungry, lingering, each kiss tasting you, breathing you in, his lips warm against your skin.
you don't pull away. your scowl softens by fractions. your eyes closing as his mouth traces the line of your brow.
his lips find the curve of your shoulder blade. he pushes the borrowed shirt aside and presses a kiss there. then another between your shoulders. then a trail of them down your spine, slow and warm, his mouth learning the shape of your back while his hand rests gentle on the curve of your waist.
you make a sound, low and needy. the clicking in your throat has gone slow and rhythmic. the comfort frequency. the safe sound. and he hears it, his eyes closing and his mouth presses harder against your skin, his purr filling the nest.
"stubborn," he whispers against the small of your back. "vicious. impossible. the most beautiful thing i've ever seen." another kiss. "you almost died tonight and you're still snarling at me."
"'m not snarling," you mumble into the blankets. your body lax now. warm and loose, heavy with exhaustion. your hand reaching back blindly until it finds his forearm and your fingers curling around it, holding on.
"you're absolutely snarling." his mouth curves against your warm skin. "it's my favourite sound in the world."
your grip on his arm tightens. he moves back up, settling behind you. wraps himself around your body and tucks his face into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply, and you let him. you let him hold you while you heal, your two frequencies locking together in the dark.
ours, he thinks, his nose in your hair, his arm around your waist. his mate. fierce and stubborn, healing in his arms.
okay now double entity bb and companion. entity entity enemies to forever lovers⌠meet cute of you got too close to my territory and i almost tipped ur body apart teehee :p but now we are locked forever together â¤ď¸
he's the oldest thing in the backrooms. he knows that. has known it for millennia, alone in his corridors, drifting through levels in a form no human mind could hold. apex. unchallenged. the top of a food chain that never needed a second link.
and then you show up.
you're new. that's the first thing he registers. the startling, impossible newness of you.
entities don't just appear. the backrooms births them slow, growing them in the dark like fungus, layering consciousness over time until the walls spit out a hound or a skin-stealer or a faceling. he's watched it happen a thousand times. it can take years.
you took months, and you came out wrong. wrong in the sense that you're too much, too fast, too bright. a frequency the backrooms has never produced before, burning hot against the edges of his territory like a fresh wound.
one day you weren't there and the next his borders are vibrating with a signal he can't identify, and when he investigates he finds a trail of dead lesser entities with their forms shredded across three levels. the kills are clean. purposeful. a warning posted in viscera.
but you're clumsy about it. that's the infuriating part.
he follows the trail and finds you stumbling through a corridor like a newborn fawn on legs you haven't finished learning, tripping over your own power. bumping into walls. your human shape flickering in and out because you can't hold it steady yet, your true form bleeding through at the edges every time you lose focus.
you're a baby. a catastrophically powerful baby who has been alive for approximately five minutes, and is already causing him constant, relentless, skull-splitting headaches.
because you're growing. visibly. daily. the frequency you emit gets louder every week. the lesser entities that used to test your borders stop testing.
he watches you tear through a pack of hounds on level 3 with a brutality that makes his own hunting instinct prick, and your form is steadier than it was a month ago, your movements surer, the clumsiness burning off in real time.
you're learning faster than anything he's ever seen. at this rate you'll be the second most powerful thing in the backrooms soon and the trajectory beyond that is deeply, disturbingly interesting.
and you're wearing a human shape. a good one. better than it should be for a creature your age. not the sloppy mimicry lesser entities use to lure prey, all wrong proportions and uncanny smiles. yours is crafted. detailed. beautiful in a way that makes him stop and stare, which he has never done for anything in his entire ancient existence.
he's the original shapeshifter, and there's finally someone around who can challenge his craftsmanship.
you're crouched over a group of wanderers when he finds you next, shielding them, guiding them toward a safe level. your body between them and a thing with too many legs that was stalking the corridor. and as he watches from behind a wall, you turn and face the creature and your true form bleeds through, vast and blinding and furious despite its youth, and the thing disintegrates.
and then you turn back to the wanderers and your face is soft again. human. kind. you touch the smallest one on the shoulder and point them toward the exit, watching them leave with tenderness. real tenderness. you feel tenderness for these fragile sparks with their seventy-year lifespans and their breakable bodies. you protect them with a ferocity that makes his corridors hum.
why? you're an entity. you're a predator. you're growing into one of the most dangerous things these walls have ever produced, and you're coddling humans.
he doesn't understand you. he wants to understand you. the wanting is a new sensation and he doesn't trust it.
so he tries to approach, and you snarl at him.
full-body, frequency-shaking, the-walls-leaning-away-from-you snarl. your human shape cracks at the edges and he catches a glimpse of what's underneath, and his form stutters because you are powerful. young and clumsy, still learning but powerful, growing stronger by the day in a way that shouldn't be possible for a newborn. the force rolling off you makes his skin prickle in ways he didn't know he could prickle.
"stay away from me."
your voice is layered in harmonics that say i will rip you apart if you take another step, and he believes you might try. he takes another step anyway because he's an ancient idiot, and also because the threat is doing things to him he doesn't have vocabulary for.
you vanish. slip between levels with that clumsy new grace you're developing. half liquid, half stumble. gone before he can blink.
he stands in the empty corridor vibrating with adrenaline and arousal and annoyance in equal measure.
his body is doing a thing it's never done. not for the hounds, not for the facelings, not for any of the entities he has encountered over millennia, including the ones he could, technically, mate with. he's existed alongside other entities for eons and felt nothing. no pull. no heat. no interest in their forms or their frequencies. they were features of the landscape. irrelevant.
you snarled at him and his whole body lit up.
this is a problem.
so he chases you. as predators do. across levels, through corridors, between the cracks in the walls. you're infuriatingly good at evading him. better every time, your control of the exits improving daily, your ability to mask your scent trail developing at a rate that drives him genuinely insane.
and sometimes (this is the part that makes him want to tear wallpaper off the ceiling) you play.
you let him get close. close enough that he can taste your frequency in the air, that electric sweetness that's become a fixation. close enough that he thinks this time, this time i'll catch her. and then you twist away at the last second and the burst of speed is just a fraction faster than necessary. not evasion. performance. a taunt.
you look over your shoulder and he swears, he swears, the corner of your mouth twitches before you disappear.
you're playing chase with him. and the playing is somehow worse than the evading because the evading was survival and the playing is choice. you're choosing to stay near. choosing to let him close. choosing to dance at the edge of his reach and dart away laughing in frequencies he feels in his marrow.
he's equal parts aroused and furious, and the two feelings have blurred into a single vibrating state he can't shake.
and you're killing things along the way. lesser entities that made the mistake of targeting wanderers in your territory. he watches you tear through them with brutal efficiency that's refining itself daily. the fawn finding its legs, the stumble turning into a sprint.
you're magnificent. you're getting more magnificent every week, and the growth curve is staggering. you fight with a ferocity that has no right to exist in a creature your age, defending humans that could never defend themselves. the contradiction of it (the violence and the gentleness living in the same body) makes him pace, itching with urge toâ
he manages to catch you once. pins you against a wall with his full weight, true form pressing against yours, and the contact is electric.
your frequencies clash and tangle, the walls cracking around you. he holds you there, straining, using every advantage his age gives him, and demands answers. what are you. where did you come from. why do you protect them. why won't you TALK to him. he's been here for millennia. he's the first thing the walls ever made. the least you could do is have a conversation.
you scowl at him with flat, cold eyes. and then you twist. your form bends in a direction his can't follow, a trick you must have learned this week because you couldn't do that last time. and you're gone. sliding through his grip like mercury.
his hands are tingling where your skin touched his. your scent is all over him. sweet and electric, layered with that warm undertone that shouldn't exist in an entity, the note underneath the power that smells like... he doesn't know.
he doesn't have a reference point. he's never smelled anything like it. new, like you. dizzying and addictive. he buries his face in his own arm where your frequency lingers and breathes deep, greedy, rolling the scent through his senses until his form shudders with it. he wants to press his face against the source. against the crook of your neck. against the pulse point you built into that pretty human throat. he wants to taste the skin there. find out if the scent translates to flavour.
he roars. the whole of level 0 shakes. three levels away, you hear it. the corner of your mouth twitches.
fine. fine. if you're so fond of the little humans, he can adapt. he starts letting wanderers pass through level 0 unharmed. it goes against every instinct but he does it, because he's noticed that you follow them. you shadow wanderer groups through the backrooms and where they go, you go, and if he makes level 0 safe enough, maybe you'll follow them in.
it works. you trail a group through his corridors and he feels you cross the threshold, and his whole level sings. you're on his territory now. his home turf. every wall, every floor, every flickering light answering to him.
and this time he comes prepared.
he builds a human shape. studies the wanderers the way you study them, maps the features, constructs a face from the best pieces he can find. sandy-haired. blue-eyed. lean. angular jaw. crooked grin.
he puts on the suit and examines himself. rolls the shoulders. tests the smirk in a reflective surface. decides it's very good. if you're so fond of the human form, if you chose to wear one before you'd even finished learning to hold your own edges, then he'll meet you there.
he can play along. he can play along better.
he finds you on level 0 in a corridor that bends only for him. you're crouched beside a sleeping wanderer, adjusting a makeshift blanket over their shoulders with those careful hands.
you look up when his footsteps register and your whole body goes taut, ready to bolt, ready to fight. and then you see him, and surprise flickers across your human face, real and unguarded, because you were expecting the true form, the ancient vast thing that chases you through walls.
you were not expecting a boy with blue eyes and a crooked grin, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, radiating the energy of a creature that has spent three millennia being the most dangerous thing around.
he tilts his head. the grin widens. the suit ripples at the edges, barely held, seams visible if you look too long. he doesn't care. he wears the imperfection openly.
"like it?" drawled. cocky. testing the shape of human arrogance on a borrowed tongue. his eyes raking over your human form with a slow, appreciative drag that he makes sure you catch. "built it just for you. figured if my pretty little territory invader is going to keep slipping through my fingers, the least I can do is look good while she does it."
your eyes narrow. your body is still coiled to run but there's a beat, one beat, where your gaze tracks from his face to his shoulders to the lean line of his waist.
he watches you look. lets you. shifts his weight against the doorframe so the borrowed muscles move under the borrowed shirt because he is ancient and powerful and also, apparently, not above peacocking for a newborn entity he's been chasing for months.
"it's sloppy," you conclude flatly. your human voice carrying undertones that strokes down his spine.
"it's my first try." he pushes off the wall. takes a step toward you. "i'll take notes." another step. his eyes dropping to your mouth. back up. "you know, for a creature who's been alive for five minutes, you're the most infuriating thing i've encountered in three thousand years. won't talk to me. won't fight me properly. just keeps scurrying through my walls helping humansâ" he says the word with a fondness that surprises him, "and smelling like that."
you openly bristle. "smelling like what?"
"like i want to put my mouth on your throat and stay there."
and then he's moving and you're moving and the chase through level 0 is different this time because he knows these halls and the halls know him.
every exit you aim for seals shut a second before you reach it. he's herding you. corralling you. using the corridors like a net, and you're fast but he's home, and for the first time your new tricks can't save you.
he catches you at a dead end that didn't exist thirty seconds ago. pins you against the wall with the human body and you snarl, that full-frequency, form-cracking snarl, and he leans into it. absorbs the force of it, head tilting curiously.
his hands on your wrists. his weight pressing you flat. his borrowed hips pinning yours against the wallpaper and the contact...
through the human suits, through the false skin, the frequency of you pouring into the frequency of him. he can feel your power. younger and rawer than his, burning hot where his runs cold, and the clash of temperatures sends a shudder through both of you.
"got you," he breathes, his face inches from yours. eyes pale blue and half-lidded. that crooked grin. "my slippery, pretty thing. finally."
you bare your teeth. your human shape is flickering, your true form pressing against the suit's edges, and the glimpses he catches make his grip tighten. you're beautiful in both skins. the human one with its crafted warmth. the real one with its blazing, raw, impossible power.
"you're so fond of your little humans." murmured. his borrowed nose tracing the line of your jaw. "so gentle with them. so patient. and with me you're all claws and snarling." his lips brush your cheekbone. his scent washing over you at close range. old, cold, vast, the deep mineral smell of something that has existed for a long, long time. and underneath it, a musk you haven't encountered in any other entity. rich and dark and ancient. it fills your lungs and your pupils dilate. "it's not fair. I built a whole face for you."
"i'm not interested in conversation," you hiss, and underneath the hiss, a clicking.
rapid and sharp, rattling in the back of your borrowed throat. a threat display in a register that predates language. sub-vocal. primal.
his pupils blow wide, and a purr rolls through his chest in answer. deep and involuntary, resonating through the wall behind you. through the floor, through the false bones of both your suits.
his body responding to your threat with a mating call.
"no?" he pulls back just enough to look at you, tilts his head. that slow predatory angle. his eyes dark, his grin sharpening. "what are you interested in? because i've been chasing you for months and you keep running but you don't run fast enough and we both know you could. so either you're slower than I thinkâ" he leans in, his mouth at your ear, his voice dropping to a register that makes the lights pulse, "or you like being caught by me."
your frequency spikes. he feels it lance through him, hot and sharp. and he grins against your ear because that was a reaction, a real one, and it tasted like wanting.
"that's what I thought."
a low chirr rolls from the base of your throat. involuntary. you clamp down on it immediately but he heard it, felt the vibration press against his collarbone where his chest meets yours. a responsive sound. the vocal equivalent of leaning in. and his purr deepens into a rolling, possessive rumble that makes the plaster behind your head crack.
you twist in his grip. testing. your wrists straining against his hands and your hips shifting against his and the friction sends a bolt of heat through both of you that neither can hide.
his jaw tightens and your breath catches. but you're still trying to escape, still snarling, still clicking that rapid threat-rattle. the trying has changed shape though. the struggling is pressing you harder against him instead of pulling you away. your body arching into the contact even as your mouth promises violence. and he knows it. reads the dissonance between your sounds and your movements.
"there you go," he murmurs, low. his thumbs stroking the insides of your wrists. "fighting so hard. snarling so pretty for me, but pressing closer the whole time." his hips roll against yours, slow and pinning, and a sound escapes you that isn't a snarl and isn't a threat. a high, thin, shaking note that makes his purr stutter and restart louder. "you feel that? that's what you do to me. three thousand years and nobody's made me make this sound. just you. just my pretty, infuriating, impossibleâ"
he nuzzles your throat. can't help it. can't stop himself. the scent is right there, concentrated at the juncture of jaw and neck, and he presses his borrowed nose into the soft skin and inhales until his whole form vibrates.
a clicking starts in his own throat. rapid, rhythmic, a staccato pulse that means want, want, want in a frequency older than the walls. his mouth follows, lips parting against your pulse, tongue grazing the skin. tasting.
and the taste is. god. better than the scent. richer. layered. the flavour of new power and old warmth and the electric sweetness underneath.
he groans against your throat. the groan cracks into a purr cracks into a clicking trill that no human mouth should produce, and the sound of it vibrating against your pulse and makes your back arch off the wall. involuntary.
your hips press against his, grinding, and both of you gasp. for one second, neither of you is performing. just two ancient things locked together in borrowed skins, clicking and purring in frequencies that make the corridor lights swing on their fixtures.
and you can feel him now. his scent flooding your senses at close range, that deep cold mineral musk that fills your head and makes your thoughts go liquid.
you hate how good it is. how your body responds to it, leaning into the source before you can stop yourself, your nose pressing into the crook of his neck to chase the smell and the clicking in your throat softening from threat into something dangerously close to curiosity.
he smells like the walls. like the deep places. like permanence. and against him, pressed this close, his borrowed body hard and cool and vibrating with that rolling purr. it feels good. it feels so good. and the goodness is a betrayal of every snarl you've ever aimed at him, and you can feel your resistance dissolving in the heat between your bodies.
he feels it too. feels the shift. the snarl going breathy. the clicking losing its sharp edge. your nose in his neck, breathing him in, and the intimacy of it, you smelling him, voluntarily, seeking his scent the way he's been desperately seeking yours, makes his whole form tremble with possessive hunger.
"that's it," he whispers urgently against your pulse. "i'm right here. i've been right here, little one."
"shut up," you breathe into his throat, but your lips graze the skin as you say it, and his hips jerk forward. a clicking trill pours out of him that he couldn't suppress if he tried.
his mouth traces the line of your throat. half kiss, half territorial claim. his purr is constant now, layered, harmonic, and he can feel yours answering. vibrating against his chest through the false skin. an echo. a response. two predators locked in a feedback loop of sound and scent. his canines lengthen for half a second, grazing the tendon in your neck, before he pulls them back.
"you taste even better than you smell." mumbled into your skin. his hands tightening on your wrists. his hips rolling against yours, slow, grinding. his purr deepening as yours answers. "do you have any idea what you do to me? three thousand years of nothing. no one. and then you stumble out of the walls on your fawn legs with your pretty face, and your impossible power. now I can't think about anything exceptâ" his teeth graze your throat again, sharper this time, the mask slipping, "this. right here. the taste of you. let me have one more. just one more. I needâ"
and you let him closer.
your wrists go slack in his grip. your head tips back against the wall, baring more throat. the gesture is submission in the language of predators. an offering. a door cracking open. the sight of it makes his vision swim with greed.
he presses in. his mouth opens wider against the exposed column of your neck, tongue flat against your pulse, tasting the frequency of you directly from the source. and your purr is loud now. loud and unguarded and rolling through both of your borrowed bodies and your free hand (he didn't notice your wrist slipping his grip) comes up and tangles in his borrowed hair, tugs, and the sound he makes against your throat is broken and animal.
your mouth finds the side of his neck. his breath catches. your lips part against the false skin, and he feels your tongue trace his pulse point, curious, testing, tasting him the way he's tasting you, and his whole body goes rigid with want.
your breath is hot against his throat. your teeth graze the tendon. he shudders and tilts his head to give you access and the vulnerability of it is staggering. the oldest predator alive, baring his throat to the newest, purring so hard his suit is cracking at the seams.
"yes," he breathes, eyes shut, his hand cradling the back of your skull now, holding you against his neck. "yes, go on, taste me, i'm yours toâ"
you bite him.
you lunge forward and sink your teeth, your real teeth, the ones that don't belong to the human face, into the side of his borrowed throat. deep. through the false skin and the false muscle and into the absence underneath. black blood sprays across your mouth. across the wallpaper. across the floor.
a chunk of his fake throat tears free in your jaws and you spit it sideways, and the blood is on your lips and your chin and running down your own borrowed neck in dark rivulets.
and he laughs.
head thrown back, throat open and ruined and pouring black, laughing with a sound that shakes the corridor lights loose from the ceiling. laughing because the pain is extraordinary and the violence is extraordinary and YOU are extraordinary.
you just tore a piece out of the oldest thing in the backrooms with your brand-new teeth. your eyes are blazing with fury and arousal. your mouth is painted black with his blood and your purr is still going, still vibrating in your chest, mixing with the snarl, mixing with the clicking.
you wanted him. you let him close. you tasted his throat and then you ripped it open, and the duality of it, the curiosity and the savagery, the purring and the biting, is the most beautiful thing he's witnessed in three thousand years of seeing nothing worth looking at.
"oh," he manages, between laughs, blood dripping down his chest. his voice ragged and delighted and wrecked. "oh, you're going to be fun."
you shove him off while he's laughing. bolt. disappear through a crack between levels that he didn't know existed, which means you carved it yourself, just now, on the fly, ripping a new exit through HIS level with the brute force of your growing power. and that fact alone makes his ruined throat purr harder than the blood should allow.
he stands in the empty corridor, bleeding and grinning, licking the residual taste of you off his lips.
your scent all over his skin, your teeth-marks open and wet and pouring black down the front of his borrowed shirt. your blood on his tongue, sharp and sweet and electric and new. and underneath the pain and the blood: the ghost of your purr.
the memory of your nose pressed into his neck. the fraction of a second where your tongue traced his pulse and the curiosity in the touch was tender. you tasted him. you wanted to taste him. and then you tore him open because the wanting scared you and violence is the only language you trust.
the wound is already closing. the suit rebuilding. the black blood sinks into the carpet and the walls absorb the spatter and the corridor cleans itself because level 0 is good at keeping his secrets.
he touches the healing wound. presses his fingers into the tender new skin where your jaw clamped down. it's going to scar. he's going to let it scar. the oldest entity in the backrooms, wearing a bite mark from a newborn like a trophy.
and standing there in the empty corridor with your taste on his tongue and your mark on his throat, the decision crystallises.
he's going to claim you. not catch. not chase. not kill. claim.
you're going to be his. his territory. his mate. the thing that shares his levels and his nest and the vast dark silence that has been his only companion for three thousand years.
you with your brand-new teeth and your fawn legs and your tender human hands and your clicking threat-rattle and that one moment, that one devastating moment, where you pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in and your purr went soft, and your body went still and you wanted him.
before the fear kicked in. before the teeth followed. for one fraction of a second you wanted him and he felt it in every frequency he possesses.
he heard you.
he pushes off the wall, rolls his shoulders. fixes the suit's collar where your teeth destroyed it. runs his tongue along his bottom lip one more time, chasing the last trace of your taste.
and goes after you at once.
you're fast. you're getting faster every day. you carved your own exit through his home level with raw power that shouldn't exist in a creature your age.
he doesn't care. he has time. he has millennia of patience and your scent in his lungs and the taste of you on his tongue and a bite mark on his throat that proves you got close enough to touch. and he has the memory of your purr. that one small, involuntary, answering sound that you made against his chest before the fear swallowed it.
you can run. you can snarl. you can tear his throat out as many times as you like. he'll heal. he'll follow. he'll keep coming until the snarling softens and the purr comes back and you let him close enough to answer it with his own.
the hunt isn't a hunt anymore. it's a courtship.
mine, he thinks. the word settling into his frequency like roots into soil.
unironically I think this might be my favourite dragon design in anything ever like this thing looks like it's a part of nature not someone's prize horse/nuclear weapon
â pairing: Ormund Hightower x dreamer Targ!reader
â summary: cursed with dreams you cannot outrun, you find the only peace you have ever known in the arms of the man who believes you deserve to suffer.
â warnings: 18+ MDNI | explicit content | age gap | Targaryen reader (Rhaenyra's daughter) | he is NOT a trusted adult | dragon dreams | emotional manipulation | religious fanaticism | propaganda | jealousy | toxic relationship | power imbalance | grooming | she trusts him...she shouldn't | hair color mentioned | begging | guilt | shame | he lowkey is the one that actually needs her | girl run
â word count: 2.5k
â a/n: I have nothing to say for myself. I'd do it again.
The stone hallway stretched ahead, your bare feet unsteady on the frigid flagstones. Each breath came in shallow gasps, your chest constricted, the roar of dragonfire still echoing in your skull. Tears blurred the dim passage. You pressed your palm against the rough stone for balance, the grit anchoring you, pulling you back from the smoldering wreckage that haunted your vision.
You reached his door and pushed it open without hesitation. No need to knock â you never did anymore. The room enveloped you in its familiar warmth â amber firelight, the scent of lavender, and there, at the table, Ormund sat hunched over his work, quill scratching methodically despite the late hour.
The quill's scratch persisted for a few beats before his free arm lifted from the table, opening to the side. A silent invitation. Come here.
You crossed the room on trembling legs and settled into his lap. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your face burying itself in the hollow between his shoulder and jaw. His arm encircled you, firm and sure, pressing you against the solid warmth of his chest. Neither of you spoke. The fire crackled, a log shifting, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney. His hand moved in slow, absent strokes along your back. Your tears soaked into his tunic, dampening the linen against your cheek, but you didn't care. You inhaled deeply, the clean scent of his skin grounding you â and the smoldering ruin behind your eyes began to recede.
"What did you dream?"
His voice was low, the vibration of it resonating through his chest.
You shook your head against his shoulder. "It doesn't matter. I just â I need you."
The quill stilled. You heard it set down, the faint clink against the inkwell. Then his hand cupped your face, fingers tilting your chin upward so you met his gaze. His blue eyes traced the tear tracks, the reddened lids, the trembling of your lower lip despite your efforts to steady it. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, catching a stray tear.
"No. I cannot help you if you do not tell me."
You said nothing, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his tunic, your eyes locked onto his as if memorizing him. He leaned forward, pressing a dry, warm kiss to your temple. When he pulled back, his gaze held yours again.
"Poor girl," he murmured. "It's not fair, is it?"
You shook your head, another tear slipping free.
"Please," you whispered. "Help me."
His hand remained at your jaw, his stare unwavering. "Did you say your prayers?"
You nodded. "Yes."
"Are you certain? The gods would not have punished you today had you been dutiful."
You blinked, your brow furrowing as you replayed the day in your mind. You had risen early, knelt at the sept, spoken your prayers. You had attended your lessons, eaten modestly, spoken kindly, maintained your composure. The day had been ordinary. Devout.
"I was good today," you murmured, your voice cracking. The tears welled again, spilling over. "I was good."
He watched you, his expression unyielding, though his thumb moved across your cheek, wiping away the wetness with practiced patience. "What did you pray for?"
"I prayed for the Father to watch over me. Where my own father could not." You swallowed. "I prayed to be returned home. To my family."
His jaw tightened, the muscle along his cheek clenching. His eyes narrowed slightly. His hand dropped from your face.
"You wish to leave?"
"I â" You faltered. "I surely cannot stay here forever. My mother will be Queen one day, and I â"
He scoffed, the sound sharp, cutting through the warmth of the room. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you off his lap and setting you on your feet. The motion was not rough, but it was final. You stood before him, arms hanging at your sides, your sleeping gown loose around your frame, swaying against your calves.
"Perhaps the Father who delivered you to me finds your desire to abandon the care of a man who has given you everything, to return to a den of sin, offensive." His voice turned cold, the detachment settling over his features like armor. "As I do."
You reached for his shoulder, your fingers brushing the linen, trying to climb back into his lap. He turned his head away, his profile stark against the candlelight â straight nose, sharp jaw, the hard line of his mouth pressed flat.
"I can do nothing more for you," he said, still refusing to look at you. "Return to your chambers."
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, breathless. "I meant no offense â I wasn't thinking, I just â" You moved forward again, straddling him, your knees pressing into the chair on either side of his thighs. You leaned in, your nose nearly touching his, your breath warm against his lips. Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle beneath the linen.
"Please," you whispered. "Make them stop. The way you do."
His eyes met yours. You watched as his gaze dropped to your lips â just for a heartbeat â before returning to your eyes. Something shifted behind the cold blue, a flicker, dark and hungry. His jaw worked, his throat moving as he swallowed. You felt the tension in his thigh beneath you, and something else â the faintest twitch of his cock beneath the leather of his breeches, a swelling that pressed against your inner thigh.
"You need me?"Â His voice was rough.
"Yes."
He tilted his head slightly. "Say it."
Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. "I need you."
He stared at you, unsatisfied. You knew the words he craved. "I need you, Ormund. Only you."
His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair â firm, possessive. His palm warmed your nape. His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.
"You shall have me," he murmured, "once you tell me what you saw."
You tried to lean away but his other arm wound around your waist, holding you fast.
"I saw dragons," you began, voice trembling. "Born from the same egg. They danced, their flames consuming everything." Your fingers dug into his tunic. "Then they fell from the sky. All of them dead."
Your eyes searched him for reassurance. Behind you both, the hearth crackled; beyond the window, a lone night bird cried.
"When you were young, you learned of the Great Doom, didn't you?" he asked. You nodded. "The Targaryens should have perished with the other dragonlords." His thumb traced slow circles at your hairline. "But your ancestor dreamt of that destruction and fled â her first act of cowardice."
You swallowed hard, your grip unyielding.
"But the gods do not forget," he said softly. "Balance must be restored. Your time approaches."
You brushed tears across your cheek. "Please. I do not wish to see more, or think of any of it." You pressed into him, as though you could vanish inside his warmth. "I only find peace with you."
"Peace, protection, salvation," he said. "I give it all to you."
He held your gaze a moment, then slid an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs curled around his waist, your face pressed to his throat as he carried you to the bed and laid you down. Your white hair fanned across the dark linens.
He stood over you, slipping the straps of your nightgown off your shoulders.
"Isn't it a pity," he murmured, "that one so beautiful must endure such suffering?"
He leaned down, lips brushing the hollow of your collarbone â warm, dry. You whimpered, small and involuntary.
"How fortunate you are," he whispered against your skin, "that the gods in their mercy brought you to me."
Your hands gripped his shoulders. "Thank you," you breathed.
He had told you, when the dreams began, that they were divine punishment. To be a Targaryen was sin enough; to be a bastard, an affront the gods would not tolerate. You prayed morning and night for silence, for peace, for relief â but he said the gods had turned away, that your blood was too tainted by your ancestors' sins. You believed him.
One desperate night, you came to him weeping, clinging, begging. He knew he shouldn't, but he gave in. That night, you slept without dreaming. Every time after, when he took you, the nightmares stayed away. He told you that your union cleansed you â that through the sacrifice of his body, you found absolution.
He pulled the sleeping gown down your body, past your hips, your thighs, over your feet, tossing it aside. It landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. His hand moved up your calf, the calloused palm rough against your smooth skin. His fingers traced over your knee, along the outside of your thigh.
"What else did you pray for?"Â he murmured.
Your breath caught. "I asked the Mother for mercy. To save me from a marriage to a man I do not desire."
His hand stilled on your thigh. "Did you now."
"Yes."
His jaw tightened. "And why should it be your choice?" His voice was flat, hard. "You don't know what you need. You cannot protect yourself."
"I only meant â"
"You will marry whomever I see fit," he cut in, "and you will carry out your duty without complaint."
"Yes, sire."Â The words slipped out small and hollow. You stared at the bedclothes, your lashes brushing your cheeks.
He watched you â your downcast eyes, the slump of your shoulders, the tremor of your lip. He cupped your jaw, tilted your face up, and pressed his lips to yours with firm warmth. You sighed against him, fingers curling around his wrist.
He withdrew. "You think me cruel? Even though I do this for you?"
He guided you onto the bed and knelt above you, still in his clothes.
"No," you whispered. "I don't think you cruel."
"Then why do you wish to leave me?"Â His fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you wet and slick. You gasped as your body opened for him, your hips arching against his touch.
You reached for him, clutching his tunic. "I don't want to leave you."
"You do," he said, his voice quiet, almost sorrowful, even as his fingers pressed inside you. "You pray for your father. Pray for a husband. You wish for any man but the one who clothes you, feeds you, loves you. Me, you insult. Discard."He pushed two fingers into you. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, fingers twisting in the linens.
"I'm sorry," you choked. "I'm sorry â"
He bent to brush your lips with a delicate kiss while his fingers moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The wet sounds of your body filled the hush around you.
"Never pray to leave me again,"Â he whispered against your mouth.
"I promise," you breathed. "I won't, I promise." You arched back into the pillow as he curled his fingers inside you, pressing against the spot that set your vision swimming. Your moan was long and unguarded; your thighs clamped around his hand, your hips rolling to meet each curl of his fingers.
He watched your face â lips parted, brow drawn in what looked almost like pain â and murmured, "Good girl. You're so beautiful like this."
His thumb found your clit, tracing maddening circles. You sobbed as your body clenched hard around his hand, your slick dripping down his knuckles and pooling onto the dark sheets.
He pulled his fingers free. You whimpered at the loss, your body clenching around nothing, empty and aching. Then he pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it to the floor.
He stood to remove his breeches, his hands working the laces unhurriedly as you watched, propped up on your elbows. He pushed the leather down over his hips.
His cock sprang free â thick, hard, the head flushed and glistening. "My girl," he said, his earlier coolness gone, warmth in his voice. "You are almost perfect. But these dreams â they are the physical manifestation of the stain upon your soul." He climbed back onto the bed, crawling over you, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs. You opened wider for him, your knees falling apart, your folds slick and swollen, glistening in the candlelight.
"It is not your fault,"Â he repeated, his voice almost tender.
He knelt between your thighs and took himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your folds â slow, unhurried â parting you, coating himself in your slick. You felt him catch against your entrance, press there without pushing in, the broad head stretching the rim of you just enough to make your breath stutter.
"Please."Â The word was wrecked, breathless, barely a sound.
He gave you a soft smile, the line of his mouth easing. The candlelight caught the blue of his eyes, and for a moment he looked at you with a hunger that resembled adoration. You were shaking beneath him, your inner walls fluttering around nothing, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips.
"How can I refuse," he said softly, "when you ask so sweetly?"
yeah i just generally will more readily accept a story with no male characters than one where the male characters add nothing and are shoe-horned in or they serve no narrative purpose. like why do men have to be included in stories at all, it just seems unrealistic to expect to see men in everything
The men are always flat and without a real personality anyway so that's why I just ship the women with each other. They're the characters that the writers focus on making three dimensional so why wouldn't I?
do u think sammy would like being called "bunny"?? i feel like he would be a little confused at first, but he's sooo bunny adjacent (coming from your zootopia post LOL)
hehehe YES. that's officer bunny to you!
the first time it happens is when sammy's laying on your chest, and you have his face in your hands. he leans his head into one of your palms, and lets his eyes flutter shut, nose twitching. you can't help but coo, "baby, you look just like a bunny right now!"
his eyes fly open and he's stuttering: "d-do i? what? babe, no, i'm a grown man..." he's trying sooo hard to beat the allegations, but his words come out a little smushed from where his chubby cheeks are pressed into your hands.
and when you start petting his hair and you whisper, "do you like this, bunny?" sammy's a goner. he breathes out a pitiful "yeah..." and melts into your touch <3
There is nothing fiercer than a dragon who protects his hoard, especially from his own brood, or in which, after seeing you with your sons, Maekar Targaryen wants another.
Because apparently I am incapable of writing fluff without smut. In this, the Maekarlings are yours, as this will now be dubbed the đđđđđđđđ đđđđđđđ đđđđđđ universe, where you replace Dyanna Dayne and be the mother to the precious babies.
âMaekar..â
âFuck off, woman, and let me love you.â
The chamber was quiet but for the crackle of the low-burning hearth and the soft rustle of linen. Maekarâs mouth moved against yours in slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper than the last, stealing the air from your lungs until your fingers were tangled in his hair and your body arched helplessly into his. âMaekar...â
He tasted of wine and warmth and the quiet possessiveness that never quite left him, even in the soft hours after the children were meant to be asleep. âHmm, shut that mouth and take it.â
You made a small, breathless sound when his lips trailed to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along the line of your jaw. His hand splayed possessively over your hip, thumb stroking idle circles that made your pulse skip.
âFuck me,â he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want, âyouâre still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.â
âMaekar!â You gasped in mock scandal, eyes flying open even as a helpless smile tugged at your lips. âLanguage. There are impressionable ears in this keep.â
He only huffed a quiet laugh and claimed your mouth again, kissing you until your thoughts scattered and the world narrowed to the solid weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours, the way his arms locked around you like he meant to keep the rest of the realm outside the bed curtains forever.
That was when the soft scrape of bare feet on stone reached you.
A small shadow hovered at the edge of the bed, clutching a wooden dragon, the one Maekar himself had carved years ago for him. Aerionâs hair was mussed from sleep, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
âMommy,â came the little voice, thin with worry, âI am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?â
Maekarâs arms tightened around you at once, a low grumble of displeasure vibrating through his chest.
He lifted his head just enough to glare past the curtains, still half-draped over you like a dragon guarding its hoard.
You turned your face toward your boy, soft smile already forming, only for Maekarâs gruff imitation of a childâs plea to tumble out first.
âMommy,â he mimicked in a deep, aggrieved rumble, arms locking tighter, âI am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?â
A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. You flicked the tip of his nose the moment the words left his mouth.
âOh, hush, you impossible man.â Then, gentler, to the small figure at the bedside: âOh, my sweet boyâŚâ
You shifted, ready to throw off the linens, but Maekarâs hold only hardened.
âWoman,â he growled, low and final, âyou are not leaving this bed.â
âYou are insufferable, Maekar.â
âYou are my woman. My wife.â His head settled heavily on your chest, eyes still fixed on Aerion with pure parental outrage. âSee what your spoiling has caused. Go back to bed, boy.â
Aerionâs lower lip trembled, but his chin lifted with the same stubborn set his father wore. âPlease, mommy.â
You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, voice warm and firm all at once. âMy sweet boy, you are grown now. You must start being independent. The dark is only dark, and your dragon will keep watch.â
Aerionâs eyes widened, pure betrayal shining in them as he pointed an accusing finger at the large man currently occupying the entirety of his motherâs arms. âNo! Daddy is bigger than me. Why should he get to keep you? Heâs bigger than me, he should be independent too!â
Maekarâs only answer was a deeper glare and an even tighter embrace, as though the very suggestion might somehow pry you from his side.
A bright, helpless laugh tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, soft and fond and utterly undone by the sight of your third son standing there in his little nightshirt, wooden dragon clutched to his chest like a shield, solemnly declaring that his father ought to be independent too.
Aerionâs whole face lit up at the sound. The worried crease between his brows vanished. He beamed so brightly the dim chamber seemed warmer for it, small shoulders straightening with pure, triumphant hope.
You reached up, carding gentle fingers through Maekarâs hair even as he continued to glare daggers over your chest. âIt is only until I know he is safe and asleep,â you murmured, voice low and coaxing against his ear. âJust a little while, my love. Then I will come straight back to you.â
Maekarâs answer was a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated straight through your bones, half protest, half pure possessive displeasure. His arms tightened once more, as though he might simply refuse to let the world or his own son claim even a single heartbeat of you.
Yet when Aerion padded closer, bare feet whispering on the stone, Maekar did not stop you from shifting the covers. He only pressed one last, lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw, silent promise and soft warning both, before reluctantly loosening his hold enough for you to slip free.
Aerionâs small hand found yours at once, warm and trusting, and the wooden dragon bumped against your hip as he tugged you toward the door with quiet, victorious urgency. Behind you, Maekarâs growl followed like a shadow, low and continuous, the sound of a dragon who had temporarily lost his hoard and was already counting the minutes until it returned.
You guided Aerion down the quiet corridor, his small hand warm in yours, the wooden dragon bumping softly against your side with every eager step. The night torches burned low, casting long golden pools across the stone, and the keep felt hushed and safe around the two of you.
His chamber was small and familiar, tapestries of ships and stars, a single shuttered window, the bed piled high with soft furs. You helped him climb in first, then slid beneath the covers beside him, tucking the blankets snug around his narrow shoulders. Aerion immediately burrowed closer, the carved dragon clutched between you both like a shared secret.
For a moment he simply lay there, breathing in the quiet. Then his voice came, soft and hopeful in the dark.
âMommy⌠will you tell me a story?â
You smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. âOf course, my brave boy. What sort of story shall it be?â
He thought hard, nose scrunching. âA scary one. But with a happy ending. And swords.â
âVery well.â You propped yourself on one elbow, voice dropping into the low, dramatic cadence reserved for the best tales. âOnce there lived a fierce lady knight, strong and clever and never afraid of the dark. One night a terrible basilisk crept into her castle, its eyes glowing like green fire, its scales black as pitch. It meant to steal her youngest son awayâŚâ
Aerionâs eyes went round. You sat up a little higher, one arm sweeping wide as though drawing a blade from thin air.
âBut the lady knight would not allow it!â You rose onto your knees in the bed, imaginary sword flashing in great, heroic arcs. âShe charged down the corridor, slash! clang!, driving the beast back with every strike. âYou shall not have my boy!â she cried, steel ringing against scales. The basilisk hissed and lunged, but the lady knight was faster. She leapt, spun, and with one final mighty swing,â you brought the invisible blade down in a decisive arc that made the covers flutter, âshe sent the creature tumbling into the shadows, never to return!â
Aerion giggled, pure delight bubbling up as he clutched his dragon tighter. âAnd then she hugged her son?â
âAnd then,â you said, settling back down beside him with a soft smile, âshe gathered her son close, tucked him safely into bed, and promised that as long as she lived, no darkness, nor any beast within it, would ever touch him.â
You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Outside the chamber door the keep remained quiet, and somewhere down the hall a certain gruff dragon was almost certainly still counting the minutes until his wife returned.
Aerionâs small arms wound tightly around your neck the moment the last words of the story faded. He pressed his face into the curve of your shoulder, the wooden dragon caught awkwardly between your bodies, and held on as though the entire keep might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.
âPromise,â he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. âPromise you wonât leave me, Mommy. Not ever.â
You stroked slow circles over his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing begin to deepen. âI promise, my sweet boy,â you murmured against his hair. âI will always be here when you need me. Always.â
His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, a soft, trusting hold that slowly relaxed as the last of his fear melted away. Within moments his body went heavy and warm against yours, the even rhythm of sleep claiming him at last. The wooden dragon slipped a little in his slackening grasp, but he did not stir.
You remained still for a long while, listening to the quiet of the chamber and the soft, steady sound of your third sonâs breathing, the promise still warm on your tongue.
You waited until Aerionâs breathing had deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep before you carefully eased his arms from around your neck. The wooden dragon remained tucked against his chest as you drew the furs higher, brushing one last soft kiss to his temple. He did not stir.
The corridor outside was cooler, the torches burning lower still. You moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone, and turned toward the chamber that belonged to your firstborn.
Daeronâs door stood slightly ajar. Even before you reached it you could hear him, small, broken whimpers that caught in his throat, the restless shift of limbs against the sheets. Your heart clenched the moment the sound reached you.
You slipped inside.
He lay tangled in the covers, hair damp against his forehead, brow furrowed deep even in sleep. Another soft, wounded sound escaped him, and you knew at once what plagued him. The same dreams that had haunted him since he was barely more than a babe, shadows and fire and things too heavy for a childâs mind to carry alone.
It broke your heart.
You crossed the room without a word and sank carefully onto the edge of the bed. One hand found his, small and warm and tightly curled, and you stroked your thumb across the back of it in slow, steady circles. Your other hand brushed the hair from his brow, gentle as a whisper.
âShh, my love,â you breathed, voice barely more than a breath. âIâm here. Youâre safe. The dreams cannot keep you.â
Daeronâs whimpers quieted by degrees, though the tension in his small body remained. You stayed exactly where you were, heart aching, watching over your firstborn as the night pressed close around the both of you.
You leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Daeronâs forehead, letting your lips rest there a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm skin and the faint trace of the lavender the maids sometimes tucked into the bedding. Only when his breathing had evened into something closer to true rest did you rise and slip quietly from the chamber.
Aemonâs door was next.
You eased it open just enough to peer inside, and caught him in the act. The candle flame vanished with a sharp little puff of breath. In the sudden dark a small shape dove beneath the covers in a frantic rustle of linen, leaving only a tell-tale book abandoned on the edge of the mattress, its pages still open.
A soft, knowing smile curved your mouth.
You crouched low, voice dropping into a deep, rumbling growl that filled the quiet room.
âI am the great dragon of the night,â you intoned, claws of your fingers curling against the floorboards. âI hunt for children who refuse to sleep⌠children who read by candlelight long past the hour they should be dreaming. Those children must climb onto the bed⌠and then they vanish. Forever.â
A long, dramatic pause.
From beneath the covers a pair of wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket.
âMommy?â
You lunged.
Aemonâs startled squeak turned into helpless, delighted laughter as you pounced, fingers finding every ticklish spot along his ribs and under his arms. He thrashed and giggled and tried to squirm away, but you were merciless, growling dragon-like nonsense between bursts of his bright, breathless laughter until the whole bed shook with it.
You finally relented, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a warm heap of soft laughter, both of you breathless. Aemonâs cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in every direction, and the abandoned book had been kicked halfway to the floor in the scuffle.
You reached over and gently tugged the covers up around him again, smoothing them with a motherâs practiced hand. Your voice softened, though a thread of fond amusement still lingered in it.
âNow then, my little night-dragonâŚâ You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. âWhy are you still awake?â
Aemonâs laughter faded into something quieter. He tugged the covers up to his chin and looked at you with wide, earnest eyes.
âI couldnât sleep,â he admitted in a small voice.
You tilted your head, fingers still gently smoothing his hair. âWhy not, sweetling?â
He was silent for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, so softly you almost missed it:
âI just⌠wanted you.â
Your heart melted. Before you could answer, Aemon sat up a little straighter, expression suddenly solemn, as though he were about to make a formal declaration before the entire court.
âMommy⌠can I marry you?â
The question hung in the quiet chamber, perfectly serious.
A deep, familiar voice answered from the doorway before you could.
âNo.â
You both turned.
Maekar stood there, bare-chested, hair still mussed from the bed he had been forced to abandon. His violet eyes were serious, though a faint, reluctant warmth flickered in them as they moved from his second son to you.
âShe is my wife,â he said, the words low and final, as though the matter had been settled long ago and required no further discussion.
You rolled your eyes at the pair of them, the fond exasperation of a mother and wife who had heard far too many claims upon her in one night.
But something darker flickered across Maekarâs violet gaze, something heated and intent that made your pulse skip. You knew that look. Knew exactly what it meant.
You turned back to Aemon, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. âSleep, my little night-dragon,â you whispered. âIâll be right down the hall.â
You stayed until his breathing evened and his small hand finally loosened its hold on the covers. Only then did you rise.
Maekar was already moving.
He crossed the chamber in three long strides, caught you around the waist, and in one smooth motion hauled you up and over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. A startled breath left you as the world tilted. One of his large hands settled firmly across the backs of your thighs to keep you steady.
âI want another,â he declared, voice low and rough with certainty as he carried you from the room, the door swinging shut behind you both.
Your bright, helpless laughter spilled out and echoed down the quiet halls of Summerhall as Maekar carried you with single-minded purpose, each long stride a clear declaration of intent. You knew exactly what that promise meant, knew the heat in his blood and the determination in the strong arm locked around your thighs.
Still laughing, you braced your hands against his bare back and asked, voice soft with hope and amusement both, âDo you think the gods might grant us a little girl this time?â
Maekarâs answer came without hesitation, low and absolute, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.
âThen Iâll keep trying until I give you one.â
You barely had time to draw breath before Maekarâs shoulder met the closed doors of your chambers. He set you down only long enough to press you back against the wood, one powerful thigh sliding between yours as his hands dragged the soft fabric of your nightshift higher and higher, bunching it at your waist.
His mouth found the side of your neck at once, open, hungry, almost reverent, trailing wet heat along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A low, broken sound escaped him, something closer to a growl than a word, and you felt the tremor that ran through his entire body as he pressed closer still.
He loved you so fiercely, so completely, that language had long since failed him. Every urgent kiss against your throat, every desperate grip of his hands on your bare hips, every ragged breath he spilled against your skin was the only way he knew how to say it.
Maekarâs mouth never left your neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke, the words rough and low and thick with hunger.
âIâm going to fuck you so full youâll feel me for days.â
The promise vibrated against your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you harder against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently through the thin barrier of his own clothing.
He rolled his hips once, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every inch of what he intended to give you, then again, deeper, more demanding, as if already imagining the way he would fill you.
Maekar dropped to his knees without warning.
He shoved your nightshift higher still, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving for the taste of you.
There was nothing gentle about it, only raw, desperate hunger.
His tongue dragged through your folds in long, greedy strokes, then focused on the sensitive peak, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. He growled against you when your hips jerked, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked and devoured, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you before he took his own.
Only when your legs were trembling and your fingers were tangled desperately in his hair did he rise.
He manhandled you across the chamber with effortless strength, spinning you and bending you forward over the edge of the bed. The nightshift was shoved up around your waist, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other guided himself between your slick folds.
He thrust into you in one deep, claiming stroke, filling you completely, and a low, broken sound tore from his chest.
Then he fucked you from behind, hard, relentless, each powerful snap of his hips driving him deeper, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. His grip on your hip was bruising, possessive, as though he meant to imprint himself on every part of you.
Maekarâs hips snapped forward again and again, the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. Each powerful thrust rocked you hard against the mattress, the ropes of the bed creaking in protest beneath the force of him.
Heat poured off his body in waves.
Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest where it pressed to your back, and the scent of him, salt and skin and raw, masculine need, filled every breath you took.
His teeth were bared, a low, animal sound tearing from his throat as he drove into you without mercy. The thick length of him stretched you open on every stroke, the drag and burn of it so intense your fingers clawed at the sheets.
âFuck, look at you,â he snarled, voice rough and broken, hot against the damp skin of your neck. âTaking me so deep. My wife. Mine.â
He leaned over your back, one hand fisting tightly in your hair until your scalp prickled, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you felt the imprint of every finger. He pounded into you harder still, the head of his cock dragging over that perfect, aching spot inside you with every brutal snap of his hips.
âGonna fill you until you canât walk straight. Until every fucking soul in this keep knows who you belong to.â His breath scorched your ear, teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to sting. âSay it. Tell me youâre mine while I fuck another babe into you.â
He didnât slow.
Every stroke was deep, punishing, claiming, his body moving over yours like a man possessed, teeth still bared, the wet sounds of your joining obscene and constant, the words spilling out of him in a relentless, heated stream as the whole world narrowed to the overwhelming heat and friction and the raw, consuming way he took you.
Your moans fractured into soft, broken mewls as the relentless drive of his hips stole every coherent thought.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the chamber, louder now, raw and desperate as heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and overwhelming, and the words he demanded spilled from your lips without hesitation.
âIâm yours,â you gasped, voice high and trembling. âYours, only yours. Maekar...â
A savage sound tore from his throat.
He fucked you even harder.
The pace turned punishing, almost frantic, deep, brutal strokes that forced the air from your lungs with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back so he could watch the way your body took him. Sweat slicked the places where his chest met your spine.
The bedframe groaned beneath the force of him as you felt every thick inch of him, the stretch and friction so intense it bordered on too much, and still he drove deeper, chasing the promise he had made, determined to leave you wrecked and full and marked as his.
Maekarâs voice was rough, almost broken, as he leaned over you again.
âDo you want another babe?â he demanded, the words punched out between deep, driving thrusts. âTell me.â
âYes...â The answer tore from you in a high, helpless cry. âYes, Maekar, yes...â
Something in him shifted.
The punishing edge softened all at once, though his hips never stopped their steady, deep rhythm.
He released your hair and slid that hand around to cradle the side of your face instead, turning your head so he could press open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.
Soft.
Reverent.
Almost aching.
He still snapped his hips against yours, full, claiming strokes that filled you completely, but the hunger had turned tender, every thrust now laced with the quiet intensity of a man who loved you beyond reason.
His lips trailed warm and lingering over your skin, murmuring your name between kisses, as though the only thing that mattered in the world was the way your body welcomed him and the promise you had just given.
Maekarâs mouth never left your neck as he continued to move inside you, deep, steady, relentless. The tenderness in his kisses only sharpened the way every stroke dragged over that perfect place within you, building the pressure higher and higher until it broke.
You came undone with a broken cry, walls clenching tightly around him. He groaned against your skin but did not stop. He simply held you through it, hips still rolling, drawing the pleasure out until you were trembling and oversensitive, then he kept going.
A second climax tore through you sooner than the first, sharper, your fingers twisting in the sheets as soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips.
Maekarâs hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the swollen peak of your pleasure and circling in time with his thrusts, coaxing a third wave that left you shaking and gasping his name.
Only when you were boneless and wrecked beneath him, body fluttering around his cock with every lingering aftershock, did his own control finally shatter.
His rhythm faltered.
A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you in long, pulsing surges, hot and deep and endless, filling you exactly as he had promised while his mouth pressed one last open, trembling kiss to the side of your throat.
Maekar stayed buried inside you for a long moment after the last pulse of his release, his breath warm and uneven against the damp skin of your neck.
Then, with exquisite care, he eased free and gathered you into his arms as though you were something infinitely precious.
He carried you the short distance to the head of the bed and laid you down among the tangled sheets. His hands were gentle now, so gentle, as he smoothed the nightshift back down over your body, then reached for the soft cloth kept near the washbasin. He cleaned you with slow, reverent strokes, murmuring low, wordless sounds whenever you shivered under his touch.
When he was satisfied, he discarded the cloth and climbed in beside you, drawing the covers over you both. One strong arm slid beneath your shoulders. The other curled around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest. His fingers combed lazily through your hair, untangling the strands his earlier grip had left mussed.
He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, each one quieter than the last. His violet eyes, no longer fierce, held only a deep and open tenderness as they traced your face in the low light.
âMy wife,â he whispered at last, the words barely more than breath against your lips. âMy heart.â
He held you closer still, one large hand splayed protectively over the soft plane of your stomach, and simply breathed with you, slow, steady, and content, while the quiet of Summerhall settled around the two of you like a blessing.
guys iâm so sorry to say this but exercising and indulging in hobbies rather than scrolling on your phone for 200 hours actually does improve your mood and overall mental health, this has deeply upset me more than anyone
Thinking about meeting your future husband, john price, at a bar...right?
But it's not the usual way you'd think. No glances across the bar, no shared smirks or flirty touches.
In fact, you hadn't even noticed john until another man shoulder-checked you instead of stepping the the two inches it took to get around you. The man, drunk by the smell of his breath, had whirled on you "watch where you're going, bitch."
The hand never grabbed your arm, because john stepped in.
Large body between you and the strange man, some words hissed that you couldn't focus on with the hunk of muscle un front of you. Between one blink and the next the man was flat on the floor and johns knuckles were bloody.
On the sidewalk after getting kicked out, with streetlights casting a smoky halo around john, you knew you had to take him home.
One night led to mutliple, led to staying for breakfast and coffee dates and then real dates. Led to whispered confessions and your dreams for the future slowly shifting to include your john. Led to a wedding and an even better wedding night.
On your honeymoon john insisted on taking you out of the country to meet some friends and stay in some fancy cabin.
"âAnd this is nikolai, but everyone calls him nik." John nods to a man you'd recognize anywhere.
"Are you...are you the man from the bar." You've never been good with subtlety. You look at price "why are you friends with the guy from the bar?"
Of course. Your husband whom you've believed to be your lucky savior since you met him has actually had his eyes on you for far longer. In his infinite wisdom, he decided staging a rescue was the best way to impress you back then.
...nikolai has the audacity to laugh when you chew john out for it.
2. The Delectable Negro: Human Consumption and Homoeroticism Within US Slave Culture by Vincent Woodard
3. "Abolitionists turned the tables on Europeans by accusing them of being cannibals when they ate sugar tainted with the flesh and blood of slaves."
4. Zombies (which I would class as cannibals, since they were human and need to eat humans to live) have a root in Haitian folklore and represented enslavement.
adding that, if you can find it, cannibal culture by deborah root is about exactly this. the way the white western world is a hungry, destructive force that cannibalizes non-white cultures and creates wealth and status through the cannibal colonization of those cultures.
here's the intro
i almost think there's an essay in bell hooks' black looks about this too? yes! just checked, there's an essay called "eating the other"
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