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MATILDA DE ANGELIS as MARIA Dracula: A Love Tale (2025)

bonus:

theflowersflame

The Dragoness and The Dragonless

Aerion Targaryen X Valyrian!FReader

Summary: You arrive in Westeros, being the last of your Great Valyrian Houses bloodline, with your Dragon.

Word Count: 4.7K

Warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, some descriptions of violence and death, dead parents, misogyny, canon divergence (made up my own thing and baelor lives ofc), Aerion (lol he's kinda ooc I tried to keep him as mean as possible), typical GOT Universe things, Reader is described with Silver hair and purple eyes but nothing else specific, there's sprinkles of angst and fluff in here, there will be smut in future parts!

Author's Note: MINORS DNI!!! Hello my lovelies! this blog is very new but I wanted to start writing for Aerion! bro has sucked me back into writing fanfics... it's been a while. any comments, reblogs and feedback are appreciated! lmk what you guys think, this is gonna be a series <3

PART 1

Nothing spreads faster than wildfire in Westeros, all except whispers. And as soon those whispers reached the Red Keep in King’s Landing, utter chaos ensued.

“What the fuck do you mean?” Maekar demanded, exasperated, as soon as the Master of Whisperers announced his findings at the handcrafted table of the Small Council Chambers.

pomegranatelifethis

The Shape of a Silence

Content warnings: drug use, addiction, overdose, neglect, suicidal ideation, major character death. This is a tragedy. No comfort, no redemption. Please read with care.

---

you are dying in a house full of heroes.

This is not a metaphor. You feel it in the brittle architecture of your bones, in the tremor that lives beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. Your body has become a haunted thing, a repository for all the poisons you’ve poured into it, and still—still—no one has noticed that you are disappearing right in front of them.

You sit on the floor of your bedroom, back pressed against the foot of an antique four-poster bed that has never felt like yours. The curtains are drawn, heavy brocade that swallows the late-afternoon light and spits it back in shades of amber and rot. Somewhere in the cavernous belly of Wayne Manor, laughter peals like a bell. It echoes through the heating vents, distorted and tinny, a transmission from a world that has no space for you.

Your fingers curl around a prescription bottle. Oxycodone. The label is worn, the name smudged—someone else’s pain, stolen from the medical bay three weeks ago when Alfred was busy suturing a gash in Jason’s shoulder and Bruce was already back at the Batcomputer, already lost in the next catastrophe. You remember walking through the cave with the silence of a ghost, barefoot on cold stone, plucking the bottle from a drawer of neatly organized catastrophe supplies. No one turned around. No one said your name.

You dry-swallow two pills and chase them with the flat dregs of a soda you left on the nightstand three days ago. The carbonation has long since died. It tastes like sugar and oblivion.

Downstairs, they laugh again. You can pick out the individual threads: Dick’s bright, easy warmth, the kind of laugh that makes people fall in love with him. Tim’s quieter chuckle, a little awkward, as if he’s still surprised he’s allowed to be part of the joke. Even Damian is there—you hear the precise, clipped cadence of his voice, less a laugh and more a reluctant acknowledgment that something is amusing. And Bruce. Bruce’s laugh is so rare it cuts you every time, because it is a sound that has never been offered in your direction. It is a relic of a man you do not know.

You tilt your head back against the mattress and let the opioid crawl into your bloodstream with the patience of a lover. The edges of the world soften. The laughter becomes bearable, then beautiful, then nothing at all.

This is how you survive. This is how you die.

...

The first time you realized you were ignored by your family, you were twelve years old.

You’d been living in Wayne Manor for two years by then—your whole life, technically, but the years before Bruce’s return from his training were a blur of boarding schools and nannies who called you miss with the kind of professional distance that made you feel like a piece of expensive furniture. Then Bruce came back, and for one glittering, impossible moment, you thought you might become real.

He was your father. Your biological father. The only child born from his short-lived, ill-fated marriage to a woman whose face you had to reconstruct in your memory from photographs because she died when you were two years old. You had his (.....) hair, his stubborn jaw, and his tendency to withdraw into silence and contemplate. That must have meant something. It must have meant that you definitely belonged there.

But then Dick came, and then Jason, and then the cave opened up beneath the manor like a second heart, and you understood: Bruce did not want a child. He wanted soldiers. He wanted mirrors that reflected his own grief back at him, sharpened into weapons. And you—you were just a girl who cried when she skinned her knee, who was afraid of thunderstorms, who wanted to be held. You were soft. You were useless.

You remember the night you asked him to train you. You were twelve, small for your age, wearing pajamas with little stars on them. You’d crept down to the cave after hearing the roar of the Batmobile returning from patrol. Bruce was still in the suit, cowl pulled back, sweat darkening his hair. He looked like a god. He looked like your father.

“I want to help,” you said, and your voice echoed in the cavernous space, thin and reedy. “I want to be like Dick. I want to fight.”

Bruce turned to you, and for one breathless second you thought you saw something soft in his eyes. But then his expression shuttered, became the mask he wore even without the cowl.

“No.”

“But I can learn. I can be good. I can—”

“This isn’t a game.” His voice was not cruel, but it was final. It was a door closing. “You’re my daughter. I won’t lose you. Go back to bed.”

I won’t lose you. What a beautiful lie. He’d already lost you. He just hadn’t noticed yet.

You went back to bed. You didn’t cry. You were too hollow for tears. The next morning, Dick taught Jason how to throw a Batarang in the gymnasium, their laughter ringing against the high ceilings. You watched from the doorway for seventeen minutes before anyone noticed you were there, and even then, it was only Alfred, who offered you a cup of tea and a sad, knowing smile that did nothing to fill the chasm opening in your chest.

That was the year you learned that love in this house was a finite resource, and you had been deemed unworthy of it

...

By fourteen, you had stopped trying.

This is what the history books will never record: the slow, quiet erosion of a girl who lived in the margins of a legend. The way you stopped setting a place for yourself at dinner because no one remembered to call you anyway. The way you learned to move through the manor’s hallways without making a sound, a skill born not of training but of the desperate, animal need to avoid the pain of being seen and then ignored. It is worse, you discovered, to be acknowledged and then dismissed than it is to never be acknowledged at all.

You remember the afternoon Damian first arrived at the manor. He was ten, imperious, all sharp angles and sharper words. Bruce introduced him to everyone—Dick, Jason, Tim, Alfred, even Barbara, who had come by to assess the new addition to the chaos. They stood in the grand foyer, a tableau of fractured family, and you watched from the top of the staircase, half-hidden behind the balustrade.

No one introduced you.

Later, you found Damian in the library, examining a first edition of The Art of War with the critical eye of a general. You hovered in the doorway, trying to find the right words. I’m your sister. I know you don’t know me, but I’m here. I’ve always been here.

Before you could speak, he glanced up and fixed you with a stare that could have cut glass. “You’re the civilian,” he said. Not a question. A designation.

“I—yes. I’m your—”

“Tt. Don’t get in my way.”

He turned back to his book. You stood there for a long moment, the air pressing in on you from all sides, and then you walked away. You didn’t blame him. He was a child raised by assassins, taught that value was measured in utility. In his world, you were useless. He was just the first person to say it out loud.

That night, you stole a bottle of wine from the cellar and drank it alone in your room until the walls stopped closing in. It was the first time you used a substance to mute the noise inside your head. It would not be the last

....

The escalation happened so gradually that even you didn’t notice until it was too late.

At fifteen, you broke your wrist falling down the grand staircase—a genuine accident, not a cry for help, though you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been tempted by those before. Alfred drove you to the emergency room because Bruce was in the middle of a Justice League operation and couldn’t be reached. Dick was in Blüdhaven. Jason was off on one of his brooding self-exile stints. Tim texted you a single “u ok?” and didn’t follow up when you didn’t respond. Damian didn’t even glance at the cast when you returned home.

The doctor prescribed Vicodin. You remember staring at the bottle in the harsh fluorescent light of the pharmacy, the orange plastic warm in your palm. You’d never taken anything stronger than ibuprofen before. You were scared of it, a little. But the pain in your wrist was a relentless, grinding thing, so you swallowed one pill and waited.

The relief was not just physical. It was existential. The Vicodin didn’t just mute the ache in your bones—it muted the ache in the hollow of your chest where your family was supposed to be. It wrapped you in cotton wool. It made the loneliness feel distant, like a storm on the far side of a thick window. For the first time in years, you felt something that might have been peace.

You finished the prescription in five days. When the bottle was empty, you felt the absence like a physical blow. The noise came back—the laughter, the silence, the unbearable weight of being invisible. You needed it gone again.

So you went looking.

The medical bay in the Batcave was a treasure trove of chemical solutions. Morphine, fentanyl, oxycodone, codeine—a pharmacopeia of battlefield medicine kept stocked for the inevitability of violence. Security was tight, but you’d lived in this house your whole life. You knew the blind spots. You knew that the cave’s motion sensors were calibrated to ignore anyone under a certain height threshold—a leftover from when Damian was small and prone to wandering where he shouldn’t. You had never been a threat, so you had never been a variable worth accounting for.

Stealing became a ritual. You’d slip down in the small hours of the morning, when patrol was still underway and Alfred was asleep, and you’d take just enough to keep the silence at bay. One pill at a time. Two. Three. You told yourself you could stop whenever you wanted. You told yourself it wasn’t a problem because a problem required someone to notice, and no one did.

The first time you ran out before you could steal more, the withdrawal hit you like a freight train. You spent a night curled on the bathroom floor, shivering and sweating, your stomach cramping so violently you thought you might die. You didn’t die. You just wished you would.

The next day, you went to school for the first time in a week—Gotham Academy, where you were enrolled under a fake name because Bruce was paranoid about kidnappings but couldn’t be bothered to remember which fake name belonged to which child. You moved through the hallways like a wraith, hollow-eyed and trembling, and a boy named Leo found you in the parking lot, leaning against the brick wall, trying to remember how to breathe.

“You look like shit,” he said, not unkindly.

Leo was seventeen, tall and lanky with nicotine-stained fingers and eyes that had seen too much. He sold weed to the scholarship kids and harder things to the rich ones who wanted to feel dangerous. He didn’t ask why a Wayne—because he recognized you, despite the fake name, because everyone eventually recognized you—was shaking like a leaf behind the gymnasium. He just pulled a joint from his pocket and offered it to you.

“This won’t fix it,” he said. “But it’ll take the edge off.”

You smoked with him behind the bleachers, coughing on the first inhale, and when he asked if you needed something stronger, you said yes without hesitation.

That was the beginning of the end

....

By sixteen, you were no longer a girl who used drugs. You were an addict.

The word sits ugly in your mouth, but you’ve learned to swallow it like everything else. You smoke weed to sleep. You take pills to function. On the bad days—and there are so many bad days now—you let Leo inject you with heroin in the dingy back room of his apartment, a place that smells of mildew and old cigarettes and the particular desperation of people who have nothing left to lose.

Leo is not your boyfriend. He’s not even really your friend. He’s a transaction in human form, a pair of steady hands and a ready supply, and you pay him in cash and jewelry stolen from rooms in the manor that no one ever enters. You’ve taken a diamond bracelet from a drawer in the master suite that probably belonged to your mother. You’ve taken cufflinks from Bruce’s study, a silver letter opener, a handful of antique coins from a display case in the library. No one has noticed. No one has ever noticed.

Sometimes, when Leo’s pressing the needle into the crook of your arm, you close your eyes and pretend his touch is love. You pretend the warmth spreading through your veins is the warmth of being held, of being wanted. It’s pathetic. You know it’s pathetic. But it’s all you have.

You’ve stopped going to school. The Academy sends letters home, but Bruce is in the middle of a war with the League of Assassins and Alfred is too busy keeping the household running to follow up. You intercept the letters when you can, forge Bruce’s signature on the responses, and when you can’t, you just throw them away. No one asks where you go during the day. No one asks why your eyes are glassy, why your hands shake, why you’ve lost so much weight that your clothes hang off you like they belong to a stranger.

Once, Dick corners you in the hallway, his hand gentle on your shoulder. You flinch. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, his smile the same easy, practiced thing he gives to the press. “I feel like we haven’t talked in a while. How’s school?”

“Fine.” Your voice is a croak. You haven’t spoken to another person in three days.

“That’s great. Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much—Blüdhaven’s a mess and the Titans are running me ragged—but we should do something soon. Just the two of us. Sound good?”

You nod. You know he won’t follow through. He never does.

He pats your shoulder once and is gone, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne and the hollow echo of another broken promise. You lean against the wall until the shaking stops, and then you go to your room and crush a pill on the nightstand with the flat of a silver hairbrush that hasn’t been used in months.

The powder burns when you inhale it. The burn is the only thing that feels real

....

Your bedroom has become an observation deck, a silent perch from which you watch the family that isn’t yours.

You’ve learned the rhythms of the manor the way a prisoner learns the rhythms of a jail: the creak of the third-floor floorboard at 4:37 a.m. when Bruce returns from patrol. The clatter of pans in the kitchen at 5:30 when Alfred begins preparing breakfast. The precise moment—6:15—when Damian’s alarm goes off and he begins his morning training, his footsteps a metronome of discipline in the gymnasium below your window.

You are not part of any of it. You are a ghost haunting the margins, a smudge on the periphery of their vision. But you watch. You can’t stop watching.

There is a particular cruelty in the way they orbit each other, a gravitational pull that excludes you with the casual precision of physics. They don’t mean to shut you out. That’s the worst part. You are not a victim of malice—you are a victim of irrelevance. You are the variable that doesn’t factor into the equation. The side character in a story that was never about you.

You watch them from the top of the stairs on movie nights, when Dick commandeers the entertainment system and makes everyone watch old musicals that Jason loudly complains about but never actually leaves. You watch Damian pretend to hate the musicals, his small body wedged between Bruce and Tim on the couch, his mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval even as his eyes track the dancers with reluctant fascination. You watch Bruce, the cowl gone, the weight of the city temporarily set aside, his arm draped over the back of the couch in a gesture of casual affection that makes your chest ache.

You watch and you are not invited.

You tried, once. Months ago. A lifetime ago. You’d come downstairs in your pajamas, drawn by the sound of laughter, and hovered in the doorway of the media room like a moth at a window. Tim glanced up, saw you, and offered a small, distracted smile before turning back to the screen. No one else acknowledged you. The couch was full. The space was full. There was nowhere for you to sit.

You stood there for five minutes, waiting for someone to make room, to say your name, to do anything. No one did. Eventually, you went back upstairs, and no one noticed you were gone.

Now you don’t go downstairs at all. You sit on the floor of your room with your back against the door and you listen to the distorted echoes of their happiness through the vents, and you tell yourself it’s enough. It has to be enough.

The first time you overdose, it’s an accident.

You’ve been using heroin for six months now, but you’ve been careful. Careful in the way that addicts are careful—measuring doses, testing potency, telling yourself that you have it under control because the alternative is admitting that you don’t. But the supply Leo gives you this week is different, stronger, cut with something that hits your bloodstream like a fist, and suddenly you’re on the bathroom floor with your cheek pressed to the cold tile and your heart stuttering in your chest like a dying bird.

You can feel your body shutting down. It’s not painful, not really. It’s like sinking into warm water. Like falling asleep after a lifetime of insomnia. Part of you—the part that’s been screaming into the void for five years—whispers that this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

No one finds you. No one comes.

You wake up three hours later, alone, your face crusted with dried vomit and your arms covered in bruises you don’t remember getting. The house is silent. No one has noticed you were missing. No one has come looking for you. You lie on the bathroom floor for a long time, staring at the ceiling, and you feel nothing at all.

The next day, you call Leo and ask for more

...

The invitation appears on the kitchen island on a Tuesday morning, written in Alfred’s precise copperplate on heavy cream stationery: Family dinner this evening at 7 p.m. All are expected to attend. RSVP not required.

All are expected. You stare at the word all for a long time, tracing the elegant loops of the script with your fingertip. It’s been months since you last sat at the dining table. You’re not sure anyone noticed your absence then, either.

You spend the afternoon in a state of low-grade panic, cycling through the contents of your closet like a woman preparing for battle. Your body is a ruin. You can see it in the mirror: the sharp jut of your collarbones, the hollows beneath your cheekbones, the bruise-dark circles under your eyes that no amount of concealer can fully disguise. Your arms are a roadmap of track marks, some fresh, some faded to silvery scars. You choose a long-sleeved blouse in deep burgundy. You pull your hair back into a neat ponytail. You practice smiling in the mirror until your reflection looks almost human.

You are ready. You are terrified.

At 6:58, you descend the grand staircase and walk toward the dining room. Your heart is a war drum. Your hands are shaking—withdrawal is starting to creep in, a familiar ache settling into your bones—but you clench them into fists at your sides and keep walking.

The dining room glows with candlelight. The table is set with the good china, the crystal goblets, the silverware that’s been in the Wayne family for six generations. And there they are: Bruce at the head of the table, Dick to his right, Damian to his left. Jason is slouched in his chair, flicking a bread roll at Tim, who’s trying to explain something about a case while simultaneously defending his plate. Even Barbara is there, seated next to Dick, her wheelchair tucked neatly beside the table. They are laughing. They are beautiful. They are a family.

You step into the doorway.

The laughter falters. Not dramatically—it’s not a record-scratch moment. It’s subtler than that, a brief hiccup in the flow of conversation, a flicker of confusion that crosses Bruce’s face as he registers your presence.

“Oh,” Dick says, recovering first, his smile bright but faintly puzzled. “Hey, you’re here.”

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You shove them into the pockets of your pants. “Alfred said there was a dinner.”

“Yes, of course.” Bruce’s voice is neutral, but there’s something in his expression that you can’t read. Surprise, maybe. Or something closer to guilt. “I didn’t realize you were—take a seat. We saved you a spot.”

There isn’t a spot. There are exactly enough chairs for the people already at the table. You watch Tim and Jason exchange a glance, a silent negotiation, and then Jason sighs and scoots over, dragging a chair from the corner of the room and wedging it between himself and the wall. “Here,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes. “Sit.”

You sit. The chair is cold. The space is too small. Your elbow knocks against Jason’s as you reach for your water glass, and he doesn’t say anything, but you feel him shift slightly away from you. A small, unconscious recoil. It shouldn’t hurt. It still does.

The conversation picks up again, tentatively, like a car engine sputtering before it catches. Dick tells a story about a mission with the Titans that you don’t have the context to understand. Tim and Barbara launch into a debate about encryption protocols. Damian insults Jason’s fashion sense, and Jason fires back with something about Damian’s height, and Bruce chides them both with the weary fondness of a man who has done this a thousand times.

You sit in the middle of it all, silent, invisible even in your visibility. No one asks you about your day. No one asks why you’ve lost so much weight, why your eyes are glassy, why you keep scratching at the inside of your wrist beneath the table. You push food around your plate and count the minutes until you can escape.

Halfway through the meal, Bruce’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts—the father receding, the vigilante taking over. “We’ve got a situation,” he says, standing. “Riddler’s left a trail of clues across the financial district. I need everyone suited up in ten.”

The table explodes into motion. Chairs scrape. Plates are abandoned. The family that was laughing together moments ago transforms into a tactical unit, efficient and synchronized. They sweep out of the dining room in a blur of dark hair and determined expressions, and not one of them looks back at you.

Not one.

You sit at the table for a long time after they’re gone. The candles gutter. Alfred appears silently at your elbow, his face creased with a sadness that you can’t bear to look at directly.

“Shall I clear your plate, miss?”

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

He takes the plate—still mostly full—and hesitates. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, something that might change everything or nothing at all. But the moment passes. He retreats to the kitchen, and you retreat to your room, and the gap between you and the rest of the world widens another inch.

...

That night, you hear them come home. The cave entrance rumbles open around 3 a.m., and voices drift up through the vents—tired but triumphant. The Riddler is in custody. The city is safe. Someone—Tim, you think—lets out a whoop that’s half exhaustion and half exhilaration. Bruce’s laugh rumbles like distant thunder.

You lie in your bed, curled on your side, staring at the wall. The withdrawal has become a creature living inside your skin, gnawing at your nerves with tiny, relentless teeth. You need a fix. You need it, with a desperation that eclipses hunger, thirst, even the ache of your loneliness.

But you don’t go to the cave. You don’t steal more pills. Instead, you reach under your mattress and pull out a small velvet pouch—the last piece of your mother’s jewelry that you haven’t sold. A locket, delicate and gold, with a tiny photograph of her inside. You’ve kept it through everything. It’s the only thing you have left of her. The only proof that you were ever part of a family that wanted you.

You hold it in your palm, the metal warm from your body heat, and you make a decision.

....

Three days later, you pack a bag.

It’s not a big bag—just a worn duffel you found in the back of a closet, stuffed with a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and the locket. You’re not running away, you tell yourself. You’re just… leaving. Leaving implies agency. Leaving implies choice. And after years of being a passive observer in your own life, you need to feel like you have a choice about something.

You write a note. You don’t know who you’re writing it for.

I’m sorry. I tried. It wasn’t enough.

You don’t sign it. You leave it on your nightstand, tucked beneath an empty pill bottle, and you walk out of your bedroom without looking back.

The manor is quiet at this hour—late afternoon, the golden light slanting through the tall windows in dusty shafts. Alfred is in the city, running errands. Bruce and the boys are in the cave, prepping for patrol. You can hear the low murmur of their voices as you pass the grandfather clock that conceals the entrance, and for a moment you pause. Your hand hovers over the wood. You could open it. You could go down there, one last time, and say everything you’ve never said. You could scream. You could cry. You could make them see you.

But you’ve tried that before. You’ve tried it in a hundred small ways, and it’s never worked. So instead, you press your palm flat against the clock face, feel the vibration of their voices through the ancient wood, and you whisper, “Goodbye.”

No one answers. No one ever answers.

You slip out through the kitchen door and into the dying light. The grounds of Wayne Manor stretch before you, impossibly green, impossibly beautiful. A world you have never been allowed to inhabit. You walk down the gravel drive with your duffel slung over your shoulder, and you don’t look back.

...

Leo’s apartment is in the Narrows, a part of Gotham that the tourists never see and the newspapers only mention in the context of body counts. The building reeks of damp plaster and stale cigarette smoke and the particular hopelessness of people who have been failed by every system meant to protect them. You fit right in.

Leo opens the door with a cigarette dangling from his lips and raises an eyebrow at the duffel bag. “Running away, princess?”

“Something like that.” You push past him into the apartment. It’s a mess, as always—takeout containers piled on the coffee table, a mattress on the floor with sheets that haven’t been washed in weeks, a needle and spoon on the nightstand that makes your skin itch with anticipation.

“I need a place to crash,” you say. “Just for a while.”

Leo shrugs. “Sure. But it’s gonna cost you.”

You pull the locket from your pocket. The gold gleams in the sickly light of the bare bulb overhead. Leo’s eyes flicker with interest—he knows quality when he sees it. “This is real,” you say. “Twenty-four karat. Worth a couple thousand at least.”

He takes it from you, turns it over in his fingers. Opens it. Glances at the photo inside—your mother’s face, younger than you are now, smiling at the camera with a joy you’ve never felt. He doesn’t ask who she is. He doesn’t care.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “I can move this. You can stay.”

He pockets the locket, and something inside you splinters. The last piece of your mother. The last piece of a life where you were loved. You’ve traded it for a filthy mattress and a man who sees you only as a transaction, and you don’t even have the strength to mourn.

“I want a hit,” you say. “Something strong.”

Leo grins. “I’ve got some new stuff. Fentanyl-laced. Be careful with it—this batch is no joke.”

You don’t want to be careful. You don’t want to be anything.

...

He ties off your arm with a rubber strap. The needle slides in with a familiar sting, and you watch the blood bloom into the syringe before he depresses the plunger. The heroin hits your bloodstream like a wave of light.

This is what you’ve been chasing. This is the silence. This is the peace that the manor never gave you, the love that your family never offered, the belonging that was always just out of reach. Your head lolls back against the mattress. The ceiling swims. Your heartbeat slows to a languid, syrupy rhythm.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispers that this dose was too strong. That something is wrong. Your breathing is too shallow. Your limbs are too heavy. The warmth that was so comforting moments ago is starting to feel like drowning.

But you’re not scared. That’s the strangest part. You’ve been dying for years—slowly, invisibly, in a house full of people who were supposed to love you. At least this way, you get to choose the ending.

Your eyes slip closed.

The last thing you think of is the grandfather clock, the vibrations of their laughter humming through the wood. The last thing you feel is the phantom weight of a hand on your shoulder, a touch that was never really there.

And then nothing.

....

Alfred is the one who finds the note.

He returns from his errands at 6:47 p.m., precisely on schedule, and begins his usual routine of preparing the evening meal. It is only when he goes to collect the laundry from the upstairs bedrooms that he notices your door is ajar—a small irregularity, but an irregularity nonetheless. You have kept your door firmly closed for years.

He steps inside. The room is too tidy. The bed is made. The clutter that usually accumulates on your nightstand—books, empty soda cans, the detritus of a life lived in isolation—has been cleared away. All that remains is a single piece of paper, the empty pill bottle serving as a paperweight.

Alfred reads the note. His hands, steady for decades of combat and crisis, tremble.

He descends to the cave.

The family is gathered around the Batcomputer, reviewing satellite footage of Black Mask’s latest operation. Bruce is in the chair, cowl down, his expression the focused intensity of a man who has no room for anything but the mission. Dick is perched on the edge of the console. Tim is typing. Jason is cleaning a gun with methodical precision. Damian is sharpening a knife.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, and something in his voice—something quiet, something broken—makes every head in the room snap toward him.

“Alfred?” Bruce is already on his feet. “What is it?”

Alfred hands him the note.

The silence that follows is the loudest sound you have ever not heard.

Bruce reads the words once. Twice. His face, that impenetrable mask, cracks open like a fault line. “What is this? When did she—where is she?”

“I don’t know, sir. She’s not in the house. I’ve checked every room.”

“Track her phone,” Tim says, already typing. His fingers fly across the keyboard, and within seconds a map blooms on the screen, a blinking red dot in the heart of the Narrows. “She’s there. An apartment building on Kane Street.”

Bruce doesn’t wait. He pulls the cowl up, his movements sharp and mechanical, the Batman taking over because the father doesn’t know what to do. “Let’s go. Now.”

The drive to the Narrows takes eight minutes. Bruce breaks every traffic law in the city. Dick is in the passenger seat, phone pressed to his ear, trying to call a number that goes straight to voicemail. In the back, Jason and Tim are silent. Damian’s hands are clenched into fists, his expression unreadable.

They burst into the apartment building like a tactical breach, scattering startled residents, climbing the stairs three at a time. The door to Leo’s apartment is flimsy. Bruce kicks it open without breaking stride.

The smell hits them first: sweat, mildew, the metallic tang of old blood. And then the sight.

You are on the mattress, your body curled into a fetal position, your face slack and pale. The rubber strap is still tight around your arm. The needle is still on the floor. Your eyes are closed.

“No.” Bruce’s voice is not his own. It is a raw, guttural thing, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He crosses the room in two strides and drops to his knees beside you, his gloved hands pressing against your neck, searching for a pulse that isn’t there.

“Call an ambulance,” Dick says, and his voice is shaking. “Tim, call an ambulance, now, now—”

“It’s too late.” Bruce’s words are a death knell. He gathers your body into his arms, cradling you against the armored chest of the Batsuit, and the sound he makes is not a cry. It’s a howl.

The others stand frozen in the doorway. Jason’s face has gone white. Tim is on the phone with emergency services, his voice a monotone of shock. Damian takes one step forward, then stops, his gaze fixed on the track marks on your arms, the evidence of months—years—of suffering that none of them saw.

Dick sinks to the floor. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you, his little sister, the one he promised to spend time with, the one he never got around to calling back.

The ambulance comes. The paramedics do what they can, which is nothing. You are declared dead at the scene.

...

They find your diary three days later, wedged between your mattress and the box spring. Alfred discovers it while stripping the bed, and he does not read it—not at first. He carries it to Bruce with the solemnity of a man delivering a coffin.

Bruce reads it alone, in his study, with the door locked.

He reads about your first attempt to join the family, your twelve-year-old hope crumbling under the weight of his rejection. He reads about Damian’s dismissal, Dick’s broken promises, Tim’s distracted smiles, Jason’s indifference. He reads about the first pill you stole, the first needle you let a stranger press into your vein, the first time you overdosed and woke up alone on the bathroom floor. He reads about the locket—your mother’s locket—and how you sold it for a final hit, a final night, a final silence.

He reads the last entry, written the morning you left:

I used to think that if I just tried harder, they’d see me. I used to think that love was something you earned. But I’m so tired. I’m so tired of watching them be a family without me. I’m so tired of being a ghost in my own home. I don’t know if I’m running away or if I’m just finally admitting that I was never really here at all. Either way, I don’t think it matters. They won’t notice I’m gone. They never have.

Bruce closes the diary. He sets it down on his desk with the careful precision of a man handling a bomb. And then he does something he has not done since his parents died in a pool of blood and pearls on a rain-slicked Gotham street: he weeps.

....

The funeral is small. The family stands in a tight cluster around the grave, dressed in black, their faces carved from stone. The Gotham sky is a bruised purple, threatening rain but never delivering. It’s the kind of day you always hated, the kind that made the manor feel like a mausoleum.

Alfred reads a eulogy that he wrote in the small hours of the morning, his voice steady but his eyes rimmed red. He speaks about your kindness, your quiet resilience, the way you used to follow him around the kitchen as a child, begging to help with the cookies. He does not mention the drugs. He does not mention the neglect. He does not need to.

Bruce stands at the front, his head bowed. He has not spoken in three days. The cowl hangs heavy in his mind, a shield he no longer knows how to take off. He keeps replaying moments—the night you asked to be trained, the dinner where he didn’t save you a seat, the thousand tiny betrayals of absence and inattention that accumulated like snow until they buried you alive. He wonders if there was a single moment when he could have saved you. He knows there was. He knows there were a hundred moments, a thousand, and he missed every single one.

Dick stands to his left, his arm around Barbara, who is crying silently. He is thinking about the hallway conversation, the easy promise he made and then forgot. We should do something soon. Just the two of us. He never did. He never will.

Jason stares at the coffin with a hollow expression. He’s thinking about the way you flinched when he shifted away from you at the dinner table, the way he never bothered to ask why. He’s thinking about all the times he brushed past you in the hallways, too caught up in his own ghosts to notice the living one right in front of him.

Tim is running through the data in his head, the missed signs, the pattern of thefts from the medical bay that he’d dismissed as inventory errors. He’s the detective. He’s supposed to notice things. He didn’t notice you.

Damian says nothing. His face is a mask, but his hands are trembling. He remembers calling you a civilian. He remembers every time he looked through you like you were furniture. He was a child, he tells himself. He didn’t know. But he did know. He just didn’t care.

The coffin descends into the ground. The first clod of dirt hits the lid with a sound like a door closing.

And the family that was never really yours stands in the silence, and they grieve, and they will carry this grief for the rest of their lives. It will not bring you back. It will not fix what was broken. It is too late for apologies, too late for love, too late for anything but the slow, corrosive knowledge that they failed you in every way that mattered.

You were seventeen years old. You were dying in a house full of heroes. And now you are dead, and they are still heroes, and the world will never know your name.

The rain never comes. The sky just stays purple, bruised and waiting, and somewhere in the distance, the Bat-Signal cuts through the gloom like a razor.

Life goes on. It always does.

But in Wayne Manor, a bedroom door stays closed, and a chair at the dining table stays empty, and the silence you left behind is louder than any scream.

da2019

My Only Peace Was You

Pairing: Prince Aerion Targaryen X Stark!Reader X Prince Valarr Targaryen

Summary:

Aerion Targaryen loved her first. The realm gave her to Valarr anyway. Now one prince haunts her nights, the other shares her bed, and the dark is beginning to answer back.

Warnings: dark romance, angst, love triangle, forbidden love, unrequited love, requited love at the wrong time, doomed love, emotional infidelity, marriage of duty, obsessive love, possessive behaviour, toxic devotion, haunting, grief, dark Targaryen men.

boyloveisnteasy

'CAUSE YOU CAN BE THE BEAUTY & I COULD BE THE MONSTER ˎˊ˗ 2!

synopsis. aerion targaryen — a possible heir to the throne, the son of the crown prince and grandson of the king — had fallen ill with an unknown fever. maesters who had served for years could not handle it, none of them found a cure, and his uncle decided to turn to you, a young healer from distant lands. pt 1.

pairing. aerion x healer! reader

.✦ contains. kinda enemies to lovers but not really, misogyny, possessive!aerion, reader is from the house mullendore; p in v, man's just obsessed tbh

day 96. 208 AC.

“do not worry, branna. the child is well.” you gently touched her rounded belly and felt under your palm a faint movement of new life. “he is born in two moons, just in time for the first storms.”

the memory came back to you of that late night, when the silence broke with a desperate knock. branna stood at the door — pale like a ghost, in worn clothes. she had no gold to pay for your work, but she knew: you do not turn away one who begs for help. you always were a support for the smallfolk.

winteryn

VIBE CHECK

18+ | MDNI - masterlist

PAIRING: best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader SUMMARY: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break. WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference (I just love beefy men so much ❤️‍🩹); light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; kind of guided masturbation; slight degradation; brief use of pussy pronouns; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; spitting; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie. WORD COUNT: 14k A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛 ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.

fablebarnes

holy shit

silverlullabies

༺ RIPPLES ON STILL WATER THREE ༻

CW: dark content, unreliable narrator, Stockholm syndrome, grooming, kidnapping, neglectful parents, psychological manipulation, non consensual sedation

The gates are iron.

Not the decorative, curled kind people bolt onto the fronts of estates so magazines can photograph them in autumn. These swing open on hydraulic press with weighty bars as thick as your wrist (- once things enter, they need permission to leave- )

You notice that first.

Not the estate beyond them. Not the lake glimpsed through the trees, flat and silver under the cloud cover. The gates.

The car rolls through, gravel popping beneath the tires. You watch the gates in the side mirror until the trees close over them like water over a dropped stone and there is nothing left to watch, birch trunks swallowing them whole.

Your throat tightens once. You look forward and you keep your face blank.

You’re good at keeping your face blank.

hellilovedit

Guardian Angels

Frank Castle x Nurse!Female!Reader

Summary: Frank can’t do this alone. You hope withdrawal doesn’t kill him—or you. You give him the strength he needs to find himself again.

Warnings: set during One Last Kill, mentions of drug abuse, alcoholism, psychosis, withdrawal, suicidal ideation, it ain’t pretty, hallucinations, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, undisclosed reader childhood trauma, canon-violence. 18+ only, minors do not interact, reader is always a consenting adult.

A/N: this is partially a request (see here!) aaaand the start of a series for nurse x Frank turning into Husband!Dad!Frank from the poll I did. This is the origin story. Will be posting a master list for the series soon. If you want more of this pairing/requests for this series, lemme know.

W/C: ~6,000

You wondered when the day would come.

When Frank would break.

When his mind couldn’t possibly digest another drop of blood, another act of violence, another day of remembering what made him into… this.

This. A living weapon. A soldier without rest. A man rotting under the weight of his grief.

He lives in the same state of his mind: appalling filth and total disorder. And you— you look too fucking clean to be in the middle of it.

It’s a testing facility, occupant of one, and he’s ordering tests without antidotes to see what he can endure.

Your feet squeeze together in the one square inch that hasn’t been doused in blood or chunks of vomit and only god knows what else. You track the animalistic prowl Frank carries himself with, but it’s… wounded. A drag to one of his legs, a degree of incoherence in his gait like reality’s going to pulled from beneath him and he’s used to the fall, just waiting for it to happen.

A tiger in captivity.

Once graceful, once vicious, but somewhere, between these four walls and handles of liquor and pills, he’s just… trapped in his own construct.

“Frank,” your voice thin, firm to reason, pulse beating against your vocal cords. “Come on.”

“No.” Cold and immediate as he stalks the same compulsive path. “Ain’t fuckin’ real. Ain’t fuckin’ real and I ain’t fuckin’ goin’ anywhere.”

A flicker of a wince through your shoulders. How do you approach a bomb? Let alone, a bomb fueled by drugs and alcohol? Slowly. Carefully. Gently. And… with a prayer the shrapnel doesn’t impale you in the explosion. You give the bomb space.

Hoisting your purse over your shoulder, you step a tentative circle. Look at the squalor he lives in; the trash he breathes, the pills he swallows for sustenance. Rusted buckets of old vomit pinch your nose, turn your head away to hide from the boiling putridity of the stench. Humidity exacerbates the smell, snares your hair into frizz and slathers the grime on your skin. The walls creak and groan, your name ricocheting in the studs from the blur of nights Frank spent screaming for you. Your ghost, your hallucination, you. Anything.

It’s hot. It reeks. It’s disgusting.

You’ve seen a lot of shit. You’re a trauma nurse. Hell, that’s how you met. But this? You’re not a psych nurse, nor a rehab nurse. But you’re determined to fix him, and that’s a dangerous responsibility to bestow upon yourself.

Glass handles of liquor overturned on the floor, gleaming in its emptiness, drank dry. Pill bottles littered over the sticky floor. And a glimpse into the bathroom says he hasn’t showered—hasn’t had water—in… days? Weeks?

This isn’t the Frank you know.

This is what the world made him.

“I’m not asking you to trust yourself right now, Frank. I’m asking you to trust me. You trust me, don’t you?”

That-stops-him-cold.

The air’s not as much hot as it is volatile now.

Back to you, you see the dense masses of muscle contract beneath his sweat-adhered shirt. You watch him morph from something aggravated to something threatened. A ripple down his spine as though he’s shifting. Into what? You don’t want to find out. He jerks his chin sideways—vertebrae crunches into place. Then the other side—the same crack of bone trying to understand how to stay in line. His silence leaves you with no answer, just a cold spool of doubt in your stomach.

You’ve never been scared of Frank. Or The Punisher.

But you’re scared of this.

A droplet of congealed blood thunks to the floor from his makeshift pull-up bar, amplifying his silence.

Enough’s enough.

Stiff with imitated strength and full of resolve, you move. You snag a duffel from the floor, shake out the dust and roaches and whatever else you’re forcing yourself to not acknowledge. The closet’s your next step. A rotting box in the wall with crooked hangers and a few changes of rumbled, musty clothes.

“I can’t do this,” you grit, punching a shirt into the bag, “I can’t just sit here and stand by and watch you snap. I won’t do it. That’s not how we work.”

We. You and him. Whatever the hell you can consider yourselves.

The wobble of your jaw hooks him. Hallucination or not, the hurt you tremble under subdues him. Renders an ounce of cognizance about his demeanor. Dark eyes fly around the room, unable to find peace in his frenzy. Fists uncoil to vacant tremors at his sides. “Hey, easy,” he orders in a hoarse whisper. “Easy, alright?”

Easy. Be calm, he means, and still, while he’s in and out of psychosis, he’s asking you to be calm. Still, he’s looking out for you. Your throat scorches raw and hot, a sob right under your tongue, but you won’t let it go. No fucking way. Not when you have to be strong for Frank.

“Okay,” you whisper, your shoulders dropping in increments, “okay. We both need to… be easy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

“Okay. Let’s… reset. Take a breath.”

“Yeah. Alright.”

Neither of you breathes, but you both understand your movements need to slow, your words need to soften, and you especially need to keep your head on straight since his isn’t.

The zipper of his bag closes in a heavy drag. Frank watches, head cocked, waiting for the moment you poof out of existence.

Straightening, your throat rolls a tight swallow, and you dig your nails into the handle of the duffel. “Okay, Frank. We’re leaving. You and I, we’re both going, okay?”

His eyes narrow; a pound dog waiting for the next beating. “Goin’ where?”

“You’re gonna come with me, to my house. Somewhere clean, with working AC, a shower, and acceptable living conditions.”

“Nah, no, I—”

“No,” gently firm, a shake of your head to end it. “No. You’re coming with me because I’ll never forgive myself if I walk out and come back to your—” you pin your mouth to your shoulder to suffocate the word—your corpse—and the kick of a cry that comes with it.

Both hands out—big, dirty paws—Frank takes one step closer.

You don’t vanish.

Hope waters his eyes.

Another step.

You’re still there. And fuck—you’re fuckin’ sad, lookin’ so small and- and pure and nothin’ he’s ever seen you wearin’ before. “Alright. ‘M comin’ with you, yeah? ‘N… you’re comin’ with me, yeah? Won’t let you go out alone. Don’t gotta go out there alone.”

You don’t even know what the fuck he’s talking about, but it sounds like agreement, and he’s two steps away, and he’s soft and he’s trying and he’s scared.

Jesus fucking Christ, Frank Castle is scared and he’s limping towards you like salvation.

He stops short of you, nostrils flaring as his eyes rove your face, clinging to every feature he memorized long ago. Looking for inaccuracies. Looking for the lie. “How d’I know you’re…?”

An unprompted breath of laughter joins the tears balanced in your eyes. It’s not funny, it’s just the truth: “Because I’m still here, Frank. And I’m not leaving without you. Come here,” you wave him in.

Hesitant, relearning trust, Frank slides forward. Stops when his boots—half laced and bloody—stand before your short heels—polished and clean.

“Close your eyes, Frank,” you whisper, sweet as honey, something from a dream. Your palm passes in front of his eyes, his lashes fluttering shut with your control.

Everything goes black. Blank. A void.

“Close your eyes,” you repeat, and he’s obedient. “Can you hear me?”

His brows twitch into a hard crease, your voice sparking an innate, deep-rooted urge in his chest: protect.

“Hear you,” he saws from a clenched jaw, bracing for impact; for the moment he doesn’t.

“Even though you can’t see me, you can hear me. Closing your eyes can’t change reality.”

He might break.

One knee bends out, but doesn’t buckle.

“Keep talkin’,” he begs, forehead in shaking lines as his brows pinch up, like this hurts. “Don’t stop talkin’.”

“Still here,” you murmur, watching his invincibility wither. “Right here. You’re doing so good, Frankie. You hear me, so how about… this?”

Something small and cool slips into his hand. He jolts in place, feeling you—your hand—in his. It doesn’t stop there. Touch, it’s not convincing.

“You can feel me.” you prompt.

“Yeah, sweetheart, yeah. I feel you. Feel you, your fingers, cold little fingers, don’t mean noth—”

But you guide him. Your hand in his, you bring it up, into you. Tiny hand overlaying his, you bring him to irrefutable proof.

You give Frank Castle your pulse, right at the source.

Your heart.

Under your direction, his fingers span under your left breast. A cautious exploration as his lips part, his mouth twitches, and the fear of finding something real binds his eyes shut harder.

His fingertips dig around the curve of your ribcage to hold your heartbeat. And he feels you, Christ he feels you, hiccup a gasp.

A sharp inhale flutters his eyelids, cords the tendons in his neck; the physicality of a man keeping himself from shattering.

“Jesus Christ, you’re—?” a stunned, stuttering breath says what he can’t.

You’re here. You’re real. And I fuckin’ need you.

And that…

That brings The Punisher to his knees.

☠︎︎

Silence fogs the room, thick and suffocating.

You sit on one end of the couch.

Frank sits ln the other. His choice.

You both face forward, eyes anywhere but the other, the television blank and the idea of trivial distraction infuriating.

The clock on the wall counts seconds, mocking every one neither of you use to speak.

You cross your legs at the knee.

Hunched over, elbows to his thighs, hands draped in surrender between his knees, Frank feigns a sniff.

More silence. A gross chasm of it, burrowing under your skin until you’re nauseous.

Just when you’re about to hurl from it, Frank interrupts.

“…I fuckin’ stink,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” you match his tone, “you do.”

A grunt. And the clock continues to taunt.

“You left me a voicemail,” you begin, “do you remember doing that?”

“Didn’t know I had a phone.”

“It was a pay phone.”

“Ah.”

“Frank… I need to know something. And it’s critically important you’re honest with me, okay?”

Callused palms rasp together, his jaw tight. “Mhm.”

“Okay. I’m not asking for judgement. I’m asking because— well… Well, depending on how long you’ve been… going like you have… the detox…”

“Yeah,” his hands scrub his face. “Bad. I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You won’t tell him alcohol detox can be fatal. You won’t tell him about the critical heart arrhythmias or seizures or more hallucinations.

“She came first.” Like he needs to reason. Prove something.

“Li—?”

“Yes. See her, y’know? See her. Everywhere. In everythin’. So fuckin’- so fuckin’ real, yeah? I just- ‘f I could jus’ reach her, then—” his hand curls on empty air, a twisting to his face because he’s so certain… Thinks if he can reach out, grab her, it confirms everything. It confirms—despite watching bullets jolt her body in Central Park—that she’s alive. That he didn’t fail.

“Frank… she’s not here,” you whisper, every word cradled in compassion. “You know that. I know you know that.”

“Then why—” Agitated by the betrayal of his mind, Frank hammers the heel of his palm against his temple twice with a torn groan. “I know. I fuckin’ know, alright? I don’t— the- the fuckin’ pills, they—” he flings his hand to the empty cushion, as if the bottle’s there and it’s to blame. He quiets, hands steepled and pressed against his nose. Maybe a prayer. Maybe just holding on. “Just… made things quiet for a little… yeah?”

“I know… I know.” Head tilting in his direction, your eyes on his boots to avoid pressure, you slowly reach a hand out. Over to him. Your fingers find his wrist to hold, to squeeze once and say it’s okay, you’re not damned for this. His skin’s incinerator hot under your fingers, his body desperate to purge the toxins he’s been surviving on. “We’re going to start small, one day at a time. I’ve got stuff from work, stuff no one’s gonna miss at the hospital, okay? In that voicemail you told me you needed help. You said you wanted to get better. Do you still want that?”

“Notta want,” he bends his wrist to test the feel of you. “Got to.”

Okay. He’s on the same page. He’s not suicidal enough to give in. You can work with that. You study him. The defeated wilt of his spine. Blackened circles under his eyes. Gaunt cheeks beneath an unkempt beard. Hair greasy and long. And at his temple? A purpled bruise bit into his head.

Right where he shoved the barrel of the gun and screamed for mercy at his own hand.

☠︎︎

Muffled by the closed door, the shower pelts. You hear him in it, how the water sluices off him in heavy throws. The occasional grunt, hurting or feeling good, you aren’t sure.

It’s your turn to pace.

Everywhere you walk, every room you track yourself through to burn off anxious energy, it’s filled with him. The old Frank. The Frank you miss and lov—

No. Not… not that far… right?

The Frank you treated when he was handcuffed to a hospital bed facing prosecution for mass murder. The world said he was dangerous, cold-blooded. They got the first part right. You were the only nurse he’d let touch. You were the person he requested by name, whether you were on or off duty. And when you showed up exhausted, off duty, he’d apologize. Look genuine (he was), but there wasn’t anyone else, he’d say like it compensated for the inconvenience. Maybe just compensation in saved blood.

And then one day, your heart heavy and your tongue stupid, while you were treating the lacerations over his face, you said it.

You didn’t realize what it’d do, but you said it.

You said, “You did a good thing, Frank. They deserved it.” And softer then, your past creeping in, “Wish I had someone like you when the system didn’t do anything for me. You’d think they care about a kid’s wellbeing. Guess not.”

And he looked at you with so much clarity it was confusing. You didn’t know it, but right then and there, Frank was gone.

Ever since from that quiet night in the hospital, your hushed whisper only reaching his ears as you validated what he’d done, you’d seen him. A lot.

Short bursts, never anything that stayed. Never something that went anywhere. Not sexually, anyways.

As you stack your bed with waterproof sheets—countless layers where you’ll work around him and the profuse sweating as he detoxes—memory blitzes you.

The nights he did stay… few and far between, but they all felt right. Good. For the first time in your life, you truly felt safe. If someone asked you your relationship to Frank Castle, you’d say friend. But friends don’t sleep in the same bed and let hands wander in the comfort of night. Friendship isn’t soft sighs and gravelly requests for permission as Frank pulled your back against his chest, and kept his hand—big and warm—over your stomach. It isn’t the way Frank exhaled against your head when your legs weaved with his. And it’s certainly not his breath on your neck, telling you he’s taken care of every person that hurt you when the justice system failed to protect you.

You jar from the memory and pitch the last sheet over so you can run away from the thought, the room.

But you see the memory of him in the kitchen, shirtless at the coffee pot with fresh stitches in his side and blood-blisters over his face. And in the living room, crashed on the couch. And in the recliner, kicked back with a book he plucked from your shelf. And at the kitchen table, chuckling into his beer bottle with you about something over dinner. At the window, to the street outside of your house, you imagine his van. You can see the flashback as he dropped you off after your graveyard shift at work, and after the time you called him crying when you couldn’t save a little girl from fate, and after he took you for drinks three towns over and barely said a word, just asked for your presence.

Yeah. You see Frank everywhere.

Hypersensitive to him, the shower squeaks off and you wince. It’s the beginning of the hell storm of withdrawal.

The man that emerges isn’t Frank.

It is, but it’s not.

That’s the power of drugs, alcohol… It leeches the life from a person until there’s nothing left to give.

At the kitchen sink, you turn to face him, hands clinging to the edge so you don’t crumple.

Hair in mats—but clean—tangles over his ears, his beard wiry and thick, hands restless on the wad of his dirty clothes. The clean clothes you gave him—ones he left months ago, black tee and sweats—hang over his frame. The musculature hasn’t deflated, but it’s shredded. Lean. Mean. No mass to waste. Not as full as he was before. Fucking crackhead strength.

Dragging your eyes from his feet to his face, your lips part to say something, anything, but he beats you to it.

“Still here, huh?” he asks, eyes drifting sideways to inventory his surroundings again. Maybe taking note of the memories, too.

“Still here,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. The space between you feels chasmic, impossible to reach him.

“Said you’re real,” Frank says, willing his eyes to meet yours. A tenacity in him you know as an oath. “Need you t’prove it.”

A faint knit of your brows, you push off the sink but don’t walk forward. “Okay,” you agree. “What?”

“Need you t’do somethin’ f’me, sweetheart, hm?” he says with terrifying clarity. “One thing. S’all. One thing’n I won’t ask anymore’a you.”

“Name it,” you say, worrying the small skull pendant—Frank’s personal iconology—on the silver chain around your neck.

In a clinked rattle, Frank withdraws something from his pocket. A pair of handcuffs fall to full length. “No matter what I say, you don’t let me outta these.”

“Frank… I’m not chaining you up like a prisoner. Not in this house. I have fabric restraints if needed, they’ll be soft on your wrists—”

“Really think that’ll hold me?” He raises a brow to challenge. “‘Cause I don’t. ‘N I don’t wanna find out what happens if I make a break in the thick ‘f it.” The metal chains clink again, agreeing. “D’you?”

Your expression falls, lips curled in as you shake your head. Emotion rages in your chest, and that’s exactly where it stays: in.

“Didn’t think so,” Frank says. Walks a shuffled step to you, and offers the handcuffs like a lifeline between you.

A tether in the form of restraint.

How ironic.

“When I come outta this?” Frank says, eyes locked, bordering mania, on yours. “Let’s see ‘f you’re real.”

☠︎︎

Day three’s proven to be the worst.

It doesn’t stop.

It doesn’t fucking stop.

Frank doesn’t fucking stop.

He hasn’t slept for twenty-four hours, so you haven’t slept for twenty-four hours.

Days bleed together. Time has no meaning. The minutes, the hours, they sand your patience to none, and grate against every nerve in your body until the tremble’s permanent. The very resilience that holds your spine is starting to collapse. You can’t take it. You can’t take hearing Frank in agony. And you aren’t sure which is worse: hearing it, or seeing it.

Behind the closed door—his request, your understanding fulfillment to grant him the solitude of an ugly withdrawal—Frank spews a constant, writhing chatter. Mean curses one second. Sweet pleas to be uncuffed in the next. And in the middle of it? Names. Lisa, Frankie, Maria.

Your name, over and over again.

“Please,” he pants for you, scraped dry from his throat. “Please, c’mon, lemme out, baby, please. Won’t do it no more, got my word. Got my goddamn word.”

Baby. Please.

Magic words, but all they do is wound.

Tonight he’s loud, breaking through the thick of it. Not even the benzodiazepines from work contradict his delirium. They don’t make a dent.

The handcuffs rattle and snare on the bedframe as he fights himself. You can only imagine the amount of blood it’s drawing, even through the roll of gauze you added for protection. His breath comes in ragged saws, his vocal cords so parched you wonder if his throat could close—alcohol can do that, you know.

His anguish tears through you, leaving you gutted, bleeding out on the couch where you’re curled into the fetal position, smashing a pillow over your ears to smother the sounds.

“Lisa? Lisa!” He cries, and bile floods your mouth. “Lisa, baby, no no no no, baby baby baby, s’alright, Daddy’s alright, I— Baby? Hey hey hey, where—? LISA. FUCK. No no, baby no, why’d you go? Where’d you go? C’mon. Come back, baby girl. Come t’Daddy.”

You shake. Uncontrollably. Arms weak as your elbows pin the pillow around your head, face hot with tears spilling down them.

You wonder if this is godly sadism; a sort of divine consequence for his sins.

The tv flickers blue-glow over the tracks of tears on your cheeks, falling under your chin. How’d it get this far? How’d it get this bad? And how—why—didn’t you intervene sooner? It’s easy to blame yourself, to forget Frank’s the one that picked up the bottles and kept it hidden until it overpowered.

Overpowered. One thing you never thought The Punisher could be.

It’s an unending spiral, hours on loop, of Frank seeing Lisa, flipping shit when the hallucination doesn’t hold, begging for a gun in his mouth. His screams rattle the walls. His expletives funnel through the vents. And the soul-rotting purgatory of his misery oozes through the house like noxious gas.

You’re hollow. There’s a foul void of nothingness in you, yet numbness is still sensation.

Numbness is worse, because it leaves you out of body with quaking hands and all you can do is work. Take action. Do what you know how to do: heal, even when healing looks like the deathbed of your own making.

He’s only quiet when he knocks out. The sedatives or pure exhaustion, who knows, but somewhere past two a.m., he’s quiet.

The quiet is your cue.

Jellied legs scuff to the bedroom door. Your shoulders curled, spine barely able to hold your own weight. You reach for the handle, your tremors jiggling the knob until you clench your jaw, tighten your grasp.

Quiet again. Heavy, loaded, and precious. If you break it? You’re fucked and the cycle with Frank starts again.

Hellbent on betraying you, the door squeeeeeeaks open every inch. Deafening in the silence, you cringe, body bracing. Stale heat smacks you square in the face, radiating from the furnace of his flesh.

But beyond the door, in a shaft of slotted moonlight… you find peace in the form of his depletion.

Your bedroom’s become a private hospital. An IV pole on one side of the bed. A vital monitor on the other, lines flat since Frank fights the electrodes.

Slackened hands hang over the metal cuffs binding his arms above his head. Fingers halfway bent, as if he reaches for something. Lisa? You? Everything he couldn’t stop?

Massive thighs spread, ankles chained to the footboard.

In the lowlight, you can’t see his sweat, but you feel it. In the air, on your skin, sticky and sickly.

Sheets strewn on the mattress beneath him, all of his brawn still under collapse. His head turned in, slumped against his shoulder, lips peeling and parted with labored breath.

You hurry in. Time isn’t on your side, and there’s much to do.

You start an IV, pricking the spill of bruises in the crease of his arm, repercussions of the ones you started before, but he ripped out with his teeth. He doesn’t even move.

Okay. Fluids started, needle taped in his vein.

You clean out his emesis basin, puke sloshed up the sides of the plastic bin. Tug with a grunt what soaked sheets you can from under his hulking weight. You bunch more gauze between his bloodied wrists and the cuffs, but it’s pointless. At least you can say you tried.

You clip a pulse ox to his pliant pointer finger. After a few blips, his vitals. Shit, you mouth to yourself. Tachycardia. Fever of 101. His system’s in overdrive trying to flush the poison and the most you can offer is IV fluids and stolen benzos so he doesn’t fucking seize.

After an hour of toiling, administering another concoction of meds, you just… stand there. Beside his bed with empty hands, nothing left to give or take or fix.

I’m sorry, you mouth to him.

He’ll never know.

I’m so sorry it got to this point, your lips move without sound.

You didn’t fail them. You didn’t fail anyone. Your throat slinks.

You were trying. You were putting in effort to show up differently for them, to be a present dad and husband. Please don’t blame yourself because you tried.

Your hand twitches at your side, an instinctual jerk to reach for him, but you don’t dare.

I know you hate yourself because war took pieces of you, but don’t hate yourself for trying to give your family a life outside of that. You were going to do it, I know you were. That’s just who you are, Frank. You’re a good man. You were going to do right by them, all of them. You were willing to give it up because they needed you more than the service did.

But he never got the chance to prove it. Not to himself, his wife, or his children.

You think about it more than you should. Especially for someone Frank’s not even pursued. You think about how you’ll never get that side of him. You’ll never be the wife, the mother. Just… a woman with a skillset beneficial to him, every once and awhile when he needs it.

Maybe in another life.

Maybe not.

☠︎︎

There’s only bits’n pieces. Fragments outta reach. Dreams, reality—fuck if he knows.

There’s one, skull splittin’ white-hot pain. Eyes crack open, mouth rough as hell. Blurred movement from the corner’a his eye, but all’s he can focus on’s his inverted gut.

“…Babe?” he calls, searchin’ the grey haze for Maria.

“It’s me,” you answer in flat simplicity.

And he blows chunks.

☠︎︎

Another one.

The kinda disorientin’ dark like the deserts overseas. No gunfire. No smoke.

Just a hushed murmur in the dark. Recited from somethin’, somewhere. More bits’n pieces, bit’n pieces.

“‘Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart,’” he hears your voice, the turnin’ of a page. “‘The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.’”

Fades. Sound drowns. Slips back to that dark place with one last ringin’ in his ears.

“‘Power is given only to him who dares to stoop and take it… one must have the courage to dare.’”

☠︎

The sun ain’t blunt force trauma anymore. Lays warm stripes over his body, dryin’ out his clothes ‘til they get crunchy. Fuckin’ nasty.

Shame’s the first thing he feels, rootin’ there in his gut. Second’s hunger.

Looks left, overhead, his hands bound’n draped. Blood in congealed tracks down his arms from the cuffs.

Silence so full he ain’t sure he wants to break it.

In the room, swelterin’ heat. Smells like the goddamn trenches. But s’quiet.

In. And out.

Knows this’s your bed. Your sheets. Been in it too many times to forget. Knows he’s fuckin’ ruined your shit. And you let ‘im. Why? How the fuck’d he end up here?

Considers breaking his thumbs to slip out. Could get out through the window. Could hide like a fuckin’ coward.

Sound comes muted through the door. Frank lifts his head, turned to listen.

It’s— it’s you.

You. Out there. Hummin’ some sad shit like this ain’t broke you. Swears it’s Johnny Cash, saddest shit the guy made when he knew he’d die without his girl.

Frank remembers how he got here. Why. Makes his heart struggle.

Called on you. Again. Called you to clean up his shit and you answered.

He asked for one last favor.

He’d keep his word.

You’re fuckin’ real.

☠︎

Over the next few days, you and Frank eased into a tentative, loaded rhythm.

He didn’t talk much.

You didn’t press.

But he thanked you each time you put food in front of him. And again when you handed him a towel out of the dryer without meeting his eyes. And again when you sat on the couch with him until the sun came up. That’s the first time he touched you. Just his hand on your knee, giving it a shaky squeeze. You laid your hand over his. Held until your joints ached. And still didn’t let go.

And he gruffed out a genuine please when you offered water. And again when you asked if he wanted to take a walk for some fresh air. And again when you pointed at a cafe storefront and asked if he wanted a coffee.

But the biggest please and the greatest thanks comes on a Monday night just after eleven.

You didn’t meant to intrude, but the bathroom door’s cracked, and… well, you hear his aggravated grunts over the low hum of the clippers. And in the sliver of sight, you see his hand fumbling for control as he points the blades at his beard.

You slip halfway into the crack, only a foot in, in case he asks you to get out. “Hey,” you murmur, searching his face in the mirror. “Want some help?”

Eyes drilling into the sink basin, his nostrils flare once. Jaw stays wired shut. Infuriated with his inabilities, he thunks his fist with the trimmer on the counter. “Please,” a whisper laden with humiliation.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching in from behind to take the clippers from his hold. “It’s no problem.”

His frame hides yours in the mirror. He wonders if this’s what it’s like. Him. Minimizin’ you. Takin’, takin’, takin’ ‘til you’re nothin’ but him.

“Here, go sit,” you usher him to the closed toilet lid without touching. “Won’t take me long.”

Knees spread wide, spine hunched, Frank sits. Waits for you. Can’t bring himself to look higher than your knees.

Your feet—small, bunched in thick socks—situate between his. Standing between his knees. Smells your goddamn lotion, smells you. The natural pheromones tighten the veins in his forearms. Doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to smell you. Be this close to you.

Two little fingers lift his chin. Force him up.

“Look up for me,” you murmur.

Frank listens.

There’s a clinical restraint in your touch. Careful. Clippers flick on. Blade finds his cheek, cold and unforgiving. Rakes in slow passes, mowing the coarse hair down.

“I guess I should’ve asked if you wanted it all off,” you say, trying to tease, but that’s not in your tone.

“Get rid of it,” Frank huffs.

“No mustache?” Again, you’re tryin’.

“No.” Can’t be humored.

“Goatee?”

He sighs.

You relent.

His eyes trace the hem of your shirt as you work on him. Salvage the shit he’s become like he’s still worth it.

“You okay?” you ask, attention on the sharp sculpt of his jaw.

“Nah,” he answers with blunt honesty.

Can’t put it into words. Nah’s all he’s got. Won’t tell you feels like he’s knees’ve been bashed in. Or like his spine’s been snapped. How the guilt, shame burns up his blood. How he’s gonna spend a lifetime repentin’ f’this.

“Hair too,” s’all he says.

“You— Shave it? All of it?”

“Want it gone.”

“Okay. You got it. We’ll get it gone, Frankie.”

Dark hair falls to the floor in clumps. You help him shed skin. Make him new, make him again, in your image. Only God he’s ever believed in.

Automatic, no thought behind it, one of his hands latches onto your hip. Desperation in the squeeze of his fingertips into your skin. It’s not so much affection as it is necessity. Thanks, please, don’t let me drown in one.

The touch pulls a gasp in your throat, a sound you keep there. Brings heat to your eyes when you look down to angle his head, and find him staring up at you like a fallen saint asking for deliverance at your mercy.

He doesn’t stop. Stares at you, unblinking, as chunks of long hair fall.

Stares at you until your hands shake, your stomach quivers, your bottom lip trembles.

Dark eyes wet, but don’t go anywhere. Lets you see this, too. All of it, until there’s nowhere to hide and the clippers flick off. Squeezes your hip, a small pull to make you sway with his gratitude.

Holding eye contact, you set the clippers on the counter. Both of your hands smooth over his shoulders, broad stretch of muscle flexing at your palms. This… this is Frank.

“Glad to have you back, big guy,” you murmur, smile wobbling. “Look like you again.”

“Couldn’t’a done it without you, yeah?” he nods emphasis. “No reason to without you.”

The weight’s too much. Weighs on Frank ‘til he can’t sit with it. Leans forward. Presses his forehead against your sternum. Breathes you in, first taste of oxygen in months.

Stomach fluttering under him, your hands hesitate—then wrap around him, binding him to you. An arm latches around his shoulders, other hand wide over his shaved head to smash his face against your heartbeat.

He snaps.

Restraint? Shit. What restraint?

His arms bolt around you, massive hands digging into your back to cover every inch of you.

Through the struggle for composure, you sniffle, bury your face against his top of his head. “You know what I think?”

Nose bent against your body, eyes slammed shut, Frank manages a, “What, sweetheart?”

“I think you’ve got a guardian angel with you, Frank, and her name’s Lisa.”

“Yeah. Think I do. Got one right here, too.”

They’ll make a martyr out of him someday.

But not today.

☠︎

Frank thinks of your smile every time he chambers a round.

Hears your laugh in gunfire.

Smells you when he moves and his tactical gear wafts your fuckin’ detergent.

So as he’s thumbing the one bullet he can find into an empty mag, he’s got that smile in his head. “Yeah,” he says to no one but himself and the rusted metal conveyors of the abandon warehouse. “Yeah, sweetheart, yeah ‘m comin’.”

Bullets pierce the air from a militia of hostiles surrounding him. So does your laugh. His call home.

Smells the laundry soap. Thinks of your hands on his clothes. How you handed back his vest, his guns—the skull restored to a jarring white—and told him to make the world a better place.

Enemy fire zeroes in, shouts of fuckin’ kill him! Kill the fuckin’ bastard! Get the fucker!constricting his escape.

“Ain’t no problem, baby,” he says to you, back at home, safe’n sound, waitin’ on him to clean up the streets. “Frankie’s got this, yeah?”

Wracking the slide of his gun, barrel ready and low and only one in the chamber, Frank pulls a tattered picture of you from his vest. Grins at it. Blood on the edges. Your smile big, persistent. Fuck. Yeah. S’what he fights for.

He kisses the picture. Stuffs it back in his gear. Right over his heart. Carries you everywhere. Even to war.

Yeah.

You know exactly who Frank Castle is.

He is punishment.

Frank Castle is what the world—what you—needs.

Lethal justice.

*****************************************************************

content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.

please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!

Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @saintcastiglione @gingin3-blog

fewerstars

just let me help

| summary: frank can't sleep so he shows up at your door, but he realises you need him much more than he needs you and basically you cry in his lap and then he comforts you and…. yeahh

I authors note: first piece I'm sharing guys, I hope yall like it because I’ll be honest this whole thing is just Frank talking you through it while he fucks you because he knows you need it.

I content: fem reader, smut, p in v, sad!reader, comfort, praise kink, crying!reader, selfless!frank, pet names, sitting on lap, body worship, talking you through it, thigh riding, angst, frank only has a soft spot for you, frank comforts reader, gentle!frank, lowkey yearning!frank

I word count: 6.7k

It's past midnight, and you're wandering around the kitchen, cleaning up after a long day, your long, soft hair flowing down your shoulders as you stand on your tiptoes to open a cabinet. It seems like the world just has it in for you lately, everything's going wrong, and on top of that, you don't have anyone to talk to.

Well, there's Frank. There's always Frank. It's like he can sense when somethings wrong. At times, he knows you better than you know yourself. But Frank's- well... Frank? Yes, he's there for you but he's never there. Not physically. No, he's always caught up in a fight, always saving someone or hurting himself.

You shake your head, drying your hands on a towel lying on the counter. It's not fair for you to expect anything from him. It's not like he's yours?

the-big-mood

wizardshark

How do I explain Plato's allegory of the cave to my cat?

sexshopshenanigans

gato’s allegory of the fishtank

tinytownn

moonshine crimes –

rick grimes x f!reader

word count: 14.6k

summary: based on this request...

content: 18+ [SMUT WARNING!!!], technically cheating (lori's chill w it tho), pet names like doll and darlin', car sexxxx, lotsss of yearning/very slow burn, alcohol consumption (don't drink and drive yall), implied age gap, protective daryl !!

a/n: hopefully this makes up for no joel fic this week lolol,,,this got a little outta hand. thank you for @kitty-grimes for beta reading this and getting me obsessed w/ rick even more than i alr was lmaoooo

leave all requests here…

pencil-n-pen

I WANT AN INNOCENT LOVE

.☘︎ ݁˖

──────────────────────

alexandria! rick grimes x fawn! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: you’re a new addition to alexandria. Rick’s just looking out for his group. That’s the only reason he finds himself drawn to you. Nothing else.

cw: LEGAL age gap (it is big, i imagine reader in her early 20s) canon typical depictions of violence, Rick is kinda mean to reader at first, Rick kind of struggles with the age gap a little, dom! Rick, slight possessive rick

tags/tropes: shy and skittish reader, she’s not used to dealing with people but she’s not helpless, honestly she’s just a sweet and soft person who became what everyone becomes in the apocalypse, hurt/comfort, insecurity, touch-starved reader a bit, YEARNING, no saviors or whisperers just Rick and everyone living happily in alexandria. Daryl is also here and he’s kind of like ur uncle bc i love daryl and i say so

a/n: i have nothing to say other than this is so insanely self indulgent it’s not even funny. nobody asked for this but writing it has kept me sane while i’m couch ridden. everything is terrible rn but rick grimes <3333

songs i listened to while writing: We'll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross, Work Song by Hozier (Rick's theme song) you were mine by Esha Tewari, Do I Wanna Know- Hozier's Cover, Somethin' Stupid by Nancy & Frank Cinatra, Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (i'm so not normal about that entire album) Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers, Little Bit by Lykke Li (the original not the remix)

title taken from Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers

──────────────────────

₊ ⊹❀

smh-anon

one of the best twd fics

rr-after-dark

Mrs. Danforth - Titus Danforth x Reader

Chapter One: A Well-Trained Companion

As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.

Chapter Summary: After finding out you're pregnant with his child, Titus must secure his family's approval in order to make you a unique proposal: Become the new Mrs. Danforth.

Tags/Notes: marriage before romance, established sugar relationship, also ft. ursula and daddy danforth, meeting the family, possessiveness & protectiveness, obscene wealth, predator/prey dynamic, brat!reader, piv, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), messy sex, edging, denial, spitting, mouth covering, titus lowkey whipped already

Content: pregnant reader, canon-typical content, a brief instance of body shaming

A/N: since I already posted most of what was initially chapter one as a teaser during my 3k celebration, i decided to be silly and give you a mega chapter one instead!

Word Count: 14.1k

mottesk

drunk karaoke best karaoke

scarletjohansson

MELFRIENDSHIP MELHAPPINESS MELWHIMSY MELJOY

hotties4gojo

AISHA’S GETO-CENTRIC FIC RECS

a collection of my favorite geto suguru fics i’ve read over the years that i want to spotlight, consisting of pieces that include fluff, angst, smut, and more. fics are divided by series/oneshots/drabbles. please heed all warnings & give all included authors their very much deserved flowers! shamelessly plugging my own geto fics as well :p i’ve marked superscript next to authors to indicate if they’ve been included multiple times in this post!

series:

best friend!geto (ongoing?) by @fricks ; i’ve reread all of the entries in this series so many times that i could beam this shit onto the back of my eyelids and reread them all over again just like that. i adoreeee geto’s characterization here (fricks is a geto expert truly) he’s such a charming little shit and the witty convos between him and reader are just tew good. i can’t decide on a favorite part cos they’re all amazing IM SERIOUS. THIS IS MY LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA PLEASE DONT BURN IT DOWN!!!!

dishonorable (complete) on ao3 ; regency/bridgerton aus are always divine and this fic is no exception. duke geto and reader’s chemistry is too good 🚬 love how they want to strangle each other yet they flirt with each other in the same breath. duke geto take it out its hurtingggguuuhhhh

six degrees of separation (complete) by @starmapz ² ; i read this yeaaaars ago so imagine my surprise when i dug this fic up again and realized trish wrote it 😭 the angst in this has stuck with me for YEARS . geto loves so hard and that facet really shines in this fic. the entire thing is incredibly true to his character as a whole and serves as an amazing analysis of his character. how am i even allowed to read this masterpiece without a price? like wdym this is FREE?

epicderpface

𝓐 𝓥ERY 𝓡OYAL 𝓡EVERSE 𝓗AREM 𝓢TORY

CHAPTER SEVEN

𝄢 pairings. jjk!men (alpha!gojo, alpha!geto, alpha!nanami, alpha!sukuna, alpha!toji, alpha!choso) x omegafem!reader

𝄢 summary. a pack of alphas stumble upon the princess running from her betrothed. instead of sending her right back to the crown, they begin to take a liking to her.

𝄢 chapter warnings. NSFW/MDNI, explicit smut, dom/sub dynamics, angst, cunnilingus, dacryphilia, more of sukuna's violent threats, giant stomach tongue used as a dick/dildo, if you squint, this is hate-fucking, ?cheating?, female masturbation, voyeurism, hunting aspects, sukuna is a total asshole, mentions of sukuna's two cocks, corruption, heavy degradation, restraining during sex/slight BDSM, omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics, medieval au (reader is a princess).

𝄢 a/n. longest chapter yet, enjoy! <3 dividers by honeyluvsw and dollywons.

chapter six < series masterlist > chapter eight

"You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

The tension in the air was thick, almost palpable enough to suffocate on. Sharp enough to slice through a metal bar. Sukuna’s excitement after an impromptu hunt was slated from his expression, now busy ridding himself of the flesh and carnage that stuck to him with an irked grimace, all while the other alpha’s stirred in their discomfort.

Sweat dotted on your brow line, and you felt your symptoms picking up. It was like all of your senses were painfully heightened—the chirping cicada’s and grumbles of the alphas piercing your ears, the flickering of the fire-pit and illumination of the moonlight brightening tenfold, and worst of all, you were practically dripping through your dress.

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