#I think about this all the time URG thank you đ
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Tear You Apart
Roman hatefucks you (2.1k words).
Tags - smut, rough/violent sex, mean!roman, and perhaps dark!roman too if you squint (Iâm serious. Donât underestimate him) lack of proper foreplay (intentional), unprotected piv, spanking, biting, choking, hitting, degradation, bruises, dacryphilia, hatefuck, masturbation, fingering, creampie, come play, fearplay, threats of violence, typical Roman sexism, Roman spits in your mouth, orgasm denial, Roman denies you of some basic physiological needs in maslowâs hierarchy, a singular atom of aftercare, one (1) Depeche Mode reference. Probably forgot some things but if youâre here then you know what you want, and I know what you want, and we both know youâre gonna read anyway.
A/N - received a message from god and i did what had to be done. @cum-a-calla said âk but imagine Roman talking about how much he hates you while being violently railed. swoonâ so hereâs this. Straight fucking, beginning to end. I love you @cum-a-calla I think youâre just the fucking best đ»đ„° and @beefrobeefcal do your eyes ever hurt from how much I abuse them? Thank you for lending them to me again and again đđ„©đ
Romanâs swaying left and right in his swivel chair, nursing a glass of whiskey when you open his bedroom door. âYouâre late,â he says, slurring his words ever so slightly. His eyes are bloodshot, hair mussed, tie loosened and his white shirt unbuttoned. Roman takes his silver watch off and sets it down on the end table next to him.Â
You shift your weight from one foot to the other. âI know.â
âYou texted 10:30,â Roman reminds you. âAnd itâs midnight.âÂ
âI know,â you repeat. âIâm sorry. Wonât happen again.âÂ
âBetter fuckinâ not. Câmon, chop chop. You know what youâre here for.âÂ
You do know; the same thing youâre always here for. Roman downs the rest of his drink, then pours another, and this time offers it to you. You decline politely, a quiet and demure no, thank you with a gentle shake of your head as you take off your shirt. Roman shrugs, drinks that one too. He feels lightheaded.Â
You shuck off your pants, and Roman takes care to help you with your bra, fingers tracing over the indents itâs left in your skin. âAll of it,â he says, smacking your ass, right over that large, rashy bruise he left last time. It was a week ago, maybe. Is that correct? Is that the last time you did this? Roman can never keep track. It doesnât matter anyway. Youâre just as hungry for Romanâs violence as he is to inflict it upon you.Â
You shimmy the cotton underwear down your hips and your legs, now fully bare before Roman. Exposed. Roman sidles up behind you, his veiny hands on your waist. He urges you closer to the mirror and turns you around slowly, admiring the marks he made on you last time. Bite marks, lots of bites, and god, how he loves sinking his teeth into your skin. Thereâs bruises darkening your skin, though not all are visible. Some you feel instead of see. Thereâs the odd scratch, maybe the fault of his unclipped nails or perhaps the blunt metal edge of his watch he doesnât always remember to take off. Roman watches you in the mirror, the eye contact intimidating. He looks like he wants to eat you alive.
Roman presses his fingertips against a bruise on your hip, causing you to wince. Itâs an odd shape, odd location too. âI like this one,â Roman says. âPretty.â Itâs a compliment, almost. Almost.Â
It begins here. Roman separates your hands that are held together, nervously fidgeting with yourself. He takes your forearm and twists it behind your back, pushes it up, up, even higher yet. You can see in the mirror how he smiles, his eyes darkening when you start to wince in pain. âYouâre hurting me,â you whine. âYouâre - ah, my armââ
âI know it hurts you,â Roman taunts. âI could break it just like this. Fuckinâ snap it. I think about it sometimes.â
His words make you sick. Make you breathe funny, make you feel all icky inside. He fucking loves it, how your breath hitches in your throat, and how he can feel it happen under his palm. And when youâre afraid like that, you squeeze around him harder, walls pulsing, clenchingâŠ
Roman forces you down onto the bed, your face buried in his pillows. You lie on your stomach and he parts your thighs with his knee, still holding you in place, now with both of your arms bent into place. Roman holds them in one hand and kneels at your side, and with his free hand he rubs over the swell of your ass. He parts your cheeks, admires your tight asshole and your snatch. He traces those pretty folds of yours and rubs your clit, listening to those quiet gasps you swallow. He wonders when youâll - and yup, there it is. Youâre writhing on the bed, grinding your hips into his palm. Roman smiles at this. The rules, youâre breaking the rules. âIâm not gonna make you come,â he reminds you.Â
âI know,â you mumble.
âIâm only getting you wet.â
âI know.âÂ
âThen what do you think youâre doing?â
Silence. Roman removes his fingers from your cunt and spanks you hard - once, twice, three times total. You wail in pain, humming rhythmically in an attempt to soothe yourself of the ache, that awful sting. Roman traces the outline of his puffy handprint on your ass. âYou just donât get it, do you? It doesnât matter how many times we do this little dance. You never learn who calls the shots. Un-fucking-believable,â he huffs. âI donât give a shit if it hurts - you can forget about getting wet now. Spread your legs.â
Roman situates himself behind you as you spread your legs, though itâs not enough. Roman holds the backs of your knees in his hands and spreads you wider, the cool air a jarring sensation against your hot, pulsing sex. He unbuckles his belt and tosses it on the floor where it lands with a loud thump. He undoes his pants next, the zzzzip noise slow and loud as the metallic teeth separate one by one. Roman pulls his already-hard cock out and before entering you, brings his palm to your mouth. âDonât say I donât do anything for you. Spit.âÂ
You lift your head and spit into his palm, and he strokes his cock with it before pressing his blunt head against your entrance. You squeeze your eyes shut and suck in a breath, anticipating whatâs to come.Â
Roman thrusts violently into you, the stretch and the burn causing you to squeal. You scramble for hold on the sheets, the pillows - anything to ground yourself as you take the pain he gives to you. Roman grabs a fistfull of your hair and yanks, âCâmon,â he goads. âYou can do better than that.â
Roman pulls out of you all the way and plunges right back into you, harder than before. You bite into a comforter to muffle a sob, the first tears squeezing from your eyes. It hurts, it all really fucking hurts, and each time is worse than the last.Â
He wriggles his forearm under your tummy and hikes your hips up, Roman on his knees behind you. âFuck yourself on it,â he says. âGo on and fuck my cock. Show me that youâre good at one thing, one simple thing.âÂ
Following his command, you rock yourself forward, then back again. Itâs slow, as thatâs all you can stomach right now. The pain hasnât yet dissipated and each movement, each twitch of Romanâs cock feels like a knife against your insides. The pain is fiery, too intense to focus on anything but.Â
âAre you even trying?â
âYes,â you whimper, till rocking, inch by little inch. âIâm trying.â
Too slow. Youâre too fucking slow, and too fucking tedious. Roman rolls his eyes, âYouâre fucking pathetic,â he spits, words like poison. He takes your hips in his hands and pulls you hard against his cock, his hips slamming against your ass as he sets a brutal pace. âI have to do everything for you. What can you do, huh? Tell me, say ânothing, Romanâ.â
âNothing,â you repeat, voice thick with your tears. âNothing, Roman.â
âThatâs right. Donât you ever forget it, you goddamn useless fucking cunt.â Romanïżœïżœïżœs nails are digging, cutting into your skin as he fucks you like an animal. âYouâre good for nothing but getting fucked. Fucking whore, youâre fucking nothing without me. Nothing.â
You nod, sobbing as he pounds into you. Youâre completely powerless, just how he wants you. Roman bares his teeth as he leans over you to wrap his hand around the column of your neck, pulling you up and against his chest as he fucks up into you. Roman squeezes your throat, bruising the soft flesh as he bites into your shoulder hard enough so that he draws blood. The coppery taste, the crimson dotting your skin. He licks it away.Â
Heâs choking you. Heâs choking you and youâre wheezing, coughing and sputtering as you try desperately to wriggle your fingers under his palm. You succeed in this, or perhaps Roman lets you have a small win - either way, you free yourself from him and crawl forward on the bed, reaching for Romanâs glass of water on the nightstand. With shaky hands, you bring the glass to your lips and take little sips, all you can handle and youâre still spilling onto yourself. Roman glares at you as he gets off and rounds the bed, then takes the glass away from you. âDid I say you could have that?â
âI was ch-â
Roman lays a brutal slap against your cheek, less of a smack and more of a beating. His palm is so sharp it makes you cry harder. Fuck, he loves when you do that.Â
âShut the fuck up. You choke if I want you to choke,â he bites. âDonât pull that shit again. God, I fucking hate you.â
Roman forces you onto your back and spreads your legs again. He enters you just as harshly as he did before, finding that same, punishing, unrelenting pace as he fucks you deep, the head of his cock kissing against your cervix with every one of his thrusts.Â
You choke on your sobs, hyperventilating as tears stream down your cheeks. You feel lightheaded, numb everywhere but where pleasure and pain flows between your hips. Breathe, you need to breathe.Â
âStupid fucking slut. I fucking h- oh, fuck. Shit. I fucking hate you. Jesus Christ, I really fucking hate you, you know that?âÂ
You cry and cry, burying your head into Romanâs pillows to hide your face. Roman pulls the pillows away from you and throws them onto the floor, then grabs your face, digging his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks as he squeezes your jaw. âHey. You fucking look at me when I use you. Right here. You focus right here.âÂ
Your face is puffy with tears, eyes red and tear-stained, lashes all wet. Roman wears a crooked smirk as he digs his fingers harder into your cheeks so that your mouth opens in a little O shape, then spits into your mouth. âCunt. I fucking hate you, oh, I fucking hate you.âÂ
Roman pounds into you, hovering over your body to cage you in. Youâre gonna feel all of him, and nothing else. He pins your wrists together above your head, his face panting into the skin of your neck as he fucks you so brutally. âOh my god. Oh, fuck. Fuck,â he moans.
If you focus hard, you can feel his pubic bone against your clit. You follow that sensation, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts, chasing that sweet friction. You could come. You could.Â
âNuh-uh. Nice fucking try,â Roman half-laughs. âYouâre not subtle.âÂ
Standing before you, Roman grabs you by the ankles and tugs you closer to himself. He puts your legs on his shoulders and ruts into you relentlessly, now chasing his orgasm. He couldâve gone longer than this, but heâs not gonna let you come on his cock.Â
Roman feels that fiery pleasure build quickly in his belly, balls tightening, indicating that release is just moments away. âOhhhh, fuck,â Roman moans gutturally, hanging his head back as he milks himself entirely, spurting rope after rope of his hot come.
You feel cheated. You feel used. Youâre a crying mess when Roman pulls out of you, his spend spilling onto his bed. âR-Roman,â you whimper, violent sobs wracking through your body. Roman gathers his spend with his fingers and paints it over your cunt, lips all swollen and sore with the ferocity of his fucking. âI need you, Roman.â
Roman leans over you, âGo fuck yourself,â he whispers in your ear. âI mean it. Fuck yourself on your fingers.â
Youâre completely exhausted. Fucked out. But still, you reach for your center and gather Romanâs come on your fingertips and circle your clit, willing your release along. Writhing on the bed, chasing a pleasure only Roman can give to you. And your poor pussy is so sore, beaten and bruised by Roman. He watches you intently and with dark, loveless eyes, that vein bulging in the center of his forehead. He covers your mouth with his hand and brings the other to your cunt, pushing two fingers inside, gentler than before. He curls those fingers repeatedly as you rub circles around your clit and oh, there it is. Youâre pulsing around his fingers, muffled moans signaling your orgasm. Roman works you through it and far past its end, only stopping when youâre a twitching shuddering wreck, a bug flailing on its back. Pathetic.
Roman pulls his fingers from you and shoves them past your lips, âSuck,â he murmurs, then presses his forehead against yours. You lick his fingers, tasting your own release mixed with Romanâs. âGod, youâre so fucked up,â he murmurs in a saccharine tone, and the sympathy in his voice sounds almost genuine. âSo fucked up. Why do you let me do this to you, huh?â
-
Roman tags â€ïž
@goldenispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout
@galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson
@moth-maam56 @kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink
@romanarose @kappasbbgirl @magpiepills
@highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife
@thesummerpetrichor @lilipads @luiscarrutherss @pastelpinkflowerlife @baronessvonglitter
@myromeow @ovaryacted @doll-0f-flesh @/always-andromeda
#roman roy x reader smut#roman roy x reader#roman roy/reader#roman roy smut#roman roy x you#roman roy#kieran culkin characters#kieran culkin#succession x reader#succession smut#succession fic#dark!roman roy#mean!roman roy#dark!roman#mean!roman
89 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi! Can i request the8 with soft prompt #26? Thank you!
hi, darling! thank you so much for requesting! đ hopefully you will like it!
fluff prompt: 'i don't understand, but i believe you.'
'i don't know how to explain it,' you mutter, rosy blush appears on your cheeks as you stare at minghao. 'i just- get this feeling, sometimes. like i know the future but not- ugh.'
it's impossible to explain without sounding silly, unfortunately. especially to someone like minghao, who is so attentive and is literally the definition of an 'active listener'. and maybe that's why you find yourself spilling all the truth and all your thoughts to him, because something about the way minghao listens to you like he can do it for hours, something about the way minghao looks at you like you hold the universe in the palms of your hands - it makes you dizzy. giddy inside with all the excitement and desire to share, to let him in. minghao never made fun of you and even now, when you're barely making any sense, he simply holds your hands in his and watches you with soft smile on his face. 'carry on,' he urges, drawing circles with his thumbs on your skin. 'i want to hear.'
'like-' words sometimes are so hard to grasp. 'like someone enters my life and sometimes i can just tell that they won't stay, you know? that kind of feeling. do you understand?'
minghao hums thoughtfully, shaking his head after a while. 'i don't think i ever felt anything like it. and you always felt right? i mean, when you felt that someone is not here to stay - they always left?' you nod. 'and do you have a feeling when someone new enters your life and you know that they are about to stay?'
yes, i felt it with you is on your tongue but you swallow it. is minghao ready to hear something like this? you frankly doubt it. it's been barely four months that you two started dating and saying something like that might scare him away. so you settle for generic: 'yes, when someone comes to stay i... also feel it.'
minghao nods. 'i don't understand, but i believe you.' he looks at you with a shy smile, asking: 'and if i may... did you- have you felt this about me? you don't have to answer if it's too personal.'
no, you want to say. i felt like i finally met the one, like you are the one. i felt like i never felt before, like you are not only here to stay, but you are here for me. all you manage is weak: 'that would be a spoiler, no?'
minghao chuckles, nodding. he stays silent for some time, pulling you into his arms, letting you cuddle up close. 'i don't know what you felt, but i am here to stay.' he whispers into your head, all serious. 'just letting you know in case you felt differently.'
you hide your smile, feeling warm not only from his jacket. minghao drops a kiss on top of your head and you hug him tighter. i know, you want to say. after all, you've never been wrong before.
a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini
#seventeen imagine#seventeen fluff#seventeen reaction#xu minghao#minghao fluff#seventeen minghao#the8#seventeen the8#the8 x reader#minghao#svt the8#minghao x reader#seventeen prompt#xu minghao x reader#xu minghao fluff#xu minghao imagines
47 notes
·
View notes
Note
i MUST ask as well⊠i need all the first words & first steps headcanons please!!!đ„șđ„șđđ
OUGH. Related to first things, I was thinking about Morgan's first birthday last night, and got emotional because it was just the two of them, and then I started thinking about how his ex-wife didn't even stick around for Mother or Father's day, and was probably barely present for Christmas... when I find her, it's on SIGHT.
anywayyyyyy
For Morgan, I think like your Juliette and Adam, it took her awhile to talk. Not two years, but it did take her a bit. She would babble every now and then, but actually saying words was not something she seemed interested in. She knew if she wanted Robert's attention, she could just pull on his sleeve, or crawl over to him, so why talk ? Just pointless in her opinion. and, of course, baby Morgan loved to just stare at him, which Robert is eventually able to pick up on, so again, why talk? Dad knows when she needs something đ€
I feel like her first word was "up" because she wanted to be picked up, and Robert was so excited. He kept kissing her, and repeating the word over, and over, and eventually wrote it down so he'd never forget đ€§
While I was thinking about Morgan's first birthday, I started also thinking about the idea of Robert having a little video camera that he'd set up to record home videos. and he'd probably try and get her to say that first word again so he has it on tape, too.
And for her first steps, Robert actually kind of missed them. But not because he wasn't there !! He was in the room, but sadly, he was working. I've (sorta) written this out (mainly for my own sake so I didn't lose the idea), but basically Robert and Morgan were playing with her stuffed animals on the floor, but eventually he has to stop because someone (sadly) has to work around here. So, he tells Morgan to give him a few minutes, and he'll come right back, and starts working on the couch. Morgan isn't really too happy about this because hey, we're playing an important game over here đ She tries to throw her stuffed dog at him, but it doesn't go far, which makes her huff, and then she just stares at Robert for a good minute. Sadly, he doesn't catch on because he's Workingâąïž, which makes her huff again, and after another minute of staring at her toys, she just,,, forces herself up, and waddles awkwardly over to him.
Robert still doesn't notice though, and she wraps her arm around his leg for balance, and he kind of just mumbles out, "I know, just one second, sweetheart." so, Morgan keeps standing there, staring. Finally it dawns on him, and he slowly looks down, and they stare at one another quietly for a long moment. He slowly slides off the couch, and scoots back, like, an inch or so, and Morgan is like, ?????? >:( and follows, and he's !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Very Excited !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He can't stop kissing her and saying how proud he is, and how, "I can't believe I missed your first steps !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and ugh.
They're everything to me :')
Now, for Sofia !!
Her first word is Pip ! And I feel like she started talking a bit earlier than most, as well, because she's around Giselle a lot, and her mama talks, and talks, and talks. Little Sofia was babbling up a storm almost always, so it didn't surprise them when she said her first word kinda soonish, buuuuut Giselle was not there to hear it.
Robert and Sofia were having a little daddy-daughter day at the park, while Morgan and Giselle were having a mother-daughter day, and that's when she says it. I've also written this out, and would love to post it some day, but who knows. Anyway, she sees a squirrel, and calls it Pip, and Robert's like, "Pip is a chipmunk, that's a squirrel" and she just keeps saying it, and it doesn't even click in his head that she's saying it until, hey, wait, did you just say Pip???? But by the time he's registered it, Sofia's moved on and is now playing with grass. he tries to get her to say it again, but she's in her own world now !!! The grass is more important đ€
Robert jokingly tells her that her mother is going to be So Jealous, and she is !!! But it definitely doesn't take Sofia long to say it again, and Pip can't even bring himself to be offended that she mistook a squirrel for him because "my name is her first word??????????????????" ough, he's so happy about it. And Giselle is so happy about it !!! She starts crying when Robert tells her what happened.
Her first steps, sadly Robert missed those, he has bad luck with his kid's steps. But Giselle kind of technically misses it, too.
It happens while Sofia and Giselle are in the garden. Sofia is playing with a little shark that squirts water from it's mouth, but it runs out, and she tries getting her mother's attention because she needs it filled, but Giselle doesn't hear her. So, she huffs, and just. Pushes up onto her feet, toddles over, and shoves the toy into Giselle's face. And Giselle stares in awe because her baby is standing !! But she can't even really process it because Sofia keeps pushing the toy against her cheek because she needs it filled !!!!! She apologizes, finally filling it, and Sofia happily walks off, and she's like, WAIT??? HELLO??? ROBERT???? and scoops up a now very confused Sofia and rushes her inside.
and once Sofia is walking, ough, she's even more of a handful. they don't ever actually do it, but Robert jokes that they might have to invest in those leash things for kids because she keeps running away from them đđ
#I think about this all the time URG thank you đ#robert philip#morgan philip#giselle philip#sofia philip#enchanted#hc#lumiereandcogsworth#ask
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
baby it's halloween â s. reid x reader
in which a mutual friendship leads to a run-in with your ex, and it's halloween, which means you can be anything. even normal with him right?
pairing: ex!spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: garcia party in rossi HOUSE đ. alcohol consumption. reader's dressed as a swan (stunning gorgeous amazing). pre established friends with benefits (don't fuck your exes). s10 bau team is there in spirit i think. crazy spare bedroom hookup. brief nipple play. oral (f receiving). fingering. p in v. he dresses you afterwards. porn with plot. oral fixation. soft dom!spencer. word count: 3.8k a/n: ex spencer reid makes a comeback. this is separate from bad idea right? but same pairing same sitch kind of same everything. LOL. thanks for giving me costume ideas guys. parfaitblogs revival!!! happy birthday spencer reid!!! happy halloween criminal minds tumblr!!!
"Penelope, what the fuck are you wearing?"
It was a very loud exclamation, over the sound of party music that certainly didn't match the overall theme of Halloween. It was only nine o'clock but the fox eared blonde in front of you had lip liner painting her chin, a pink flush on her cheeks barely hidden beneath a layer of makeup, and two cans of some multicoloured premixed vodka drink you weren't sure about trying (despite her holding one out to you).Â
"Fox costume. I'm Agnes! From Fantastic Mr. Fox!" Penelope says, cheerfully, urging you to take the drink she had in her hand, not relenting until you did.
"We agreed on swans," you huff, feeling awfully stupid now, in your all white costume, a pair of fluffy wings settled on your back.Â
Penelope looked genuinely apologetic for changing her costume idea on you with no warning, and so as she rambled about how she got excited after seeing fox makeup on her phone, you decided it wasn't actually that big of a deal. She finished her spiel with a comment about still technically matching because you're both animals, and it was enough for you to accept.Â
She led you further into the house. House, because she had convinced one of her coworkers to let her host a Halloween party at his, claiming her apartment was far too small for such a thing. Apparently he was very easy to convince.Â
It was a quick tour of where all the most basic of amenities on the first floor were, before she was shoving a shot glass of vodka into your hand, and encouraging you to take it.Â
So you did.Â
Perhaps it was a loosening up technique she was using in an attempt to keep you from ripping her head off when she began another conversation with you with the words,
"So, I need to preface before you get too drunkâ" a sentence you really had never hoped to hear in your life "âthat Spencer's here."
You're not too sure why your world begins to crumble around you at that fact. You figured he would be. In fact, when you were choosing the articles of clothing for your costume a week ago, you had the idea of Spencer Reid seeing you in mind. You had mentally prepared for seeing him. And yet; panic.Â
However, instead of making a scene about how anxious that thought made you, you force a small smile onto your face and murmur out, "That's fine."
"Are you sure?" Penelope presses. "You can hover around me the entire night to avoid him, if you want. I'll stay away from him. I'm really sorry for inviting him."
You didn't like that. "No. Pen, it's okay. He's your friend."
"So are you."
Your heart stuttered in your chest at her words, a warm feeling spreading throughout it. But, ultimately, you were not the person who wants perfectly good friendships ruined because you're too scared to hold a relationship together.Â
"I'll get drunk enough and start talking to him anyways. It's fine," you reassure her.Â
And get drunk enough you did.Â
You had bumped into him a few times already, making awkward eye contact when you passed him on your way to the kitchen for another drink, or to the bathroom to fix your corset that felt like it was getting tighter every breath you took.Â
Yet here you were, stuck between the fridge and him, a collection of things you wanted to both beg him for, and cuss him out because of, sitting delicately on the tip of your tongue, waiting for the right trigger word from him.
Unsuccessfully, for he was rocking back on his heels, clasping his hands around the glass of water he was nurturing, keeping the peace between you two and staying silent.Â
And you couldn't have that.Â
"Hi. How are you?" you chirp after closing the fridge, a can you were getting for Penelope and not yourself now settled between your hands.
"Hi. I'm good," he says, sending you an all too familiar tight lipped smile. One he always did when he was feeling awkward. "How are you?"
"This is really formal," you say, tilting your head to the side. "I'm good."
He nods his head in agreement, and you find every curse word you had ready to yell at him dissipate in an instant. "I like your costume. Swan?"
"Yes," you nod your own head, forcing the flutter of your heart to stop.
You weren't sure what he was when you had first arrived to the party, but a few short exchanged words between the two of you revealed the fake teeth he had settled in his mouth, confirming Penelope's earlier guess that he was a vampire.Â
Fitting, you had almost said then.Â
"I like yours too," you say after a few beats of awkward silence and you realising you hadn't said much after his compliment.Â
"Thank you."
It was an awkward song and dance around the elephant in the room (your relationship, or lack thereof). An even more awkward interaction of him reaching behind you into the fridge to get out a drink for Morgan, and then a breathless apology when he had gotten a bit too close and you hadn't had a conscious enough mind to step back.
"I don't like this," you blurt out.
"What?"
"This. Us," you clarify. "Being awkward. Not talking. We talk fine when we hook up."
Because yes, there's that secret you were keeping hidden away from Penelope.Â
"We're preoccupied during that."
"I'd argue seeing each other naked once a week is much more awkward than bumping into each other drunk, at a party."
"I'm not drunk."
Right. You knew that. Spencer Reid didn't drink. It was why the cup in his hand was only water, and the alcoholic beverage in his other wasn't for him.Â
If you were any less buzzed you probably wouldn't say the unfortunately very embarrassing sentence you let leave your lips, that sounded a little foreign even to you.Â
"Then do we need to see each other naked tonight to make this not awkward?"
His lips parted and he froze, rightfully so. You weren't sure how you'd react to somebody asking you that either. It seemed awfully blunt for even you, and if you were any sane person, you'd probably be backtracking to take it back. Instead, you were just as frozen as him, fearful for how he would respond.Â
"No," he says, but there was a strain in his voice that told you otherwise. Thankfully, you had enough self restraint to not call him out on that.Â
"No?" you tilt your head to the side.
"No, we don't need to. Do you want to?"
Does it make you a horrible person to say yes? To take advantage of one of the many rooms littering the Rossi house, and use a situational run-in to have sex with your ex-boyfriend?
Probably.
"Yes. Do you?"
"I like how you look tonight."
Your heart rate speeds up. "That isn't an answer."
"Yes," he says. "I do."
The kitchen was left empty with a glass of water and two unopened cans on the countertop, that Derek Morgan was no doubt bound to discover when Spencer never returns. Followed closely by â probably â Penelope discovering the same about you. Which would probably lead to the discovery of the friends (were you friends?) with benefits situation the two of you had.Â
You've barely stepped into the spare room he had located before he's kissing you. Feverishly, devouring you whole, as your back is pressed up against the door. Your wings dug into your shoulder blades, the feathers tickling your arms, and yet you couldn't find it in you to care.Â
"Spencer."
His response to your plea of his name is to kiss you harder, fingers entangling in your hair, and you think if he pushes against you any more, you'll meld to the atoms of the door.Â
"You taste like alcohol," he mutters against your lips.Â
"Funny that."
"Are you drunk?"
"I'll remember this all in five minutes, if that's what you mean."
"Sort of."
His mouth detaches from yours, and there's a desperation in the way he kisses down your neck you don't think you'll ever get used to, no matter how many times he does it.Â
It was a heartbreaking reality of the difference between how he would have sex with you then, and now.Â
It's his grumbling that forces you to focus on him again, and not the comparative thoughts you have whirring in your brain. His fingers are fumbling with the lacing on your back, as he says, irritation you find almost hilarious in his tone, "I hate corsets."
"You said you liked it earlier."
"I liked it when I wasn't trying to take it off of you."
You smile. "I'll wear something more convenient for you next time."
"Yes. Thank you," he nods, successfully loosening the lacing enough so he could take the corset off of your body. "T-shirts are good."
"Duly noted."Â
"Or nothing. Nothing's better," he adds, leaning in to kiss you again, his hands dropping to your chest â completely bare, considering you couldn't justify the wearing of a bra beneath the corset.Â
"I'll ask the board."
You feel him smile against your lips, his hands cupping your chest, thumbs delicately running over your nipples to elicit a breathless whine from you. Ever so careful, he uses his thumbs to circle them, amused with just how easy it was to fluster you.
His lips trail down from your lips again, his hands dropping to your waist, using his hips to nudge you towards the bed.
The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you wince, although any pain dissipates as he murmurs a gentle apology and lowers the two of you to the bed.Â
It's quite amusing; the articles of clothing you're removing from your bodies. You didn't think feathered wings and a Dracula-esque cape piling together on the floor would be a sight you ever saw in this context, and yet.Â
"What do you want, honey?" he asks you, though your brain is a little preoccupied with his pulling of your skirt down your legs, fingers brushing against your skin. He forces your focus back onto him again with the calling of your name, and a kiss to your inner thigh.Â
"What're you willing to give me?"Â
"You know I'd do anything."
Your heart soars. Yes, you do know that. He loves to prove that feat to you.Â
"I don't know," you shake your head. "Whatever you want. You choose. My gift to you this Halloween."
It was a tradition you had started with him three years ago, on your first Halloween together. You knew how important the holiday was to him, and so you had bought him a plethora of decor for his apartment (on top of what he already had). You had helped him set it up, and later that week he had gifted you a charm bracelet with a pumpkin clasp. Every Halloween since, you bought him more decor, and he bought you a Halloween inspired charm for the bracelet.Â
This was your first Halloween where you weren't together.Â
"I didn't get you a charm."
"That's okay," you reply, earnestly.Â
"You're so wet," is voice is breathless, changing the topic of conversation awfully quickly. For his eyes had dropped to the only item of clothing you still had on, and his fingers had trailed far enough up your thighs to brush over it.Â
"Do something about it then," you retort, bluntly, and he smiles amusedly.Â
He probably murmurs something about you being a brat, but his hands were pulling your underwear down your legs, and you should not be expected to focus on two maddening things at once.Â
Thankfully, he does do something about it. And quite quickly, too. Wasting no time teasing like he usually does, instead attaching his lips to your core, tugging a moan from your lips.Â
His tongue licks a stripe up the centre of your folds, circling your clit, expertly so.Â
"Oh God," you whine out, breathlessly, head falling backwards and digging into the mattress beneath. Sinful as it was, Spencer's tongue on you did feel like the closest thing you'd ever have to a religious experience, a thought that had crossed your mind the many times he's done this before.Â
Once he's sure his tongue flicking over your clit had worked you up enough, you're forced into shock as you feel one of his fingers at your entrance. Lack of hand-eye coordination aside, he's well versed in the art of using two different body parts at once to make you come, and yet you're still writhing beneath him like it's the first time.
Sometimes it felt like it was.Â
"Spencer," you nearly cry out, if not for your hand flying to your mouth to muffle how loud you had anticipated you'd be.Â
He pulls his lips away at that, instead lifting his head to hover over yours, as he pushes a single finger inside you. Even when your eyes flutter closed and your head tilts back further, you can still feel his gaze on you, as if in awe of the way you looked.Â
"That was so easy," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "You really did want me to do this tonight, hm?"
Too wrapped up in the feeling of being touched by him again, all you can do is nod your head, and you feel him smile against your cheek.Â
"Yeah, I know, sweet girl."
He captures your lips again, swallowing a string of moans that leave your lips when he begins to move his finger in and out. Finger that becomes fingers, for he's pushing another one in, and you're arching your back up as you attempt to accomodate to the stretch.Â
"I know, I know," he repeats when your head jerks back as your lips part in another, this time silent, moan. "I shouldn't have missed last week, hey? I'm sorry I was out of state."
You want to tell him it's okay. That you didn't really mind being celibate for an extra seven days on top of the six the two of you leave between your nights together. Unfortunately, growing accustomed to a once a week cycle meant the interruption of it left you overwhelmingly easy to shatter with the simplest of touches. You did mind, so you kept your thoughts to yourself.Â
"Please," you ask him, almost pathetically, when he curls his fingers and your entire brain goes fuzzy.
"Please what, honey?"
You're not sure what. More of his fingers? His tongue back on you? You want it all. Yet, time was unfortunately of the essence, and you were acutely aware of the ticking alarm clock in view on the bedside table. You did not have the minutes to receive absolutely everything you wanted from him.
"Want you to fuck me," you murmur.Â
He breathes out a laugh. "I know. I'm going to, I promise. I just need to get you ready first, okay? How're you feeling?"
"Ready." Your voice is an impatient grumble, one that amuses him greatly, which frustrates you even more.Â
"I don't think so," he shakes his head, pushing his fingers back inside of you to elicit a sharp whine from your lips. "I want to do this a little longer, anyways."
"Spencer."
Your protest and attempt to bribe him with a kiss is hopeless, for he is continuing to pump his fingers in and out of you, using your arguably selfish kiss to quiet every single sound you make.Â
It isn't until you're quite literally writhing beneath him and begging him with an incessant repeat of his name, does he pull his fingers out of you. Tapping your lower lip with them, you take his fingers into your mouth, despite your panting and attempts at catching your breath.Â
You want to close your eyes, but the way he's looking at you as you suck on his fingers is borderline ridiculous, and you should probably be locked up for just how attracted to it you are.Â
He trails his fingers out of your mouth after a few moments, but any desire to protest that is lost on you when your eyes catch his removal of his boxers.Â
He disappears from above you for only a minute, though he knows you too well and says, "I'm getting a condom," before you have a chance to start complaining about it. By the time he's returned, he's kissing you again, and you've forgotten all about your irritation.
The head of his cock pushes at your entrance, and you're already a mess. He's slow as he eases into you, and you're eternally grateful for it, because your entire body tenses up, and he's forced to pause, and ease your muscles with his hands kneading your thighs.Â
"I'm sorry," he says, genuinely, when your eyes squeeze shut, and you're back to remembering why you're not happy about the dreadful thirteen day celibacy he forced upon you. But he's so nice, and so apologetic, that as he bottoms out, your hands are wrapping around his neck to provide him with silent forgiveness.Â
He stays still for a few more moments, his lips tickling your jawline. His breath fans your skin, warm, and just as desperate as your own, which is comforting.Â
"Tell me when you're okay," he says, quietly, breathing out a moan when your walls flutter around him.Â
After a beat, you murmur, "I'm okay," and he pulls his hips back, before rolling them back into you, slowly.Â
You're a puddle of content and pleasure and love as he repeats the gentle motions of fucking you, moaning and squirming beneath him, despite his hands on your hips in an attempt to keep you still.Â
"Doing so well for me, honey," he tells you after a few minutes, and heat warms your cheeks at the compliment. He laughs at your bashful smile. "You feel so good."
He moves his hips a little faster, and you're moaning again, hands dropping from his neck to the mattress. At that, he picks up his ministrations once again. All up until all the tender, slow motions are gone, and he's listening to your throat produce broken whines and pleas, his own presenting breathless groans.
"Spencer," you gasp out at one particular thrust, and he's instantly repeating that same deep movement. "Oh fuck."
"Like that?" he asks you, tenderly, and you're frantically nodding your head. "God, look at you. You're so pretty when I do this to you, you know?"
Vulgarity â in any form â coming from Spencer Reid's mouth should sound foreign, and yet it doesn't. Though, perhaps you're too lost in the pleasure of just how good he feels to believe he's anything but perfect.
"I want to come," you tell him, a disguised plea.
"Okay. I can make that happen."
You know he can. He's proven it a thousand times, you're sure.Â
One of his hands drops to your cunt, fingers finding your clit and timing the circles onto it with his thrusts, until you're pretty sure there is no longer a coherent thought in your brain that isn't simply him.
If his aim was to turn you into a mess with very little time, he was excelling above average. Your hands had grabbed fistfuls of the duvet cover atop of the bed, your mouth producing nothing but a constant repeat of, "Please," and "Spencer," one after the other.Â
He wasn't surviving very well, either, you found. His breathing heavy and his thrusts growing sloppier by the second, until he was feeling your own walls clench around him with your stomach tying itself into a knot.Â
He forced his hips to keep moving, albeit much more messy now, as he moaned against your skin, his own orgasm wracking through his body, while still attempting to chase your own.Â
It didn't take much more than that, to be honest, and your entire body went boneless and shattered beneath him as you came too.
Jelly seemed like an apt description for what you felt as you relaxed in the bed and your nerves began to calm down, Spencer breathing heavily above you. Up until he was sliding out of you, and standing up on legs you could see shaking, perhaps just as much as your own.Â
He's disposing of his condom as you lay there, attempting to regain your breath, eyes fixated on the ceiling above you. He's shuffling around more than you'd expect for a simple trash trip, but then you feel hands on your ankles, and your head snaps down to find him kneeling at the foot of the bed, gently tugging your underwear back up your legs.Â
"I know it's not ideal," he says, when your face scrunches up as the piece of fabric lands back on your hips. "But I also know your skirt is too short to not wear these."
"I'll get over it," you reply, letting him redress you with delicate fingers that leave your entire body hot, with goosebumps rising on the skin.
"Yeah," he agrees, though half-heartedly, expert fingers clasping your bra back onto your body.Â
Once your skirt is back on, he helps you up into a seated position, helping to reapply the feathered head piece you had on.Â
It's oddly intimate, way he's kneeling in front of you, breath warm against your face as he clips the feathers into your hair. Your breathing hitches as his hands drop back to your thighs upon finishing, and you swallow the lump in your throat.Â
"Everybody's gonna know what we did," you say, quietly, for it was true. You two had been gone for too long of a time for people to not draw correct conclusions.Â
"They already know we do."Â Hook up.
"What? How?"
"You need to stop telling Garcia things."
Your face falls, and he smiles, sympathetically, thumbs drawing gentle circles on the skin of your thighs.Â
"At least you don't work with them."
"I guess there's that," you confirm with a small nod.
He's silent for a few more moments, simply staring at you and studying your face, before he sighs, and goes to pick up your corset.Â
"You need to go to the bathroom after this," he instructs you, though gently, motioning for you to stand up and turn around so he could do up the dreaded lacing.Â
"I know. Don't worry."
"Good," he replies, your skin tingling with every extra bit of pressure he put on your back as he laced up your corset. "You feel okay?"
"Yes," you nod your head. "Do you?"
"I do," he confirms for you, tying off the lacing and tapping your hip so you could turn back around.Â
You do, and your eyes flicker up to his face. "Do you also promise not to make me wait two weeks again?"
"I'll talk to the board."
your reblogs and replies are always appreciated âĄ
#liaâs fics âĄ#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid imagine#spencer x reader#spencer x self insert#spencer reid x reader#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid angst#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader smut
707 notes
·
View notes
Text
What is Broken IV (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader) FINALE
The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers
Warnings: traumatic childbirth, blood, semi-suicidal thoughts, Aemond is fantasizing about murder again, all the angst
Point of View: Limited third person omniscient
Author's Note: I don't understand why, but thanks so much for all the support I've gotten from this horribly angsty fic! This is my first go at angst so I really appreciate it. I'm gonna work on two happy-ish fic chapters before I get started on When It Breaks, but it's coming...
And a huge, enourmous thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ripdragonbeans for being my betas for this! I was so anxious about getting this absolutely right and they were so kind and encouraging. Love yall forever đđđ
Taglist is done via reblogs
Series Masterlist
What is Broken
She was so light, his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos.
Even while carrying their children â their sons â Aemond swore she was lighter than when he left. He held her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped over his forearm. With every step, he could feel more of the liquid that had spilled from her womb - now mixed with small, hateful tendrils of blood -Â dampening his sleeve.
Gods, how much blood had he seen in the past year? How much had he spilled himself? There had even been times when he reveled in its metallic tang. But the sight of her blood was nothing less than abhorrent.
He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.
She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. âIt hurts, Aemond.â
âI know, my love.â He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. âIâm so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and heâll help you feel better, hmm?â
âHe has to stop it. Itâs too early,â her voice cracked, and Aemondâs heart with it. âTheyâre not ready!â
But it couldnât be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart⊠he had broken that, too.
If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.
âCome now,â he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. âOur sons are dragons â they will be strong. And so will you, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos.â
âSons?â She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes â those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows â locked with his. âHow⊠you sound so sure.â
Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.
Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her â perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alysâ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.
But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. âAlys told me after you left. Before⊠she had a vision of us holding our sons. Iâm so sorry, love.â
She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. âIâm glad itâs sons. Youâll have two heirsâŠâ
Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, youâll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, fallingâŠ
âI am glad, too.â He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. âMother will be, as well.â
âMother!â She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. âI canât do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!â
âI am afraid that is not an option, Princess.â Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did â very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.
The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. âSomething is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And sheâs very weak.â
Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. âThe blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.â He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.
âYes, I know that already.â Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman â a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, heâd kill the man for it. âI fear she is not strong enough to survive this.â
She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.
It took every ounce of Aemondâs self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him â and him alone â to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldnât. He could only hurt her, it seemed.
âArtos!â Aemond hissed.
âIs her spirit weak as well?â There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same heâd shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadnât been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.
But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. âYes.â The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.
âThis is Maester Artos, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos.â She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. âI know him well. Heâs going to take very good care of you, I promise.â
She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemondâs hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand â in his body â to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.
âAre you going to stay with me?â she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.
Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what heâd done. âDo you⊠want me to stay?â
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemondâs stomach dropped, and his heart ached.
âI believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,â Artos said decisively.
Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagarâs backâher answer.
He nodded, and though he knew he shouldnât, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. âI love you.â
As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.
It never came.
The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldnât be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.
âIt wonât be long now, princess,â the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldnât even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, butâŠ
But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, heâd probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.
Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!
She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what sheâd learned in that dreary little room.
Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.
Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.
âPrincess,â the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. âVery soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?â
Push. Thatâs what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her motherâs chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?
Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. âIt is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.â
âI have no might.â She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand â she didnât know who. But the feeling of anotherâs skin on hers was heavenly.
âYou have carried these babes for months,â the maester â Artos! that was his name â said gently, âwhile your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.â
She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her childrenâs lives in danger.
She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasnât strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.
A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girlâdeep, rich brown, so similar to her own â to her motherâs.
âI want my mother,â she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. âI canât do this without her.â
The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maidâs eyes and thought of her motherâthe scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.
âPlease, I want my mother,â she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. âPlease.â
âIâm so sorry, Your Highness.â The maidâs voice was high and breathy, nothing like her motherâs. âThe queen is not here.â
She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone â entirely and utterly alone.
âPrincess, I need you to be strong now.â Artosâ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. âYour labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.â
âI donât know how,â she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.
Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. âYou do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.â
âI â â
Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.
Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.
âVery good, princess!â Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldnât tell anymore.
It was never-ending.
Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.
Was a child â a son â even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?
Pain.
Pain.
PAIN.
Then â
âStop, princess!â
She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.
The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.
âWhatâs wrong?â she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.
Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. âNothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.â He smiled, chuckling under his breath. âI can see your babeâs white hair â quite a bit of it.â
Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didnât care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. âHe has hair?â
âYes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.â
âIt is. He is.â
There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.
It was torture to wait outside while his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.
Heâd been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.
He would be in that room with her if he hadnât been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.
It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?
Then, it stopped.
Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldnât face â
A babe criedâhis first cry, with his first breath.
Their son.
He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.
âLet me in!â he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. âArtos, let me in!â
There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?
Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. âOpen the door now, Artos!â
He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.
It opened just before he launched himself at it againânot all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.
âLet me in,â he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. âIf you donât let me see my wife, I swear Iâll â â
âYour wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.â Damn him, the mountainous bastard. âBut I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.â
Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.
âIs he healthy? Is she?â There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.
Artos nodded. âThe boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.â
âAnd my wife?â
âShe is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.â
The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrÄ«zÄ«tsos and take comfort in her embrace. âMay I see her? Please.â
âIâm afraid not, my prince.â Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. âShe needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.â
âIs⊠is it bad that she fell asleep?â
Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. âOrdinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak⊠it worries me.â
No. No, no, no. âIs there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?â
âI am afraid not, my prince.â
âWell, do something. Do whatever you can.â
A soft moan came from behind the door. ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.
Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.
âÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos! Iâm here!â He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. âIâm with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrÄ«zÄ«tsos!â
Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. âThat is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.â
Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, âTake care of her, Artos. She is my world.â
The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.
Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.
 âItâs worse this time,â she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. âItâs so much worse. Why?â
He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. âI cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, orâŠâ He hesitated. âAs I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.â
His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. âIs he nearly ready? I canât do this much longer.â At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.
âAh, another son, is it?â Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. âNot yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.â
Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.
Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.
They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.
She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemondâs determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.
As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.
âPrincess, stop!â
Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. âYou mustnât push now, princess. Not once. IâŠâ
He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.
She was sure.
Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. âIs it over?â
The maester sighed.
Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.
âYour wife is strong, my prince,â he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. âEnough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, butâŠâ
âWhatâs wrong?â Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. âArtos?â
âThe babe is not in the right position.â He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.
âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.â
No. This couldnât be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.
âIf she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.â Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. âI can save only one. Who survives⊠that is your decision, my prince.â
The gods were cruel to force this upon him â the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.
Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos.
His ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to â
He couldnât choose. He couldnât let her die, and he couldnât let their son die.
He couldn't live without her, and he couldnât take away her will to live.
He tore himself out of Artosâ grasp and stormed into the room.
Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.
He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. âOh, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos,â he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. âIâm here now. Everything is going to be fine.â
Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.
âI want Mother. I want Helaena.â Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone â most likely her â was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outsideâŠ
If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
âMother is not here right now,â he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldnât look at her, wouldnât meet her gaze. âAnd Helaena⊠she canât be here. Iâm so sorry.â
âShe told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!â
âI know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.â
Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.
Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.
âI canât do this alone, Aemond. I canât.â
âYou can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.â Yet there was no confidence in his voice.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. âI canât! Iâll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.â
He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. âMy love, IâŠâ his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.
Then, he kissed herânot the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldnât.
Everything felt wrongâher entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting moreâmore rightness, more connection, more feeling.
More Aemond.
But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. âIâm going to fix this,â he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. âI will fix this, I swear.â
Then, he let go.
He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.
He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.
She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldnât do this to her, not after everything heâd already done.
This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.
It was hate.
For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.
âAlys!â Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servantâs quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos.
She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.
Fine. It would be worth it.
âALYS!â The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where sheâd been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? âAlys!â
âI heard you, Aemond.â She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. âThe entire continent heard you.â There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.
He swallowed, panting. He was crying â weeping like a little boy. That didnât matter now. Very little mattered now.
Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. âI need your help, Alys. Please.â
âSheâs dying?â
âYes. The maester said I had to⊠that I had to choose who to save.â
âAnd you canât choose between her and the child.â
 âNo, I â â he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. âI canât, Alys. I canât. Please.â
âWhat is it, exactly, that you want me to do?â She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.
âSave them, both of them.â
Alysâ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. âWhat would you sacrifice,â she asked flatly, âto ensure your wife and her children â your true heirs â live?â
âAnything,â Aemond croaked, âEverything.â
One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.
âPlease, Alys,â he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. âI cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.â
Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. âYou have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.â Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. âAlmost always, at least.â
âAlys,â he growled in warning.
âOh, donât be a beast about it,â she scoffed. âI will do it â save them. If only in memory of our time together.â
Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.
âI promise it will be done.â She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. âYou should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.â
He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.
She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.
Aemond was gone.
Heâd left her. Without even a goodbye, heâd left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.
Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. âHow are you feeling, princess?â
âAm I going to die?â
He hesitated in answering. âI cannot say for certainâŠâ
âI know something is wrong. Please, tell me.â Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. âYou told him, now tell me.â
âVery well,â he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. âThe babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. Itâs⊠the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.â
No. No, no, no, it wasnât fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?
Unless⊠the gods had not sent this to punish her.
Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage â their holy union â when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasnât fair.
âThere is nothing you can do?â She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.
The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. âIn these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.â
So that was why Artos left the room â to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.
âWho did he choose?â Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.
âHe⊠he did not, your highness.â
âWhat?â
âI explained the situation, and he stormed in here â to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he hadâŠâ But he hadnât. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.
A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.
If they hadnât already.
âSo⊠what will you do?â If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.
âThere are three options.â None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful â a reluctant harbinger of death. âI can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.â
Such a choice â a decision of life and death â should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.
But it was easy.
âSave him,â she whispered. âLet me die.â
Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen â she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.
What did it matter if she died now?
She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy â what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.
If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.
âSave him,â she said again, her voice fading.
It was easier this way. Hadnât she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.
Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.
Her son.
Oh, he had no name.
She couldnât leave him motherless and without a name.
Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to rememberâŠ
âDaeron.â
Yes. It had been her brotherâs name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.
Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.
Once she was gone, Daeronâher Daeronâwould have a little brother, too. He would need a name as wellâa strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.
âAenar.â
A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.
There. Names for her sons, the little princes.
With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.
Goodbye, she tried to say.
I love you, my children.
Be kind to each other.
Love each other always.
Goodbye.
The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.
The distant light faded.
The mist darkened.
Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.
She was still screaming. Good.
Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife â his living, breathing, beloved wife â and not her corpse.
The door was still locked when he arrivedâone final obstacle between him and his family.
No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.
They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.
They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.
âPrince Aemond.â
Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. âLeave. Now.â
Stark stood strong and still. âYou have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.â
âDo you want me to kill you?â Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didnât close his fucking mouth â
âTo lose the woman you love so dearly in this way⊠it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.â
âIâŠâ Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. âThank you, Lord Stark.â
He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.
Oh gods.
He froze.
The screaming was gone.
It was silent.
Was she dead?
Had Alys betrayed him?
He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and â
A child cried.
ThenâŠ
Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.
For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.
âPrincess?â
She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldnât it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldnât the gods greet her by name, not her title?
âPrincess, it is time to wake up,â the voice said again. âOpen your eyes for me.â
Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.
The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like â
âI am not dead?â
Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. âI am very happy to say you are not, your highness.â
âBut, my son â â
âHe lives, too.â
It couldnât be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.
A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.
A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.
Her sons â alive and well and here.
She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.
She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.
This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husbandâŠ
âLet me in!â he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. âÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!â
Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.
âIâm fine,â she said, breathless. âI did it, lÄkia, and Iâm fine.â
âYou did it?â He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. âShe did itâŠâ
Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn â the girl with eyes like her motherâs. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. âBring Daeron to me,â she ordered,â some strength at last returning to her voice. âI want to hold him.â
Aemond stared at her. âDaeron?â
Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldnât quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. âThere are already too many Aegons, soâŠâ
He laughed. She had missed that sound â she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings â the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadnât her spine hurt not long ago? âDaeron is perfect.â
Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.
âHeâs going to be king someday,â she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conquerorâs Crown would fit.
âA great king, I think,â Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. âWise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.â
âHe must be kind, too.â
âHe will be,â Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. âWe will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.â
âAenar.â
Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his sonâs fist to touch the babeâs hair. âThe Exile?â
âI just thoughtâŠâ Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. âOur family needs a new beginning.â
âYes⊠I suppose it does.â He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. âAnother fine name.â
She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. âI want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.â
None of them moved. The room fell silent.
âAllow me just a moment longer, princess,â Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. âI am still finishing my assessment of the boy.â
Heâs dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.
âNo,â she whispered. âNo, no, no.â
Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.
He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. âLykirÄ«, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos. IzĆ«gĆ daor Ä«lo bÄvili gĆ.â Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.
âKostan daor,â she whimpered. If Aenar was deadâŠ
âIs he alive?â Aemondâs hand moved to shelter Daeronâs head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him â into the safety of his arms.
Brother. Husband. Protector.
Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?
âYes, my prince,â Artos answered.
âWill he remain that way?â
âYesâŠâ
âYou could tell me heâs green-skinned and winged for all I care.â His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. âHeâs alive, and thatâs enough. Bring him.â
Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.
He looked whole â unbroken. Aenarâs eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.
Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes â the same shade of violet as his father's and brotherâs. âĂuha trÄso,â she whispered, and he smiled. My son.
âTaobosa sylvÈłse,â Aemond added. âHe already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. DÄrys sepÄr Ondoso zÈłhon.â Wise boy. The King and his Hand.
They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?
The Maesterâs frown deepened. âI am afraidâŠâ he cleared his throat. âIt appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.â
She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.
âMay I?â His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.
Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?
She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenarâs right arm. Artosâ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong â that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.
âIt⊠is it a birthmark?â She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasnât an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.
âExplain yourself, Artos,â Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.
With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenarâs arm. âNote how he gives no reaction.â
âSo he is calm,â Aemond spat. âI fail to see the injury.â
âDo the same to the elder.â He repeated the touch. âGently, my prince.â
Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.
âBut he looks fine.â She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenarâs left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.
It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. âWhat did I do wrong?â
âNothing,â Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.
âIt is not uncommon among children born breech.â the Maester explained. âI have seen many such injuries and many even worse.â
Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? âPrince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?â
âWhat do we do?â She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.
Aemondâs face was drawn with grief â for his son and for himself. âHe will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.â
I cannot trust your promises.
The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.
âHow did I survive?â
Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. âIt does not matter, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.â
If he wasnât holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.
I will fix this. heâd said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions heâd asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?
Of Alys.
Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?
How?
At what cost?
What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?
âNo Maester wants to admit to ignorance,â Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, âbut I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.â
She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Motherâs hand upon her shoulder.
The gods werenât kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her sonâs, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?
Yet, she had her life â and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.
Wasnât it?
âIâm tired,â she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. âI want to rest now.â
After what she endured, no one argued.
His ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.
When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.
She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.
But she would live.
Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his fatherâs sins forever.
After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenarâs arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.
It was his fault, Aemond knew.
Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.
He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.
For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.
How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his motherâs curls than his fatherâs straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.
In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.
He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.
He had to go now, while his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos slept.
âBefore our wedding,â he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, âI promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.â
When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.
Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. âNow, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.â
It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.
âShould I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.â He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.
A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wifeâthe young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.
Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.
He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.
There was blood. Too much blood.
A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.
What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.
Aemond ran.
He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.
Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.
His wifeâs stomach now looked very much the same.
âWhat did you do?â His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.
Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. âWhat you asked.â
âI didnât ask you toâŠâ This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.
The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.
Kinslayer.
Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.
Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?
âI only wanted you to save my wife and son.â His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead childâs mother.
âAnd you thought there would be no cost?â Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. âNo god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.â
âI didnât think â â
âYou never do.â
Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. âYou should have told me!â
âWhat would you have done?â She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. âIf I had told you?â
âI ââ
âWould you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?â Alysâ lip curled in a hateful sneer. âYou could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?â
The world stopped. Only Alysâ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.
âI⊠it was a boy?â Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.
Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. âIt was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.â
The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.
Gods, was he any better?
Did his ignorance of his sonâs sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?
It certainly didnât feel like it.
Alys sighed. âBetter for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.â
âI would not have allowed that to happen,â Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance heâd grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.
âWouldnât you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But nowâŠâ She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? âNo. Youâd have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.â
âI would have ensured your comfort.â The words felt as hollow as his chest.
âYour wife would, yes.â Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. âShe is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.â
He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man heâd become in the war and how close heâd come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.
If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?
Would he have broken his ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsosâs heart?
Heâd trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.
One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.
Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.
His failure as a husband. His wifeâs pain. The death of his third son.
Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.
Aemondâs heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.
âI will be rid of you now,â he hissed as he stood. âAnd I will be rid of you forever.â
The bitch had enough sense to look scared.
âIn memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.â She didnât even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.
He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. âAs Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here againâŠâ He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.
âI will kill you myself,â he promised. âWithout hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.â
She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didnât care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.
Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.
His ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.
Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sonsâ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?
It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.
He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.
So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, âJÄla tetan, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos. ÄȘlon lentot selagon kosti.â It is over, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos. We can go home.
She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.
âHush, little prince,â a soft voice said. âYouâll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.â A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.
Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemondâs arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.
The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeronâs cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.
âIs something wrong with him?â she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.
âNothing to concern yourself with, princess.â The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. âThey are simply hungry.â
âWhere is the wetnurse?â She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasnât she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didnât. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?
The old maid looked away, sighing. âIâm afraid sheâs left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought sheâd had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.â She shook her head and again leaned over Daeronâs crib. âYouâll be fed soon, darling prince, donât you worry.â
Alysâ child - Aemondâs child - was dead?
It was a good thing, wasnât it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what heâd done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldnât she?
But she wanted to cry.
âMother, forgive me,â the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. âI should not have said that, princess. Not when youâve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.â
She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss⊠it would have driven her mad.
âHowâŠâ she licked her lips. âHow many children has she lost?â
The old maid dropped her pendant. âI do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.â
Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. âYou said sheâs gone?â
âYes, princess. She left in the night. Didnât say where she was going, to my knowledge.â
It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenarâs lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where sheâd lost so many children?
Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She⊠she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -
âI can feed them.â
The old maid looked aghast. âPrincess, there is no need - â
âI want to do it.â She was their mother, why shouldnât she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. âCan you show me how?â
It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. âIâve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.â
The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.
Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that sheâd become accustomed to.
âYou should not be doing that yourself,â Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. âWhere is the wetnurse?â
Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?
No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.
Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to Kingâs Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.
âThere is no other wetnurse,â she explained gently. âAlys left. Theyâre looking for another woman now.â
Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?
âIâm sorry, Aemond.â He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. âTruly, I am.â
âItâs better this way,â he whispered. He didnât believe it. Neither did she.
He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.
Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.
Aemond took in a deep breath. âThat boy should never have existed,â he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. âI already had what I needed. And wanted.â
So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his fatherâs nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?
âYou are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.â Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parentsâ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.
Again, Aemond shook his head. âI cannot mourn what never should have been.â He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. âAnd I am mourning too much already.â
âI am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.â
âYou know that is not what I mean, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos.â
She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.
âI know.â
They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.
Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.
âÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos, please.â His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. âAlys is gone. My⊠the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Canât you forgive me at last?â
The answer came without hesitation.
âNo, Aemond.â
Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate â locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.
âI shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.â Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. âI will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.â
Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. âYou will be a wonderful queen, ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos. I know it.â
She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. âBut I will never again be your ÄbrazÈłrÄ«tsos.â She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. âI will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.â
Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. âMy heart is and always shall be yours.â
I donât want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.
But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage â their once legendary romance â was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.
Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.
The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemondâs grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.
Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.
It was a lovely morning in Harrenhal.
#aemond#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond fanfic#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond imagine#aemond fluff#aemond one eye#aemond smut#aemond the kinslayer#aemond x reader#aemond x you#aemond x y/n#aemond x fem!reader#hotd#hotd aemond#hotd fanfic#hotd smut#hotd imagine#hotd x reader#house of the dragon#house of the dragon fanfic#ewan mitchell#what is broken
540 notes
·
View notes
Note
Getting caught masturbating by Ace, Zoro, and Luffy? XD
Hey, hey! Oh my goodness, talk about living rent free in my head. Thanks so much for planting this seed. I hope you like what Iâve written for you. đđ
CW: NSFW, MDNI, gn!reader, headcanons/scenarios, both are tipsy in Zoroâs part, reciprocated feelings
Catching you masturbating (Ace, Zoro, Luffy)
Ace
Watching you dancing from across the room was the lure needed to pull him towards you. The way you swayed your hips enticed him to join you in your alluring motions. With flirtatious whispers being exchanged, the spark was clearly there which led to an almost ravenous lust.
You suddenly ran off in the middle of your flirty conversation. With all your rubbing against each other and his wandering hands, he was at a loss for words when you excused yourself. At first thinking that you just had to use the bathroom, youâd been gone long enough to let the worries of pushing you too far fill his mind.
He wanted to give you the space you may have needed, but the urge to smooth over any discomfort heâd possibly caused overshadowed that. Going off to search for you, he passed by all your most favored spaces on the ship yet couldnât find you. Standing in front of the bedroom door, he lightly knocked before entering.Â
The sight of your flushed cheeks, panting face, and messy hair was the most pleasant way he could think of being welcomed into a room. When your lustful gaze settled on him, the arch in your back as you continued playing with yourself gave him a surge of fervor.
That beckoning you held in your eyes for him to come over to you was not going to go unsatisfied. He flashed you a cocky smile while he took his time walking over to you.
âYou could have just asked for my help, you know,â he teased.
Zoro
He could tell youâd had a few drinks but so had he. Your flirtatious nature morphed into touchy feely and compliments, which heâd normally roll his eyes at, but that night he felt like indulging you a littleâwanted to tease you a bit. The soft giggles and flush from the banter was beginning to be fun, though he wasnât going to admit it outright.
Chugging the seemingly endless amounts of sake, he saw an intriguing look gleam in your eyes. âWhat is it?â He cocked an eyebrow at you.
âCould you come to my room in 10?â
With a puzzled expression, he couldnât hide the suspicion in his tone, âYeah?â
When you scampered away, he shrugged off your odd behavior and got back to guzzling down booze in the meantime.
Stopping at your door a little later than youâd asked him to, he opened it to find you with practically nothing on and satisfying your pent-up desire for him. His immediate response was to go wide-eyed and cheeks flush a deep red.Â
When his eyes darted from your exposed body to your face, the look you were giving him turned his flustered expression into a sly grin. âYou look like you could use some help.â
Your nodding and soft gasps gave him more than enough incentive to give you what youâd been craving.
Luffy
Even though you and Luffy were very affectionate with each other, there wasnât really anything romantic happening between you yet. With each morning waking up wrapped in each otherâs arms, it was becoming harder and harder for you to ignore your own wants and needs to be physically intimate.
He tended to wake up before you, usually being pulled out of bed with his insatiable hunger. Accidentally waking you up, he blurted out an apology before scurrying off to the kitchen. After being jostled awake from the hot and heavy dream you were having, those lingering fantasies of you and Luffy were making it difficult to ignore your growing arousal.
Reaching between your legs, you indulged yourself in self-pleasure, quickly losing yourself in the sensations. The sheet had slipped off your hip and was now hugging your lower half perfectly, practically offering you up to whomever walked in the room.
Barging into the room to get you for breakfast, your exposed body was on full display for him. With your embarrassment leading you to cover up, you were perhaps even more shocked when he protested.
âW-wait, donât stop,â he had a blush on his face but his eagerness helped him push past that. âCan I watch, just for a little bit?â
You hesitated but ultimately gave inâafter all, you were looking for more intimacy with him. As you continued playing with yourself, your moans and trembles brought him closer to you and coaxed him into gently rubbing and kissing your legs.
âYou really look like youâre enjoying yourselfâŠCan I join in?â
#one piece#x reader#one piece x reader#one piece imagine#op#one piece x you#one piece smut#op x reader#op x you#one piece headcanons#ace#ace portgas#portgas d ace#ace x reader#ace x you#zoro#zoro roronoa#roronoa zoro#zoro x reader#zoro x you#luffy#luffy x reader#monkey d luffy#luffy x you#op headcanons#op imagines
438 notes
·
View notes
Note
congrats on 10k lovelyyyyyy!!! truly deserving, your works are some of my favorites on this app đ«¶đ» may i order a đ "I can't smile at you, I'm mad." with nico hischier ?!! lots of love for youuuu
thank you for requesting!đ«¶đœ
1."I can't smile at you, I'm mad."
.
âFancy seeing you here.âÂ
Nico shot you an unamused look as he held the door open, long enough for the nurse in the room to sense the tension in the air and quickly scamper off. He flashed the nurse a thankful smile before letting the door close behind her, turning his attention back to you.Â
âThis isnât funny,â he said eventually.
âItâs a little funny,â you countered, watching as he crossed his arms over his chest. âOkay, but in my defence, I didnât think anything bad would actually happen.âÂ
âHow is that your defence?â Nico countered with a frown.
âItâs all I could think of in the twenty minutes it took for you to arrive,â you admitted with a sheepish expression.
âBaby,â he sighed heavily.Â
âIs this the part where you tell me I told you so?â You asked, still lighthearted and teasing as if you werenât currently sitting on the hospital bed with your ankle all bandaged up from an accident that could have very easily been avoided.Â
It was a running argument between you and Nico for the duration of your time spent in the apartment. You had moved in together over a year ago and it was absolutely perfect, minus the fact the top shelves of the cupboards were just out of your reach.Â
It wasnât too bad, considering most of the things on the top shelves were things you and Nico barely used in your everyday life. It was rare for you to reach for them, and even when you did, Nico was usually in the flat to help grab them for you.Â
The argument stemmed from the day he came back home after practice to find you on the kitchen counter. Nico deemed it too unsafe, that you could fall or slip off when straining to get something from the shelf. You said he was being a bit dramatic, that you had done it plenty of times before with ease.Â
The boy near had a heart attack every time he witnessed it in person.Â
Now, here you were in the hospital, ankle wrapped up with an x-ray confirming it was broken and an odd sense of embarrassment towards the fact that Nico was right, that it was unsafe, that this all happened because you had the urge to bake and the cake tins were right at the back of the shelf.Â
The doctors had called your emergency contactâNicoâafter the x-rays had confirmed the fracture.
âBabe,â he said once again, his brows furrowed together as he shook his head. âIâm not happy about being right, you know that, right?âÂ
âYou have to be a little bit smug though,â you countered.Â
âMy girlfriend broke her ankle and had to find her way to hospital alone,â Nico stated as he rounded the bed, like he needed some reassurance that you were okay as he reached for your hand. âNothing about that sentence makes me feel happy or smug.âÂ
âNico, baby, Iâm fine,â you reassured him, squeezing his hand before patting a spot on the bed for him to sit down. âItâs not the end of the world and, overall, itâs funny. Now, câmon, smile for me.âÂ
âI canât smile at you, Iâm mad,â Nico muttered but took a seat on the bed, perched at the edge like he didnât want to take too much space. Which was just comical with the size of him. âWhat if I was away on a roadie? Or what if something more serious than a broken ankle happened? What ifââ
âYou know why I love you so much?â You cut him off, watching as the boy flashed you a confused look. âBecause you care so much. You had such a big heart and you are so, so sweet.âÂ
His cheeks flushed a little. âStop trying to butter me up.âÂ
âIâm only telling you the truth,â you retorted before squeezing his hand once more, tugging him a little closer so you could lean in and peck his lips. âIâm sorry for worrying you. And Iâm sorry for not listening to you about the kitchen counter. You were right.âÂ
âIâm sorry for being so hard on you,â he murmured in reply, leaning in for a longer kiss before his shoulders dropped a little in relief. âI swore my heart stopped when I saw all the missed calls and voicemails. I think Jack had to catch me a little when I realised it was from the hospital. I thought something really bad had happened andââ
âInstead it was just your pretty girlfriend busting her ankle whilst trying to bake?â You finished for him, a smile on your lips. âGod, at least I never managed to get anything in the oven or we would have bigger problems to deal with.â
Nico snorted despite himself. âShut up.âÂ
âThereâs that smile I love,â you grinned happily, your finger lightly poking the dimple of his cheek. âPlus, look at the bright side.â
Nico raised his eyebrows. âAnd whatâs that?âÂ
âI now have an excuse for you to carry me around,â you joked, something in your stomach twisting to see that dimple once again.Â
Instead, his expression softened as he raised your hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. âIâd carry you wherever you wanna go, baby. Gonna take care of my girl,â he said with so much sincerity.Â
âMy own knight in shining armour,â you sighed happily.
âMore like a sexy nurse,â he corrected, something quite like amusement shining in his eyes. âIf I was your knight in shining armour, I would have caught you when you fell. Easy.âÂ
.
#cece's cocktail celebration#nico hischier#nhl#new jersey devils#nico hischier x reader#nico hischier x you#nico hischier x y/n#nico hischier fic#nico hischier one shot#nhl x reader#nhl x you#nhl x y/n#nhl fic#nhl one shot
354 notes
·
View notes
Text
Help Me Take My Account Back
Hi, this is Pi, Pitheinfinite, the founder of @pis3update and @pis3story & the joint founder of ts3creatorscave.
About a month ago, my original account @pitheinfinite got suspended by tumblr with no reason provided. I followed the protocol and filed my complaint but my patience got no reward. No response. Nothing At All.
It's time to take some real actions I think. Please help me by urging @staff to give my account back. Even though I've been on hiatus for quite some time and still don't have much time for the game or the community at the moment, I want to keep the place I've built for years, knowing that I always have a home here to go to.
Besides, my story sideblog pis3story, unlike pis3update, has only one member/admin, and will go down with my original account.
Please help me. Reblog this post and tag the staff, asking them to make things right. It's those porn zombie that they should go after, not the long term users. Thank youđ
289 notes
·
View notes
Note
kate who gets horny when she sees reader wearing her hoddie đđ
-đ
what your hands were made for [K.Bishop]
pairing: bottom!kate bishop x top!reader
summary: kate ruins a cute moment by getting a little too excited about you wearing her hoodie.
warnings: SMUT -> minors, this isn't for you [grinding/humping; pet play is more than a little implied...my hand slipped :); kate gets needy and cums very fast; teasing; kate's praise kink goes brrr; subby puppy gf kate]
wordcount: 1.6k
a/n: i've missed writing for kate so much that i blacked out and wrote most of this in one sitting. i literally can't tell you who the dominant one is supposed to be here and i feel like that's exactly the way kate would like it lmao. anywho, i'm still thinking about the marvels so have this while i recover. i hope you enjoy <3
* * * * * * *
Itâs a cold early morning in New York when your eyes open to the sight of your adorable, sleeping, girlfriend. A small smile pulls at your lips as you take her in, everything from her disheveled hair to the subtle crinkle between her eyebrows sends your heart soaring.
You canât resist the urge to reach out and tuck a piece of her wild hair behind her ear. She stirs but only to wrap her arms tighter around your waist, an incoherent murmur of a complaint tumbling out of her parted lips.Â
Kate Bishop is many thingsâŠexcept a morning person, something youâve had to learn the hard way. Itâs honestly a miracle sheâs managed to make it to most of her early morning missions on time considering how many attempts it takes to get her to even consider getting up in the morning.
Itâs hard to find her bad habit annoying when she looks so damn cute, though.Â
Unfortunately for her, youâre awake, youâre hungry and Clintâs supposed to drop off her beloved golden retriever in a few hours.
You donât necessarily understand the arrangement the two archers have but you know it canât do Lucky any harm to be taken to the Bartonâs home every once in a while. Especially during weeks when Kate is swamped with superhero work and canât find the energy to be dragged around Central Park for a few hours.
So, you disentangle yourself from the brunetteâs strong embrace and get up.Â
You hear her grumble again while your hands reach for the warmest thing in sight: one of Kateâs purple hoodies chaotically thrown onto her bedside table. Any other day youâd be fighting the urge to scold her for never putting her clothes in her ridiculously large closet but today, the hoodie saves you from the cold air that nips at your skin. Â
The tell-tale sound of sheets rustling around fills the room for a few seconds before Kate speaks up.
âWhere are you going?â She groans, her voice carrying traces of that sleep-filled raspiness you've come to love.Â
âTo get ready. Clintâs coming to drop off Lucky.â
âYeah, but that's not until later and your girlfriend wants cuddles right now.â
You turn around to face her, ready to tease her for being such a grump in the morning, only to find the archer watching you with wide eyes.
âUmâŠyou okay, babe?â
Your voice brings her out of her thoughts and you catch sight of the pink hue that threatens to overtake her beautiful face. âYeahâŠyeah, justâŠthat hoodie looks really good on you.â
âThank you, I stole it from my grumpy girlfriend.âÂ
You're technically making fun of her but all she can focus on is the way her hoodie looks on you. On the subtle smirk that pulls at your lips and the small token of possession it represents.Â
She's not a jealous person or an overly controlling partner but the thought of you wearing her things, of showing you're her partner and no one elseâsâŠstirs something inside her that she's never felt before.
You can see it.Â
The way her face slowly changes from a sleepy and dazed look to hungry eyes that seem to try to devour you with a single glance. It would be startling if you didnât know her so well.
âCome here,â she says as she extends her arms out to you.
âYouâre not even going to sit up?â You canât resist the urge to tease her even while you do exactly what she asks of you.
She merely shakes her head in response, stable hands grabbing your waist and pulling you down on top of her. You donât even get the chance to come up with another teasing remark before sheâs leaning up and stealing your thoughts away with a kiss.
You sink into her, an almost inaudible sigh slipping out of your mouth and into Kateâs as the two of you mold together. Her hands mess with the fabric of the hoodie adorning your figure but she makes no move to remove the barrier just yet.
You assume sheâs just waiting for your permission to take it off until she starts caressing you over the fabric. Thereâs no time to question what exactly sheâs doing though since her lips detach from yours only so she can nip at your jawline. âGodâŠyou look so good in my clothes, baby.â
âYeah? Is that why youâre trying to hump the air right now?â
The groan you hear in response is exactly what youâre expecting.Â
What you donât expect however is for her hips to literally buck against the air. Your words were supposed to be a joke but of course, your girlfriend would be into it. Thereâs a reason you call her your golden retriever girlfriend and itâs not just because of how loyal she is. Â
Her hands go from soft and exploratory to demanding in an instant and you let out a groan of your own as she maneuvers your body until sheâs able to trap your knee between her legs.
Sheâs been awake for less than ten minutes and she already has you right where she wants you.
âKate-â She smothers the rest of your sentence with her lips and yet you canât find it in yourself to be mad about the interruption.
Youâre too busy kissing her back to attempt to tease her once she starts moving against you, impatient hips rocking every which way to find some relief. Itâs hot and adorable in ways that make your heart clench and your clit throb with need.Â
âFuck,â she mumbles against your lips.
You take the opportunity to glide your hands underneath her shirt and remove it from her in one move. She shudders, both from the cold air and the pleasure overtaking her body, and itâs a sight you don't ever want to forget.
Kateâs desperation is palpable but you enjoy watching the way she writhes under you too much to touch her the way she needs. You merely let her grind against you while your hands explore her chest, basking in the beautiful, needy, sounds you draw out of her.
You're in the middle of teasing her hardened nipples when she breaks.Â
ây/nâŠbabeâŠpleaseâŠâ Thereâs no sweeter sound than the sound of your girlfriend giving in to the pleasure only you can make her feel.Â
âAlready?â You ask through a chuckle, watching as your words make her eyes clench shut. âI havenât even done anything yet.â
âShut up,â she grumbles before another moan tumbles out of her.
She grips the front of your hoodie with an iron grip, pulling you down against her so she can kiss you again. You let her do what she wants while enjoying every beautiful second of her borderline frantic movements.Â
Itâs unreal how fast she crumbles under you, how quick she is to lose the confident act and let herself drop into a state where all she wants, all she needs, is you. Even the air she breathes is incomparable to how alive you make her feel during moments like these.
Your lips leave hers right as you push your knee against her center. Youâre sure sheâs seconds away from soaking through her sweatpants considering how hard sheâs humping you.Â
ây/n-â She gasps, her back arched and her muscles strained while she rocks against you. âPlease, I canâtâŠâ
You admire her for a few seconds before giving her the permission she not so secretly craves. âI know, youâre just a needy pup, arenât you? You canât help yourself, can you, Katie?â
Her eyes fly open at that and the dazed look in her eyes is more than enough of a reward for you. She nods furiously in response, clearly only a few mess thrusts away from falling apart. âYes, yes, I am, please, baby.â
âGood girl,â you say with that proud grin that makes her melt every time. âGo on, cum for me, puppy.â
The reaction your words coax out of her is instantaneous and itâs more than enough to leave your own underwear soaked through. Your arousal is the last thing on your mind though when you have a whiny, shaky Kate Bishop wildly grinding against you while she succumbs to her orgasm and the searing pleasure it leaves behind. Â
You watch her for a few seconds, doing everything in your power to commit the sight to memory, before leaning down and pressing a few feather-light kisses to her sweaty skin. âSo pretty for me, you did so good, puppy.â
The only sound that comes out of her is her heavy breathing and the quiet whine she canât keep in every time she hears you call her puppy again. It takes her a few seconds to come back down to Earth and you wait patiently for her, pressing soft kisses all over her face and mumbling all the words that soothe the gentle storm inside of her.
Her hands finally release your hoodie and she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and groaning when you move so youâre not pressing up against her cunt anymore.
âYou okay?â You whisper against her.
âMhmm. More than okay, actually.âÂ
Kate doesnât give you a chance to respond. She doesn't give you a chance to do anything but let out a gasp as she rolls the two of you over and triumphantly lands on top of you.
She wastes no time in burying her flushed face into your neck and nuzzling the warm skin she finds.
âWeâre gonna have to get up eventually, puppy,â you remind her even though youâre already running your fingers through her messy hair and basking in the intimacy of the moment.Â
âThat sounds like a problem for later.â
Sheâs technically not wrong and itâs obvious sheâs mere seconds from falling asleep again so you bite your tongue and let her have her win. As far as mornings go, this might be your favorite way of spending them, tangled up completely with the archer that owns your heart.
#kate bishop x reader#kate bishop x female reader#kate bishop x y/n#kate bishop x you#kate bishop fic#kate bishop fanfiction#kate bishop smut#kate bishop#hawkeye#hawkeye fanfic#hailee steinfeld#marvel fanfiction#marvel fic#marvel#mcu#mcu imagine#mcu fanfiction#wlw#wlw fic#writing
695 notes
·
View notes
Text
Killing Time 1
Warnings:Â this fic will include elements, some dark, includes violence, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary:Â a job offer could be an escape from your old life, but the new one, may not hold freedom.
Characters: Kraven the Hunter, August Walker, Lloyd Hansen, James Conrad, God the Bounty Hunter, Court Gentry
Authorâs Note:Â Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. Iâm always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourselfđ
Your frustration mounts as you click the permissions again to allow the camera and microphone access. Itâs so annoying! It just keeps running you in circles. Great. This is off to a good start. Late for the interview. Thatâs always the best first impression.Â
When at last your firewall stops blocking the call, you flinch at the sight of yourself in the corner. Youâre further jarred by the man staring back at you. Your mouth opens and for a moment, youâre frozen. You were so focused on troubleshooting, you forgot about what was waiting on the other end.Â
âOh, hi,â you squeak. âSorry, I--â you look around, glancing through the clear walls of the library study room. Itâs the first time youâve been to this branch but you didnât think the clutter of your apartment would make a good backdrop. âI was having issues with my camera.âÂ
âQuite alright,â he responds with a grin and a lilted accent. He sounds as professional as he looks.Â
He wears a grey jacket over a muted teal shirt that lights up his eyes, even over the screen. His short hair is combed back neatly and thereâs not a speck of stubble on his jaw. Under the structure of his attire you can tell heâs well-built.Â
You resist the urge to look down at yourself. A white blouse. Boring but professional. It gets the job done. Hopefully.Â
You force a smile.Â
âThank you for meeting with me,â he begins through your nervous silence. âI do appreciate your time and I would hate to waste it. So, we can hop right in.â He looks unflinchingly into the camera, âoh, let us not go so far past courtesy. I am James, weâve been corresponding, yes?âÂ
âUh, yeah, I remember. James.â You gulp.Â
He says your name with a keen inclination. âThis is rather not the position which requires those cliche questions so I wonât trouble you with asking what animal best reflects your personality.âÂ
You cough out a humouring chuckle and fold your hands on the desk.Â
âForgive if I should seem to the point. You see, itâs a very practical position. I think itâs best we go over what is expected before we go into the finer details; expenses, relocation, dates--âÂ
âMm,â you squeak and put a finger up, âs-sorry, um, I thought we were interviewing but it sound like youâve made a decision?âÂ
âWell, yes, Iâve reviewed your CV and your submitted profile and your answers to the questionnaire were acceptable. I didnât think there was much else to consider,â he intones. You shift and try to hide your surprise.Â
âNo, of course, that makes sense,â you say. âThanks, I guess I was confused.âÂ
âNot to worry. I find that written communication can often lack clarity so I thought it best we have a face-to-face in this circumstance,â he looks down as if he has a book or paper before him. âSo, did you have any questions before I proceed?âÂ
âNo, no, really, I'm sure youâll answer them all.â Your cheeks bloom in a half-smile. You were so nervous about getting the job but youâve already got it.Â
âRight then,â he sits back and once more stares down the camera. âIt is a very old property but the upkeep has been consistent. There should not be any glaring necessities for maintenance, this more of a custodial position. So, you would be the one to keep the place clean, make sure it is aired out, tend to the lawns but we do employ a grounds keeping service that comes fortnightly to trim.âÂ
You nod. Itâs intriguing. You were sent photos of the property but youâre not quite sure of its purpose. Judging by the clustered pines in the background, you would guess itâs remote. A getaway that could be a goldmine for those wanting a vacation from the urban jungle.Â
âYou would have a roster, you see, of those you could contact for service so you will not require any specialisations. You are the day-to-day and would be expected to bring in the appropriate support for higher-touch difficulties.âÂ
âRight,â you try not to show your anxiety.Â
âAlbeit I should warn you that the reception in that location is not the greatest so if you cannot call out, you would need to keep trying. It will eventually catch but uh, not to mind, as long it is attended is what matters, not when,â he says. Â
âMhm, that makes sense. Um, can I ask what the property is? Is it like a summer home or...âÂ
âAh, family inheritance,â he answers primly. âIâve not much use for it past the sentimental value and I thought of leasing it for traveling parties but Iâve heard horror stories. Right now, Iâm merely sitting on it until I figure out exactly what to do with it.âÂ
âOh, right. Wow. Quite the inheritance.âÂ
âHm, yes, my uncle did rather adore me. I was the only one named in his will but he was a bit of a curmudgeon.â He laughs. âNow, I must ask the most important question--âÂ
Before he can, the door swings open and you jump in your seat. Your heart sinks. You signed the room out for ninety minutes. You thought it would be more than enough. Surely it hasnât been that long.Â
Shoot. Itâs him. How did he find you? You deliberately went out of your way so that he couldnât.Â
âJake,â you stand and turn to him, trying to block the computer. âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âThere you are,â he touches his chest as if he should be the one so afraid. âYou didnât come home--âÂ
You growl and cross your arms.Â
âJake, go away,â you grit out. âNot right now. Please.âÂ
âI had to make sure youâre okay,â he steps into the room and you push yourself back against the table. âWho else is going to look after you?âÂ
âI will scream, alright,â you warn. âNow leave me alone. Iâm tired of telling you.âÂ
He sighs and his jaw squares. âI donât get you. You act like Iâm such a bad guy and I havenât done anything to you. I never hurt you but you hurt me. You just spit in my face--âÂ
âPardon,â the voice rises from the speaker at your back. âIf I may, she is occupied and you are interrupting. I have a mind to contact emergency service should you persist.â Your mouth falls open and you turn to look at your laptop. James leans forward to glare at the lens, âNot sure who you are, fellow, but the lady has been clear.âÂ
âWho-- who is he?â Jake sputters.Â
âPlease, just go,â you plead. âOr I will call the police.âÂ
Little good they will do, you think, but that doesnât need to be said aloud.Â
He frowns and his eyes glint dangerously. You stare back at him, tense, fingers curling and uncurling nervously. That man on the screen wonât stop him and you donât know if anyone would hear you from the desk.Â
âFine, guess Iâll see ya around,â he relents and backs out.Â
You donât move until he snaps the door shut. You hurry over and twist the lock on the inside. You donât know why you didnât do that before.Â
âAre you alright?â James asks, drawing you back to the desk.Â
You sit and look at the keyboard, âIâm very sorry. I...âÂ
âHe doesnât sound like a friend,â James says. You shake your head. âWell, then, it does sound like youâre in need of a fresh start. I do hope this can be that for you.âÂ
You look up and bat away the glimmer on the brims of your eyes. Youâre not just afraid, youâre embarrassed. His kindness is as comforting as it is unexpected.Â
âThanks, um, anyway...â you exhale, âyou were going to ask something.âÂ
âYes, uh, yes, I was,â he reconfigures and puts another smile on. âWhen can you depart? I would of course arrange travel to be sure you get here safe and sound.âÂ
âOh, when... whenever is best. Not to be too desperate but as soon as possible,â you say.Â
âWonderful,â he praises, âabsolutely wonderful. Is tomorrow too soon? Pardon my own desperation.âÂ
âTomorrow?â You utter and shake your head. âTomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow.â Â
It's sudden and scary but itâs good. The sooner you go, the less time Jake has to figure out what youâre doing. The less chance he can follow. Itâs an escape. Not a perfect one but itâs all you have.Â
đ©ž
You spend all night packing. You parse down what you have to the essentials and put the rest in bags. You donât care about the furniture. You say as much in your email to your landlord, telling him to use your deposit for the disposal.Â
You whittle your life down to three bags. A large suit case, a knapsack, and a single purse. You have it ready to go by the door.Â
You feel uneasy about it. You stare at your luggage, the lights off, windows closed. Your phone buzzes and you put it to silent, ignoring the messages from your personal pest. Youâll be done with him too. You wonder if you should just toss your cell.Â
You donât sleep. You canât. You still canât believe youâre getting out. You hope you havenât given the game away.Â
Thereâs a tap on the window. You nearly roll onto the floor. You look over and hear it again, a harder impact. Are you serious? Heâs throwing stones. He could break the damn glass.Â
You shake your head. You wonât fall for it. Not again. You remember when he came to your door and cried until you opened up. He even smeared ketchup on his face to make you think he was hurt. Itâs hard to tell the difference through a peephole.Â
Almost there. Almost out. You just need to make it a few more hours.Â
As you ignore the incessant tapping and the light of your phone glowing ever few minutes, your thoughts turn bitter. You should message everyone who turned their back on you and tell them exactly what theyâve put you through. Somehow, you think theyâd care as much as they did before.Â
Sleep eludes you but a foggy daze comes over you as the windows soften with the early morning. Thereâs no more pebbles bouncing off the pane. Just you and the buzz of the sleeping city.Â
Your alarm chimes and you get up as your head pulses. Youâre used to the constant fatigue. It will ease up and youâll just feel a bit heavy. When itâs normal, you donât notice as much.Â
You get ready and have an instant coffee by the door. James messages just before nine. Your car will be there in ten. Oh, early. You donât mind about that.Â
You wonât go out and wait. Youâll stay here, where itâs safe.Â
When your phone goes off again, you expect it to be Jake. Itâs James. Whew. Youâre so close, you canât believe it.Â
You grab your knapsack and purse, and drag your suitcase out behind you. You lock the door and throw the key through the mail slot. You hurry down the hall and take the stairs over the elevator. Â
You donât look back or anyway but forward. You look at your cell. 'Black Jaguarâ followed by a plate number. Jaguar? Holy moly.Â
The tinted window rolls down and reveals the same face from the Zoom call. You didnât know he was coming himself. You assumed he was sending a cab or something. You slow as you come out the door. He smiles and pops open the door.Â
Before you can come forward, another figure appears, blocking your way.Â
âHey, I've been calling all night,â Jake says. You stop short and nearly yelp. Of course!Â
âJake, move.âÂ
âWhere are you going?â He looks at your bags desperately. âWait, you canât--âÂ
âPardon me, sir, is there some issue?â James strides up behind him.Â
Jake turns to face him and stiffens, âand who are youâwait, youâre that guy from the computer.âÂ
âIâm none of your business, as is her life,â James insists. âNow, seems youâre used to picking on those smaller than you but letâs see how you do against me?âÂ
James steps closer. Heâs a few inches taller than Jake. You canât move as they stare each other down. You wait, expecting chaos.Â
âI was only talking,â Jake shows his palms and shrugs. âItâs whatever. Sheâs a bitch anyways.âÂ
He turns and snarls over his shoulder at you. You back up. As Jake turns, heâs knocked off kilter as James hurls his fist into his jaw. The shorter man staggers and falls to one knee, catching himself in the grass.Â
âWell, that was a lovely chat,â James smirks and beckons to you, âshall we?âÂ
#james conrad#kraven the hunter#sierra six#court gentry#lloyd hansen#god the bounty hunter#august walker#james conrad x reader#lloyd hansen x reader#kraven the hunter x reader#court gentry x reader#god the bounty hunter x reader#august walker x reader#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#killing time#series#the gray man#ghosted#mission impossible: fallout#kong: skull island#mcu#marvel
131 notes
·
View notes
Note
ANOTHER ASK - KEKEKEKE
What class and/or occupation would each of the ROs be in a fantasy world? And let's say MC is just a random commoner who gets tangled into a bunch of trouble and just wanted to live a peaceful life after being jilted by their fiancee and ostracized from their family? (Except their Aunt, who is the whole reason why MC could start a new life with her in a nice establishment, like an inn or shop!)
Curious how Cam would interact with MC upon his first meeting - but feel free to add the childhood friend factor đ
đ Yeeees, this is probably my fav question. You always send good ones! (I just have such an urge to do something fantasy) â€ïž Cam - Rogue! All the way, he's already got practice. Eventually join a thieves' guild and become one of the higher ups before ya know it.
đ G - Cleric. Probably one of the most prickly cleric's. Would get so pissed when people get hurt, say they deserve it. Then heal them and just mumble the entire time.
đ Kara - Spellcaster, mainly because she thought the whip was cool. Then she actually began to excel at it.
đ M - They would be an Arcane Storyteller. With a focus on romance/horror spells.
đ Isaac - An alchemist! They would be pretty successful in a fantasy setting. Isaac would be a relatively good one, probably doing better than some of the other RO's honestly.
đ€ Ardent - Berserker, a blood thirsty one. Likely has a vendetta against the thieves' guild.
So if Cam and MC were childhood friends, they eventually lost contact growing up. Especially given Cam's initiation into the thieves' guild. Gonna put it below break because long!
Shit, shit shit shit. Â
âGet him you dolts. How many fucking times has he made you look so pathetic!?â The man yells, as they try to keep up with the redheaded rogue.
Cam tore down the street, feet smacking against the cobblestone as he made his way around the throngs of people in the market. The guards were hot on his heels, as usual when they get a sight of that red hair. Who can blame them? He placed in the top three for best looking among the thievesâ guild. That thought alone causes his cheeks to flush, as he scratches his cheek. Now is definitely not the time to think about that.
They were getting closer, and he needed a quick way out. His eyes searched the crowd, looking for anything to help with his escape. He didnât plan on getting caught, especially not today. The item in his pouch could easily fetch 300 gol to the right seller. Enough to cover the medicine for the kids at the guild, enough to put some food on the tables for over a week. With just enough leftover to pay off his tab at the inn.
A few feet away he spotted a fabric merchantâs stall, perched atop the tabletop, swaying precariously with the wind rests several stacks of colorful cloth. A myriad of colors and textures. Some he would never even dream of coming into contact with, well until now. With one calculated move, he slammed himself into the stall, the fabric falling into the dusty street. All except the pale green fabric he quickly grabs and uses to cover his hair. The merchantâs cries of protest cause the slightest pang of guilt. But he doesnât look back- he knew the guards would be delayed momentarily.
He quickly ducks into a nearby alley, narrow and slightly overcast from the buildings on each side, winding his way through the labyrinth of back streets. The sounds of the bustling market, cries of the fabric merchant and guards fade behind him. The alley growing tighter in spots, the tall buildings cast deep shadows which Cam could easily use to his advantage if needed. As he rounded a corner, his escape was suddenly blocked.
His body collided with that of another, jarring them both. Cam staggers back, his eyes locking on the person before him. A brief flicker of recognition passes over their face, but not enough to make him stop what he was planning. Before either could speak, Cam grabs them. The guardsâ steps closer now thanks to this little mess up.
In one quick motion, he grabs them pulling them tightly as his hand yanks out a dagger from his belt. The cool metal pressed close against the neck of the person before him. âSorry,â he whispered, âI need to throw them off, and you just happened to be in my way.â Their eyes widen, not in fear, which Cam had expected. As the guards rounded the corner, their metal armor clinking loudly, MC with surprising speed, twisted around and slammed their forehead into Camâs nose, with such force that sent stars dancing in his vision. âFuck! What the hell, are you stupid. Ow-shit that smarts!â
Both stumbles back, blood pouring from their noses. Camâs grip on his knife loosened, falling, and his would-be victim shoves him away, glaring at him with such anger it causes Camâs skin to heat.
Shit, why do they look pretty all bloodied up?
Before he could stop himself, his hand slid up with intent to wipe the blood from the other person. Then it dawned on himâŠthis has happened before. Well not nearly slicing the neck of someone while escaping from guards. But this person had headbutted him before, causing their noses to bleed. So very long ago.
âRed.â He whispers, watching as his former childhood friend looks him over.
âCam!?â
The guards stand at the mouth of the street, taken aback by the sight before them. The rogue and supposed victim both stand bloodied. The confusion on the guardâs face was all the time he needed. Cam shoots a grin, vicious as blood seeped into his mouth, that which he spits on the cobblestone. âTsk, listen I would like to buy you a drink before I take you back to my place, for old times sake. But we donât have time. So, letâs catch up, ey?â He quickly pockets his knife, grabbing MCâs hand and begins sprinting down the alley.
120 notes
·
View notes
Text
đđđđđđđđđ đđ DAY 5: PREGNANCY Kyoraku Shunsui đč đ! đđŠđąđ„đŠđł
Requested by: @the-witch-of-one-piece ⥠Hello my beautiful soul sister!!! Ahh Iâm so excited for this kinktober! I raced into your inbox trying to calm down my feral kink coming out of me đđ if itâs okay to request Shunsui with a fem reader for day 5 pregnancy! This man would be the best soon to be daddy đ„șđđ thank you so much my beautiful soul sister!!! TE AMO MUCHO !!!!!!! ⥠tambiĂ©n te amo mucho my soul sister! đ tw: mdni. pregnancy kink. reader IS pregnant. nipple play. semi public sex. humping. vag sex. đŠđđŹđđđ«đ„đąđŹđ
The outcome of so many nights of passion showed beautiful in your body. The little bump growing strong and healthy, your anatomy changing, your mood somethings swinging.
You were preparing yourself, and the house, for the new life that would be there in some months. And while you did, the general captain of the Gotei 13 couldnât help but praise you.
Sitting comfortably in the garden of the Shunsui manor, the soon to be dad enjoys a sip of his beloved sake. While you, comfortably enjoy gardening under a soft spring breeze. It was calmer than ever before, after all that had happened with the invasion none of you had time to be at peace for a long time.
âYou are a goddess, my loveâ Kyoraku chimes, leaving the cup on a little table next to him.
âShut up, you! I am getting fat, lookâŠâ you joke, you love more than anyone how beautiful your belly looks.
Shunsui stands up, sighing. He canât let a queen think that way of herself. Walking a few steps towards you, he takes his hat in between his hands and bends over to where you are.
âI am not trying to be rude, so I will ask you to please excuse my language⊠but fat is how I get down there when I see you, missâ he murmurs, acting innocent despite saying such thing.
You leave the little gardening tool in your hand to look at him with your mouth open.
âKyoraku Shunsui, would you mind watching your mouth in front of your baby?â you scold him, sweetly, while acting incensed at his words and caressing your belly.
He takes his hat to his naked chest in signs of being sorry, but all of a sudden he snatches in arms as if you where less heavy than a feather.
âHoney- what? What are you doing?!â you protest, while safe resting in his embrace.
âListen here, the eyes you just gave me⊠you being pregnant, everything about you⊠ugh- believe me that the baby wonât tell for nowâ he says, walking calmly to the wooden swing you have in your garden.
Shunsui sits back, with you still in his arms. Despite your pregnancy he is way bigger than you in every sense.
He grunts and comfortably sits you over his lap. âComâereâ he purrs, opening your yukata with absolutely no worries.
You are silent, but with a huge smirk on your face. You know whatâs next and you want it so badâŠ
Shunsui seems to be gloating at how full your breasts are looking; pregnancy is making your body an experience he doesnât want to miss; he wants to love you in every single stage of yourself.
âAllow me, before this belongs to someone else ~â he scoffs, while his hands cups one of your breasts and takes it to his lips.
You moan instantly after he plants the first kiss over your hard nipples. Everything has been feeling a lot more sensitive.
He sucks, slowly. He nibbles, kindly. He doesnât want to hurt her precious wife nor coming baby.
Your back curls as he keeps playing, changing from breast to breast and sometimes burying his head in between them. His huge hand, lies on your warm back flesh, holding you for you to lie as comfortably as you please while he gives you pleasure.
You canât help but begin to move back and forth, humping on his hardening crotch. You can feel his growth hitting against your core and in both cases getting wetter and needier. The motions of the swing also accompany yours, edging you two a state very close to climax.
âIâŠâ you whine, urging your husband to fuck you. âAlready? But what if I hurt youâŠ?â he asks, knowing too well he wonât. Kyoraku Shunsui enjoys your begging for his dick. He wants you to plead to be penetrated and pleased.
Panting, reaching his lips with yours, needy⊠âplease, fuck me⊠do itâŠâ
âHow do you ask properly, doll?â he asks back, already lifting your hip enough for his hakama pants to slide down.
You swallow. You have always called him âdaddyâ and now, it wonât be the exception; this time Shunsui deserves more than ever to be called that way. Â Â
âDaddy, fuck me⊠please ~â you purr, letting your yukata to fall to the ground to show him in full display your beautiful âmommyâ body.
He smirks, pleased. His hands first reach for your swollen belly, up and down and around your waist.
âNow, if I may⊠let daddy fuck you the way you deserve my sweet, beautiful mommyâ âNghh⊠deeper⊠go- deeper, daddy!â ~
taglist: @miabiaria @carmenthedreamer @stygianoir @electronicwitchcollection @aizenwifey @deputy-videogamer @efrodd17 @mizugami @uzxotic @cyberdazetragedy @bookandyarndragon đ
#kinktober#shunsui bleach#shunsui kyoraku#shunsui x reader#captain kyoraku#bleach x reader fanfic#bleach fanfic#kyoraku shunsui x reader#bleach kyoraku#kyoraku x reader#kyorakusoutaichou#bleach shunsui#shunsui x you#bleach#shunsui smut#kyoraku shunsui#kyoraku smut#kinktober23#kinktober2023#kinktober 23#kinktober 2023#hentober
500 notes
·
View notes
Note
hello!! happy tuesday!! requesting đ đđ for buddie :)
thank you!! đ - reunion kiss/relief
The Indiana Jones Thing [On AO3] 2.3K words | buddie | near death experience | first kiss
-
The horizon dips and sways in Buck's field of vision, salt stinging his eyes and lips. His whole world is shades of blue: the ocean around him and the cloudless sky overhead, the white sun beating down. His skin from the shoulders up feels hot and stiff with sunburn, but everything else is cold. Even in the middle of the day, the ocean is so fucking cold.
The Pacific Ocean is one of the warmest oceans in the world, second only to the Indian Ocean. He read that somewhere, but he can't remember where, or what got him on the topic in the first place. It might have been Chris, or it might have been one of his insomnia-induced late-night Wikipedia binges in those shaken weeks after the tsunami.
It doesn't feel warm. Not right now. His clothes cling damply to himât-shirt, uniform pants, his boots long-since kicked off and lost to the depths. He doesn't know how long he's been out here, or how much daylight he has left. How much daylight they have left to search for him, if anyone is even looking.
They're looking for him. He believes that. He does.
It's justâhe's been treading water for a long time.
Perspective is strange from the water. The waves move him, breaking against his face, blurring his vision, but all he can really see from this angle is the vast blue ceiling of the sky. Birds, sometimes, high and fast-moving. Contrails, even higher than that, sunlight glinting on metal, streaks of vapor spreading out behind. He has a crazy, futile urge to wave his arms and scream every time one passes overhead, like someone's going to spot him from a jet forty thousand feet in the air.
All he can do is keep swimming. The water slips around his arms as he moves, a steady repetitive motion that's as slow as he can make it without actually sinking. Frog kicking to conserve his energy. He's a strong swimmer, always has been. He can do this. They're out here looking for himâhe knows it. That means it's his job to stay alive long enough for them to find him.
"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming," he mumbles, a cracked, rasping singsong, and the sound of his own voice startles him so badly that he loses the rhythm of his strokes for a moment and goes under. When he finally surfaces again, sputtering, there's a low, rising rumble, the waves around him getting choppier.
Tsunami, he thinks vaguely. But it wouldn't feel like this. Out on the open ocean, tsunamis are fast-moving but barely perceptible on the surface. It's only when they move into the shallow waters closer to shore that the devastation starts. Flooded streets. Toppled cars. A small, precious body clutched in Buck's arms, or falling away into the water with devastating finality.
The rumbling is getting closer. Buck spins clumsily and blinks for a few moments, wondering if it's just a mirage that's about to blur and vanish into the punishing brilliance of the sun on the water. But it stays, and it gets closer: the sleek white shape of a patrol boat cutting through the water toward him, U. S. COAST GUARD printed across his hull.
Buck starts laughing, ragged and breathless. Maybe he's crying, too, or maybe that's just the saltwater stinging his eyes. The sound of the engine vibrates in his chest, in his ears, as someone in a wetsuit drops into the water and starts swimming toward him with long, smooth strokes, RFD towing behind him. For a wild instant, Buck thinks it might be Eddie, but of course when the man gets close enough to make out any detail, he's a stranger. Older, weather-beaten face, no-nonsense expression.
"Alright, Firefighter Buckley," he says as soon as he's close enough, and it's the best thing, the best thing, Buck has heard in hours. "I'm gonna push this floatation device to you, and I want you to grab it and hold on. Got it? Can you do that for me?"
"Y-y-yeah." Buck's teeth are chattering now. He doesn't know if it's cold or adrenaline or both; a wave of weakness washes through him. "I kn-n-now the d-drill."
The RFD bobs through the water toward him. He grabs at it, clutching it to his chest with such force that he goes under again for a second.
God, it's a relief to let his legs go loose, to feel the buoy hold him up, to have his survival dependent on something else besides his own body and stubbornness.
The guardsman waits until his grip is secure to start towing him back toward the boat. After that, it's all a confused blur of harnesses and hands and the sudden chill of the air as his body leaves the water, sopping wet clothes clinging.
He nearly collapses when his feet hit the deck, the abused muscles in his legs cramping and twanging. His arms feel like two chunks of concrete dangling from his shoulders. Two guardsmen catch him before he can collapseâthe man from the water, and a woman who's enough shorter that Buck has to tilt at an awkward angle to lean on her shoulder. Someone wraps a thermal blanket around his shoulders, and he's guided stumbling and clumsy to a padded bench. He blinks, squinting in the sunlightâit's past the arch of the sky, heading toward the western horizon now. It was early morning when the boat broke up and he went into the water.
"H-how l-l-long was Iâwas I out there?" he manages through chattering teeth.
"It's sixteen forty-five now," the woman says. "Took us a while to pinpoint your location. You're a strong swimmer, Firefighter Buckley. Good thing, too."
More than nine hours. Closer to ten. He's not sure it felt that long. Time sort of stopped having any real meaning out in the water, but he feels every minute of that time now. "Ju-just Buck. Is f-fine."
"Buck." She actually smiles. "Your team is going to be glad to hear that you're alright. Now I have a few questions, just to see how you're feeling. Are you up for that? Someone's getting some dry clothes for you right now."
He nods. His neck feels heavy, and his muscles are throbbing, and the shivering is worse now, even with the blanket. He stumbles through the assessment, and must reassure her that at the very least he's not about to drop dead on her watch, because after that he's released to change into a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that are several inches too short for him but blissfully dry. After that, he huddles back into the thermal blanket and watches the horizon skid by as the boat makes a wide, looping turn. It looks different from this angle. Bigger. He can see more of the world from above the water than he could when he was trying not to drown, and there's a metaphor in that, maybe.
That's the last thought he remembers having before sleep catches him and drags him under.
-
He wakes to footsteps, the sound of voices. All of the sounds feel louder and closer now, and when he finally drags his eyes open, they're docking. It's nearly sunset, the waves reflecting shifting shades of red and gold. It's pretty, he thinks sleepily. Even if it did just try to kill him. Again.
Shouts. Footsteps on the deck. Then hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, and Buck blinks up at Bobby.
"Hey, Cap," he mumbles.
"Hey, kid." Those might actually be tears in Bobby's eyes, but he's smiling all the same. "Glad to see you're alright."
"Glad those Navy SEAL tryouts actually paid off," says Chim from behind him, and he's beaming too, unabashedly teary-eyed. "You just saved me from having to make one of the worst phone calls of my life, my friend."
"They wouldn't make you notify Maddie," Buck mumbles. "Against regulation."
"Yeah, and I bet you can name the line and letter," Chim says, as Bobby sinks down and wraps an arm around Buck's shoulders, squeezing tight. Buck leans against him. His skin feels itchy and sore from dried salt and sunburn, but at least he's not shivering anymore. Bobby's here, and Chim. He squints past them, but no other familiar faces appear.
"Hen and Eddie are in the other boat," Bobby says, before he can even ask. "They should be here any minute."
"And you are about to be read the riot act, make no mistake about it."
"Wasn't on purpose."
"Yeah, I know." Chim reaches across Bobby to scruff Buck's salt-sticky hair. "Just the worst luck known to mankind. You've got to be down at least three of those nine lives at this point."
The guardsman who examined him reappears over Chim's shoulder as they bump to a halt next to the dock. "Just a few more minutes, gentlemen. We already called it in; the ambulance will meet us there."
"I'm fine," Buck says, more for form's sake than because he thinks it'll get him off the hook here. "Just tired."
Chim scoffs loudly, and Bobby says, "You're going to the hospital, don't fight me on it."
"Okay," Buck yawns.
He closes his eyes again, not quite sleeping so much as drifting, vaguely aware of the warmth and weight of Bobby's arm, the bustle around him. Then he's being coaxed to his feet, muscles screaming all the way. He tilts heavily into Bobby as Chim steadies him from the other side and they shuffle their way off the boat. Bobby delivers him into the hands of the paramedics, and Buck is sitting on the edge of the ambulance bay while his lungs and pulse are examined for a second time, when he hears a ragged voice shouting his name.
"Oh," Buck says, squinting in the dimming sunset. The lights are on around the dock, making it plenty bright enough for him to make out the tall, dark-haired figure sprinting across the lot toward them.
"Buck," Eddie shouts again, and then again, softer, as he stumbles to a halt in front of him. "Buck."
"Hey, Eddie," Buck mumbles. He blinks a couple of times, but his eyes are having some trouble focusing. Eddie's face blurs before him, then settles. Wind-burnt cheeks, wide, wet, beautiful eyes. Chest heaving like he's been sprinting a lot farther than across the parking lot. "Sorry."
Eddie swears under his breath and steps closer as the paramedic lifts her stethoscope away with a deep sigh.
"I'll give you two a moment," she says.
"I'm sorry," Buck says again, and Eddie says, "Fuck, Jesus Christ, don't be sorry," and heaves him into a hug. It's tight enough to be uncomfortable, as sore as he is, but Eddie is warm and breathing quick against his hair as his hands pat over Buck's back like he's checking for injuries and then just clutch at him, and Buck thinks he could probably happily stay here forever.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he mumbles.
A slightly crazed-sounding laugh escapes Eddie. His cheek scrapes against Buck's, warm, uncomfortably scratchy against his sunburn, and then he turns his head just enough to press his lips to Buck's cheekbone, bruising, barely even a kiss. It does something funny to Buck's insides all the same. "I thought you were dead."
"I'm okay."
"I thought you were dead." It's shaky this time. He's pretty sure Eddie is crying. He thinks he might be, too. Exhaustion and relief and the way Eddie is holding onto him like he can't stand to let go.
The kiss, too. That kiss, just now, that was barely a kiss.
"Eddie, hey." Clumsily, he reaches up. His shoulders ache, his arms feel like lead, but he manages to catch Eddie by the arms. "I'm okay."
Eddie nods against him. Then he kisses Buck's cheek again. This time it's softer, almost delicate; this time, it feels deliberate.
"Are we gonna do the Indiana Jones thing here?" Buck murmurs. "Because I'd be cool with that. For the record. If we are."
Eddie lets out a shaky laugh, which is what he was going for, and finally releases him. He keeps a hand on Buck's shoulder, thumb just brushing the side of his neck, the same way he's always held onto Buck. Over his shoulder, Buck can see Hen approaching, but she hangs back.
"Since when have you seen Indiana Jones?" he asks.
"Blame Chim."
"Okay."
"So," Buck stutters, and it's not the cold now, or exhaustion. This is just nerves. "Soâso if youâdo you wantâ?"
Eddie breathes out a quiet laugh. His thumb moves carefully against Buck's skin. And they're doing this, apparently, after everything: right here, on the tailgate of an ambulance with half of their family and a couple of mildly impatient first responders looking on. Buck will be embarrassed about that later, probably.
Right now, though, Eddie says, "Yeah, Buck, of course I do," in that fond quiet voice that Buck loves so much. Right now, Eddie leans down again to kiss Buck a third time, carefully, right on the lips.
It lingers sweetly for a moment. A few yards away, Chim wolf-whistles and Hen starts laughing, but Eddie doesn't pull back until Buck is light-headed and breathless and smiling like a dope.
Eddie looks pretty dopey himself: soft-eyed, a little stunned, even though he's the one who started this. Buck leans up for another kiss, and doesn't break it even when his shoulders and neck cramp into painful knots at the movement. He must make a noise, because Eddie pulls back a moment later. He doesn't go far, though. His hand is still warm on Buck's nape.
"Buck," he says.
"Yeah," Buck sighs, trying not to pout. "You're riding with me in the ambulance, though, right?"
"Obviously. And you're coming home with me after."
"Obviously," Buck repeats. He tilts his chin up for another kiss, even though it hurts, and Eddie lets him.
87 notes
·
View notes
Note
đ wilmon;
"I mean.. you make me feel like I'm worth something."
CW: underage drinking (depending on how you define that I guesss... they're sixteen and drinking wine)
"I mean.. you make me feel like I'm worth something," Wille says, almost just a sigh in the silence of the night.
Simon isn't quite sure how that would be physically possible, but he feels something inside of his chest shatter at the confession. Who the fuck hurt this sweet, sweet teenage boy enough to make him say something like that, he thinks, then, kicking his slowed down brain into gear, goes, right, because. Right. Something about him never quite being good enough. Which is ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous to think about, because in all his sixteen years on this earth Simon's never met anyone who's quite as good as his best friend.
"Fuck...," Wille sighs next to him, then huffs a laugh, using his legs to, a little clumsily, put his swing back into motion. "Too much, wasn't it?" he asks, then lets out a giggle that's more bitter than amused.
It sends another pang through Simon and he feels the urge to take another sip out of their by now almost empty wine bottle. Maybe he needs to reach Wille's level of tipsy to have this kind of an uncomfortable conversation.
"It's okay," Simon says, and, instead of taking a swig, lowers the bottle to the ground, moving to set his own swing into motion. Which is maybe the second best thing to show Wille... what, exactly? Solidarity? To tell him, hey, I'm here, you're fine, I'm not leaving, you're so good that I can't believe anyone let you think otherwise?
When Simon kicks his feet harder to gain momentum he hears Wille let out a more genuine laugh from the swing next to him, a sound so soothing and bubbly and warm that Simon has to join in.
After a few moments of struggling Wille manages to also pick up speed and synchronize his motions with those of Simon and fuck, that victorious laugh of his feels like it could cure all the needle-pricks of pain and anger Simon feels about his Wille not being treated the way he deserves to be treated. Maybe they'll be okay, maybe Wille will be okay. Maybe Simon can help him after all.
When they swing forward, slowing at the highest point, Wille reaches out, an uncoordinated arm shooting into the space between their swings, and without having to think about it, Simon grabs it, squeezing Wille's warm palm as hard as he can. The seat of his swing sways dangerously, but he grabs onto the chain harder and doesn't let go of Wille either, because Wille is giggling again and Simon needs to keep him giggling, because otherwise he himself might cry, and also because there's a very egotistical thought in his mind that tells him if he lets go now, Wille might not allow this again. And Simon can't let that happen.
sjjsnsnsksmsksosmndndjd we gave up on the 5 sentence-ness of it all a long time ago....... but hey, have some... kinda sad-but-hopeful-ish wilmon childhood best friends to lovers!! Thank you so so so much for the prompt, dearesr anon!!! đđđ
Send me "Wilmon" + a sentence and I'll write you the next 5 (or more, lmao)
54 notes
·
View notes
Text
Requested by @1dkneo original ask
Thank you so much for participating and sending in such a juicy request for Law đ Hope you like it đđ§Ą
The soft hums coming from your sleeping form, the gentle rises and falls of your chest, and the subtle twitches on your resting face: youâd fallen asleep on the sofa in his office. Even with him having told you not to bother waiting up for him, you insisted on it. Now, you tempted him in your unconscious state, his mind doing laps around the agreement you and he had come toâa desire to explore new aspects of intimacy together.
CW: NSFW, MDNI, fem!reader, established relationship, sleep play, fingering, vaginal penetration, creampie
A gentle lull to sleep (Law)
âIâve been thinkingâŠâ You knocked your knee against his to get his full attention. âWe could expand our horizons a bit more in the bedroom.â Your voice trailed into his ear, swirling in his mind and asserting dominance over all other prior thoughts.
âAnd?â He cocked an eyebrow at you, urging you to continue.
âWell, I have this fantasy Iâve been holding onto for a while,â you teased the idea further. He didnât respond verbally, only narrowing his eyes at youâa silent command.Â
âHow would you feel about experimenting with sleep play?â There was a tinge of embarrassment as the question passed your lips. Despite having been together for nearly a year now, there were aspects of your preferences that you had yet to share with him.
His stern gaze held onto you for a moment before looking away. A thoughtful expression played at it as your question sank in. âIs that something you're truly considering?â When you nodded, he asked, âWhy?â
You took a minute to orchestrate how best to explain it. âIt's to do with the fantasy of being âusedâ. Knowing that one cannot resist the temptation gnawing at them and ultimately giving into their urgesâŠwell, it's thrilling, really.â There was a dreamy air to you now, one which was rather intoxicating.
Listening to the desire held in your voice as each word fell from your lips tugged at his curiosity. Not having been interested in it prior, he couldn't deny the fascination it was stirring within him.
âPerhaps, it's something worth exploring if you feel that drawn to it.â Even with the apathy in his demeanor, he wasn't one to say something without it holding meaning.
There was a flutter in your heart. You leaned in to place a light kiss on his shoulder, making him stir a bit in his seat.
As the long day came to a close, your disgruntled boyfriend hid himself away in the home office to finalize the necessities for the following day. With the conversation from earlier whispering in your ear, you decided to attempt to entice Law into stepping out of his comfort zone by offering him the opportunity you hoped he couldnât resist claiming.
Knocking on the wooden door, you waited for his hmph before entering his space. âLaw? Are you coming to bed any time soon?â
He shook his head, appearing to be swamped with tasks. âNo, you can go to bed without me. Iâll be at this for at least a few more hours.â
You sat down on the sofa, curling your legs underneath yourself. The silk pajama shorts and tank top covered your bare skin like a finely wrapped present, one which you were determined to coax him into unwrapping.
âI can stay with you for a little while.â Even if he wasnât looking up at you, your voice indicated a tender smile being shown his way. âIâve missed you. Youâve been cooped up in here most of the week.â
âI know,â he sighed while rubbing the bridge of his nose. âBut I canât exactly chitchat.â
You nodded in understanding. The reality was that you simply enjoyed being in his company. Even when it wasnât possible to spend time together, you viewed sitting quietly in the otherâs proximity to be a nice enough compromise. However, there were needs on both sides that went neglected.
The moonlight ticked across the floor, illuminating against the tall bookcase and then to the sofa where you sat. As the hours passed, you grew more and more weary. Lying down, the fabric of the sofa was more inviting than you had anticipated. As you closed your eyes, the silver glow of the outside world shined brightly on you.
At first, he didnât notice that you had sprawled out on the furniture. His eyes glanced over at you; you appeared so fragile and vulnerable. It was then that the fantasies you confined in him came knocking.
You truly did look ravishing while you slept. Each hug of your curves that dainty fabric gave left little to the imagination. What lay beneath wasnât anything new to him, and yet it made his heart race all the same.
The beauty of the moon painted you with its elegance. He leaned to the side to get a better look at your face, and as your lips and brow twitched from the dreams running rampant, he drummed his fingers lightly on his lap.Â
âIt couldnât hurt to get a bit closer,â he convinced himself under his breath. As he kneeled down beside you, the gentle breaths coming from you made him bite his bottom lip ever so slightly from the build up.Â
He ran his fingers up your thigh, the light touch sent shivers over your body but wasnât enough to wake you. You felt so soft, so inviting. His hands moved under your shorts, taking time to explore each curve they were covering. He hummed softly and closed his eyes from the pleasure such intimacy was giving him.
When his fingertips danced further, his eyes widened and a slyness tugged at the corner of his lipsâyou werenât wearing underwear. âYou cheeky little thing,â he murmured. Assuming youâd planned this - to fall asleep in front of him after opening up about that wild fantasy of yours - his movements were guided more confidently.Â
Being careful not to stir you awake, his hands worked lightly against your warmth. Despite being in a supposed deep slumber, the heat between your legs burned for his caress. His nimble fingers glided over your damp lips, teasing the wetness budding from between them. Your clit was grazed over, which caused your breath to become shaky. As much as he wanted to play with the sweet bundle between your folds, he feared it would lure you out of your dream.Â
He dipped a tattooed finger in, and then two to stretch you out enough to adapt to his hardened length. Your arousal coated him and trickled down to the front of your shorts. You were just as gorgeous like this as you were when you were awake.
Tugging your garments to the side, his tip pressed against your entrance. The furrow of your brow forced him to refrain from going much deeper. Slowly, he thrusted into you, just enough for your slick walls to send shivers down his spine.
His huffs became more strained. You looked so sweet like thisâan angel that was his to pluck from the heavens and corrupt in the brimstone pits he resided in.
The soft flesh on your ass shook gently from his waning restraint. When he reached out to grab you, a dreamy sigh escaped your lips. Your dark desire was becoming his own. The cream of your bliss coated his length, sending him into a frenzy.
He bit his lower lip in a desperate attempt to muffle his own sounds of ecstasy. His jaw slacked, his hand caressed your side, and even with his increasing want to press deeper, he held back. Your sleeping body was wrapped around him so perfectly; it drove him wild.
With a final thrust, his entire body shook. His muscles contracted as he pumped each part of himself into you, unable to hold back his choked gasps any longer. He moved his grip to the furniture, gasping as his hands white knuckled and he stopped himself from slamming his hips against yours.
Gazing down at you, your expression remained in its peaceful state. A weak smile spread on his face before pulling out. His cum beaded around your entrance and dripped down your wet slit, creating the perfect slide down to the front of your clothes.
He looked around for a moment. A groan from the stack of work he was determined to get through grumbled in his throat. Bedtime was a long ways away for him, but he could at least put you to sleep properly.
Scooping you up, he gently carried you out of the office. The way your small hand instinctively curled against his chest sent his heart soring. You were a gift, one which was beyond his understanding as to what he did to deserve you. When he placed you down and pulled the covers over you, he leaned down to plant another kiss on your temple.
After he closed the door, you rubbed your sleepy eyes and smiled to yourself because now you felt like you could finally drift off to sleep.
#kinktober 2024#one piece#x reader#one piece x reader#one piece imagine#op#one piece x you#one piece smut#op x reader#op x you#law x reader#law x you#law trafalgar#trafalgar law#trafalgar d law x reader
107 notes
·
View notes
Text
Nausea (Billy Butcher Oneshot)
Character/s: Butcher
Word Count:Â 1,349
A/N:Â This is a re-upload bc the first time I posted it I got self-conscious and deleted it lol. It's just not my best writing, but I feel like I have to get it out. Just me writing about my issues again! I still have no idea what's going on, but all the same diagnoses come back from the first time (uc/crohn's/celiac/gastroparesis) and it's so infuriating. My doctors don't know what's wrong and my family, who I love, just think it's nerves. I don't think my very graphic symptoms are nerves đ
I have so many remedies by my bed, it looks crazy. I haven't slept well in a few days bc of the pain, but I'm also so afraid of not being believed again, it's a vicious loop. Okay I swear I'm done complaining! Thank you for putting up with me!!! đđđđđđ
He knows when itâs happening. There is no great show or performance. There is no crying or whimpering. No one else would even notice, but he knows the signs. Albeit too late, but he does. Youâre quieter, withdrawn, hand over mouth, hoping this will stop the nausea. Deep, even breaths: breathing through it. When that is not enough, when that stops working, you slip quietly out of the room and into the bathroom. He tries not to notice how long youâre gone. Mere minutes. It feels so much longer. Someone snatches his attention from you and suddenly, youâre back. You reappear as if you were never gone. You offer a smile, a joke or two, a sense of normalcy, but beneath youâre stomach is churning, clenching, radiating pain through your middle. You only let him tell a few people, who youâre sure told everyone else. Still, none react besides him. He doesnât say anything, to do so would draw attention. Thatâs the last thing you want. Instead, he moves towards you, casually, standing beside you. Close. You can feel his jacket on your arm. Worn and scratchy. Familiar. He looks at you and you offer him a small, insignificant nod. Thatâs as far as heâll get to asking if youâre okay. Thatâs as far as youâll let him when youâre working.Â
Its been happening on and off for years. Off, for a long time. You thought it was over. Gone. Dead. Itâs come back, though, an uninvited guest. This sudden pain, this distress, this mystery no one is curious enough to solve. When they looked, they found nothing. Said you were fine. You were embarrassed, hurt, questioning if it was all in your head. Eventually, you moved on. Things got better. You believed them. And now itâs back. A fullness, nausea, pain, weight loss. You canât be in the apartment while heâs cooking. The smell repulses you. The taste, too. You canât eat, afraid youâll be sick. Again. He urges you, please, something more than your morning coffee, but you cannot handle it. Everything you try you end up spitting out: everything is gluey, everything is profoundly unappetizing. Hiding in the bathroom away from the scent or leaving altogether, itâs put a rift between you. Meals that were safe turned poisonous. Entire food groups cut off unwillingly. Itâs been days. Your stomach growls, but that is a trick. You try to ignore it, hide it, knowing what he will insist. He watches you. You can feel it. You donât say anything. Itâs easier this way, not to fight, not to argue. This is a hill you will not die on. He does what he can, pouring your coffee, grateful you at least have that. So far, it doesnât cause problems and it keeps you full. Thatâs all you can ask for.Â
He wants you to get looked at, checked out. You refuse. You were so sick, so scared, and they told you nothing was wrong. You were constantly doubting if this was even real, then and now. If they didnât find anything, if they didnât have the answers, youâre not sure what youâll do. You canât be doubted again. You canât be looked at and deemed dramatic. You knew the pain was real. Why did you have to prove it? Why did you have to show them when they refused to believe you? So, you keep it to yourself, far from friends and family. They congratulated the weight you lost. Said you looked good. Remind them you were petrified to eat. You were smaller and thatâs what mattered. Itâs worse at night. Lying beside him, you push from him, untangling his arms from around you. A trash bin by your head, waiting for it to pass. If things are bad, really bad, youâll lock yourself in, on the floor, praying for it to go away. He wakes up to an empty bed night after night. The pain wakes you up. You have nausea patches, and losanges, and a heating pad he is constantly rewarming. If you lay very still, perhaps you can trick it. Play dead. Hours youâll spend curled in a ball, wondering what it was that you ate that set it off, that made it so angry. Was it the time? The combination? You were down to drinks with minerals and vitamins, hydrating agents to keep you going. Baby food. Liquid diet. You missed food. You missed having an appetite. You missed cooking. But it wasnât worth it afterwards. Immediately or hours, the nausea, the pain, the discomfort invites itself back into your life.Â
Butcher isn't a natural worrier. There isn't a lot that scares him. But this? This leaves him petrified. There is something wrong and no one will listen. You try to shrug it off. It was so much worse all those years ago. It was excruciating. This, if anything, is a walk in the park in comparison. Uncomfortable sure, but that's all. It's not Vought or Homelander, that he can protect you from. That he can stop. Your body working against itself? That he can do nothing about. It isn't fair. It isn't right. And yet, there is nothing to be done. The tests they did were inconclusive. Why risk it again? Why waste your time? You assure him soon it will be gone, a few days, maybe a few weeks. Last time it was six months. You swallow that time like a prison sentence. Six months. You could do it again, if you had to. You could manage. Maybe by then theyâd take you seriously. He wanted to yell and scream, at them. Order them around, insist they help, but would that even help? More tests, more waiting. By the time it would be your turn, it would have gone into remission. Loved ones would hypothesize, becoming doctors themselves. Their favorite diagnosis? Nerves. You werenât anxious, or nervous, or worried. You were wasting away. You were spending your nights trying not to throw up and your days doing anything to prevent discomfort. Even certain clothes, too close, too constricting, were off the table. You couldnât stand the way they looked at you, everyone but Butcher, wondering if it was physical or mental. He heard you, he saw you, he knew this was all too real. Why couldnât others?Â
You're more tired, exhausted as soon as the sun starts setting. You lose a lot of hours at night, in the early mornings, praying to anyone who will listen that youâll wake up tomorrow and it will be gone. That you will be fine again. That it really was all in your head. Falling asleep in the car. He tries to avoid bumps in the roads, potholes, not wanting to wake you. Your attention straining: it's always there, in the back of your mind, at the back of your throat. It sits deep in the pit of your stomach and it mocks you. When you finally do complain, just a little, when it's too much, he knows it's really getting bad. He's helpless all over again. The people he's loved, the people he's lost, he can't risk it. Not again. Not with you. Thereâs little can do, though. Thereâs little anyone can do. This is not someone he can kill, this is not an organization he can take down. This is chronic, spontaneous, vengeful. It has no rhyme or reason. You let the mask slip every so often. Youâre scared. Scared of what theyâll find, scared of what they wonât. He reassures you, whatever it is, youâll figure it out together. You trust him, you love him, but you canât do that to him. You canât be a burden. You body is your own to take care of. So, you throw up in the bathroom, and wear your patches, and make your jokes. You tell him itâs a three, always a three, on a scale from one to ten. You canât let him worry, heâs got enough on his plate. Yours will remain empty until, hopefully soon, it goes away just as it has appeared.
#writing#billy butcher#billy butcher oneshot#billy butcher drabble#billy butcher x reader#the boys#the boys drabble#the boys oneshot#the boys x reader#stomach problems tw#tw stomach problems#stomach problems#nausea#nausea tw#tw nausea
62 notes
·
View notes