#biting my nails The Parallels | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

randomdragonfires · 4 months ago

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Parallel Lines, Act II

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other. Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Gore and Graphic Depictions of Violence.

AUTHOR’S NOTE | Henlo! This was meant to be a duology, but the second part became too long so I ended up making it a trilogy instead. Hope it doesn't disappoint! :)

WORD COUNT | 13.9k

On a rare stormy night in King's Landing, the trees danced violently during a torrential downpour. A world-weary mother cloaked in the shadows of the flickering candlelight, whispered her gratitude to the Gods while on her knees - her sickly son had clung to life for yet another day. She thanked the Seven for their mercy upon her child and prayed with a fervent desperation.

"Gentle Mother, I beseech you. Mercy for my boy. He has suffered enough. Rid him of his pain, and give it to me if you can."

Her voice, trembling with exhaustion, echoed through the cold stone walls of the Sept. She turned, the weight of countless nights spent wanting, praying, and begging for her son's life pressing heavily upon her. As her whispered plea lingered in the air, a dark shadow crept through the halls of the Red Keep.

Back in the dimly lit chamber, her son laid fragile and fevered. The babe's suffering ended not by divine mercy but by a blade’s cruel bite, leaving a pool of crimson beneath the crib.

War had come to their doorstep, a brutal retribution for her husband's actions.

As the Princess crossed the threshold of the Sept’s grand doors, the candle flame she had lit in her son's name sputtered and died, extinguished by an unseen hand - that of the Gods, it must be.

The storm outside seemed to howl with discontent, and an eerie silence settled over the castle, broken only by the distant, mournful wail of the wind. The gods had not answered her prayers - only darkness had.

The funeral had taken place that morning, a bleak procession of mourning and regret. Aemond had stood like a statue, his heart a hollow void as Vhagar’s flames engulfed the little bundle at his command. He had not shed a tear, his grief and rage too immense to be expressed in such simple ways.

She hadn’t either.

Later, he had descended into the castle's black cells, taking Larys Strong with him. The rogue Gold Cloak who had murdered his son lay shackled to a stone slab, his eyes wide with terror.

Aemond approached the man, his eyes cold and dead. "You took my son," he whispered, his voice a venomous hiss. "Now, you will pay."

He began with the nails, gripping the rusty pliers with a hand that trembled not with fear but with a seething rage. One by one, he yanked the nails from the man's fingers, the sickening crack of breaking bone and the wet pop of tearing flesh echoing through the cell. The man's screams were shrill, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the stone walls, but Aemond felt no satisfaction.

"Please," the man gasped, his voice raw and broken. "Mercy..."

Aemond's lips curled into a snarl. "You showed my little son no mercy." He moved to the fingers next, taking a blade and slowly severing them, joint by joint. Blood spurted in thick, dark streams, pooling on the cold stone floor. The man's howls grew frantic, agony that only fueled Aemond's fury.

He grabbed a branding iron, heated until it glowed red-hot, and pressed it against the man's skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and suffocating. The man's screams turned to guttural roars, his body convulsing in torment. Aemond's own face twisted in a mask of hatred and pain, each act of brutality a futile attempt to fill the gaping void in his heart.

"Confess!" Aemond demanded, his voice a thunderous roar. "Confess your crime!"

"I did it!" the man wailed, his voice a ragged sob. "I killed the boy... He made me do it... please, stop… the Rogue Pri-"

But Aemond did not stop. He could not stop. He continued his relentless torture, burning, cutting, and breaking, each act more savage than the last. The man's pleas for mercy turned to incoherent babbling, his mind shattered by the unending pain.

Hours passed, the cell becoming a chamber of horrors. Blood stained the walls and floor, a macabre display of a grieving father’s wrath. Finally, when the man was nothing more than a broken, bleeding husk, Aemond stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion. The rage had not subsided. It never would. But he was too exhausted to continue.

He had been ready to slowly kill the other ratcatcher when found, but Aegon, much less patient, had ordered the hanging of every ratcatcher in the city as recompense for his nephew's life. The streets of King's Landing would run red with blood, a brutal reminder of the price of crossing the King that sits the Iron Throne.

As Aemond ascended from the depths of the castle, the echoes of the man's screams still ringing in his ears, he felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him, a crushing burden that threatened to consume him. He had failed his family, and no amount of blood or pain could ever atone for any of it. Each step he took felt like walking through quicksand, dragging him further into an abyss of guilt and despair.

Now, the greatest task awaited him: facing his wife. How could he? How could he look into her eyes, knowing very well that it may as well have been his own hand that had slain their child? How could he, when he had been out at a whorehouse while his only son was murdered in cold blood?

No matter how angry and fierce he had been moments ago, now he felt small and cowardly. The righteous fury that had fueled his brutal interrogation of the rogue Gold Cloak had dissipated, leaving behind a hollow shell of a man. His rage had been a mask, hiding the unbearable sorrow and guilt that now threatened to overwhelm him.

He paused outside the door to her chambers, his hand trembling as it rested on the fine wood. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and pushed the door open. His wife sat on the floor, clutching Aerys' blanket to her chest, her eyes hollow and fixed on the bloodied crib. The sight of her, so broken and lost, pierced his heart more than anything else ever could.

He’d failed as a husband, father and protector.

The servants moved around her like phantoms, silently removing the stained mattress and the crib that had once held their precious boy. She did not give them a second glance, her body rigid and unyielding, as if she had turned to stone. The servants bowed to Aemond as they passed, their eyes lowered in sorrowful respect and fear. He watched them, his heart shattering with each step they took, carrying away the last remnants of his son.

Aemond's throat tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. How could he face her? How could he bear the weight of her grief and anger? He took another deep breath, forcing himself to move. Each step toward her felt like an eternity, the distance between them an insurmountable chasm of pain and regret.

He knelt beside her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She did not flinch, did not acknowledge his presence. Her gaze remained fixed on the empty space where their son had once lain. If not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her dead.

“You were not there,” she said, her voice a hollow echo in the dim room. “You were not there when he was born. It’s only fitting that you weren’t there when he died as well.”

The words struck Aemond like a physical blow, each one a dagger to his already bleeding heart. Her tone, completely devoid of any emotion, sent a chill through him. The emptiness in her voice was far more terrifying than any rage or grief. It was the voice of someone who had been utterly broken, and it slowly killed him a little more with every passing moment.

His mind flashed back to that night, so long ago now, when Aerys had been born. He had been with the Madame, scared of losing his wife so much that he could not bear to stay - leaving her to bear their son alone. He had returned to find her pale and exhausted, cradling their newborn with a mixture of joy and exhaustion.

Her eyes, once filled with warmth and love for their boy, now held only a deep, hollow emptiness. “He needed you, Aemond. I needed you, I went out of my way and begged you to protect us. And you weren’t there. Not when he took his first breath, and not when he took his last.”

She turned away, clutching Aerys’ blanket tighter to her chest, her body shaking with silent sobs. “I watched him suffer every night,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I watched him cry out in pain from the fevers, and I couldn’t do anything to save him. I prayed, Aemond. I prayed so much, and the gods took him anyway. And how… how he must have suffered…”

“I don’t know how to live with this,” she continued, her voice cracking. “Everywhere I look, I see him. His toys, his clothes, his empty crib. And I see you, and I wonder how we’ll bear it. How can we live with ourselves, knowing very well that we’d failed him?”

Her choked sobs gave way to cries, piercing the silence of the room like a thousand daggers. Aemond turned to hold her close, desperate to offer any semblance of comfort. She pounded on his chest with her fists, weakly at first, then with growing strength as her grief overwhelmed her. She tried to push him away, but he held her closer with each blow, his arms a fortress around her fragile body. Her screams grew louder, echoing through the empty chambers, the corridors, the entire Keep.

“What do we do, Aemond? How do we go on?”

For what felt like hours, he held her as she struggled, his heart breaking anew with each of her sobs. She pushed him away again and again, but he pulled her back every time, refusing to let her go. He whispered words of solace, though he knew they were hollow, futile against her anguish. The warmth of her tears soaked through his tunic, mingling with his own as they wept together.

Gradually, her struggles weakened, her sobs quieting into shuddering breaths. Exhausted, she slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently, his own tears falling into her tangled locks.

When she finally calmed, she lifted her head to look into his eyes. The depth of her pain was mirrored in his gaze, their shared torment powerful enough to get the Gods to bow down their heads n shame. "I see you," she said, her voice throaty, raw and trembling. "I see you, Aemond, and I see the reason our son is dead."

Her words cut through him like a blade, and he flinched, but she continued, her eyes never leaving his. "But I also see the only person who feels this loss as much as I do. I hate you, Aemond, for what you've done, for not being here, for all of it. But I cannot push you away. I don't have the strength to be alone. Not now. Not ever."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she buried her face in his chest again, clutching his tunic with trembling hands. "Do not leave me," she begged, her voice a whisper of desperation. "Please, Aemond, do not leave me today."

She cried against his chest once more, her tears soaking through the fabric. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. The memory of their son lingered in the air, as they clung to each other - two broken souls, adrift.

Aemond and his wife grieved, their methods as different as night and day. He poured himself into the war, throwing himself into strategy and shadow plotting to escape the crushing weight of his anger, guilt and sorrow. Every victory that Criston wrote to him about was a fleeting distraction from the void left by their son's death. The fight, the anger, the bloodied lands had his heart become cold, and his mind was focused on the immediate need to conquer.

She, on the other hand, hid herself away in her apartments, crying until her tears ran dry, only to begin again as soon as the next wave of sorrow crashed over her. The chamber was an eerie tomb of memories, filled with the echoes of a child whose cries were now silenced. She clung to their son's bloodied blanket, refusing to let the maids take it away. It was the last tangible piece of him, the only thing she could still hold. Her grief was raw and unending, a torrent that left her exhausted and hollow.

He watched her more than once, standing silently in the doorway, his heart heavy at the sight of her frail form curled up on their son's blanket. She was a shadow of the woman she once was, a stranger that he shared his deepest failure with - not to mention the subsequent pain of it all. Her sobs were gut-wrenching, a mournful lullaby that haunted the silent halls. Each sob was a reminder of his failure to protect their child, to protect her.

On those nights, he would tentatively approach her, his steps hesitant and unsure. Sometimes she would receive him, allowing him to hold her as she wept, her tears soaking into his leathers. He would murmur soft, broken words, his hand gently stroking her hair in a futile attempt to offer comfort. Her pain was palpable, a living thing that wrapped around them both and squeezed until they could hardly breathe. He felt helpless, his warrior's strength, his proud lineage and dragonrider’s blood useless against the insidious enemy of grief, one that had thoroughly defeated her.

Other nights, she would blame him, her grief turning into fury as she screeched at him to never darken her door again. Her words were sharp, each one a poison-tipped arrow aimed at his heart. She accused him of failing them, of failing their son. He took her anger in silence, his eyes hollow and his heart heavy. Her words cut deep, but he could not refute them. He had failed, and he bore that failure like a scar across his soul. And when she was done screaming, she’d fall into his arms and cry once more - for who else did they have in their grief, apart from each other?

On those nights, the pain of her rejection would drive him to the Madame, seeking the comfort he could not find at home. The whorehouse was a stark contrast to his wife's chambers. It was filled with the scent of perfume and sweat, the air thick with the sounds of laughter and moans. He would lose himself in the warmth of another's body, the physical release a temporary balm for his wounded soul. She was experienced, her touches skilled and knowing. She took him without question, a vessel for his anger and sorrow. He sought solace in the intensity of their embraces, the roughness of their passion, and the desperate attempt to drown out his grief.

The relief was fleeting, and the guilt that followed only deepened his despair. He would leave the Madame's alcove, his body sated yet not, his heart heavy yet not. The walk back to the castle was a walk of shame, each step a reminder of his failure as a husband - what good was he if he could not protect or comfort?

In stark contrast, his time with his wife was chaste, almost delicate. He would sit beside her, his hand hovering with uncertainty before resting gently on her shoulder. She would not speak, but she would not push him away either. Aemond treated her like fragile glass, afraid that one wrong move would shatter her more than she already had been.

Today was not one such day. Today, he would fly Vhagar to war.

Rook’s Rest beckoned him; his call to glory. This would be the day that he began his legacy.

Aemond stood in his chambers, his fingers trembling as he repeatedly failed to secure his hair with a threadbare tie. His heart pounded with a potent mix of nerves and eagerness. Each time the tie slipped through his fingers, frustration mounted, his movements becoming more erratic.

The door creaked open, and he turned sharply, ready to lash out at whoever dared interrupt his solitary struggle with no warning. But it was not a servant. It was his wife.

She looked to be in good spirits. He knew better.

She entered the room with a quiet grace, her presence a stark contrast to her appearance these past few weeks. She looked every bit the regal princess she was - her posture poised, her expression serene. She held his riding leathers in her hands, a gesture that spoke volumes without a single word. “I… I thought I’d wish you well,” she said softly, her voice a hesitant murmur.

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded, his throat tightening with a mix of emotions. The lump in his throat made it difficult to speak, and he watched her as she approached him, each step measured and deliberate.

His gaze lingered on her face, committing every detail to memory as he prepared to throw himself headfirst into the fighting. Her hair, cascading in soft waves, framed her delicate features. He noticed the way a few errant strands fell over her forehead, the way her ears peeked out from beneath the locks, adorned with earrings that his mother had gifted her upon the birth of their son.

There was a softness in her eyes, a vulnerability. He traveled the lines of her face with his eye, the gentle slope of her nose, the faint freckles that dusted her cheeks, barely visible but always there. His gaze settled on her lips, lips that he had not kissed since their wedding almost two years ago. They were slightly parted, as if she were about to say something, and he could see the subtle tremor in them. He remembered their first kiss, the way her lips had felt against his - cold and limp.

Her touch sent a jolt of warmth through him, and he found himself highly aware of every movement she made. She helped him into his clothes with a seemingly practiced ease, her fingers grazing his skin and leaving trails of heat in their wake. He stilled, his gaze locked onto her, and her alone.

She started with the undershirt, guiding his arms through the sleeves. Her hands were gentle yet firm, the fabric sliding over his skin. She moved to the leather jerkin then, her fingers deftly fastening the buckles and sending shivers down his spine. He could feel the heat of her hands through the cool leather.

Has she ever helped dress him before?

As she cinched the straps around his waist, her body pressed close to his, and he inhaled the scent of her - a mixture of lilacs and something uniquely her. Her fingers brushed against his neck, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and savor the sensation.

Once the leathers were secured, she stepped back, her eyes scanning his form to ensure everything was in place. "Do you need your hair braided?" she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

He shook his head no, unable to find his voice. She walked behind him, her fingers threading through his silver strands. Her touch was soothing, and he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. She gathered the top half of his hair, pulling it into a knot, while leaving the bottom half loose - just the way he preferred. Her movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as if she were committing every strand to memory.

Was she trying to remember him just as he did her?

When she finished, she stepped back to admire her work, her eyes meeting his functional one in the mirror. For a moment, they simply stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. He turned to face her, his gaze never leaving hers.

She laid her hands on his back and began reciting a prayer to the Seven, her voice trembling. Her fingers traced the lines of his muscles, as if memorizing the feel of him, and when she finished, she nodded and smiled weakly - a weak upturn of her lips so full of fear, for him.

She walked away, each step heavy with reluctance, until she stopped midway and turned when he whispered her name. “Your favor.” His voice was steady, almost devoid of emotion, but she knew him too well. The slight upward curve of his lips, the brief twitch of his eyebrow before it settled back, revealed more than words ever could.

Her hand trembled as she reached into her neckline, pulling out a small satin square. He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and she felt the world narrow down to the space between them. As she handed him the token, she stepped closer until their foreheads met, their breaths mingling, becoming one.

They stood there, suspended in a moment that felt both fleeting and eternal, the possibilities and uncertainties pressing in on them. It was a fragile convergence, their desire to be together finally surfacing, only to be shadowed by the looming threat of separation. The cost of their union was too much - Aerys, was too much - a weight neither of them will ever be rid of.

Her head was nestled against his neck, hidden from the world by the veil of her loose hair. It fell around her like a curtain, hiding her from the chaos. She whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, “I need you to come back.” For me, she didn’t say.

Aemond felt her plea in every fiber of his being. He understood her without needing her to elaborate. As he held her close, he let her imprint his presence into her memory, knowing that she believed that this might be their last shared moment -he was sure of their victory, and he knew she was too. But she was a wife, and he supposed it was in her nature to worry.

I don’t have anyone else here.

Their foreheads met, a tender touch that spoke volumes. Her eyes searched his own, and he saw the reflection of his own yearning and fear. The intimacy of the moment was almost unbearable, a poignant reminder of what they had already lost, what they stood to lose. Her breath mingled with his, her scent enveloping him, and he memorized every detail - the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body, the depth of her woes.

Any closer, and he could kiss her. But he didn’t.

Later in the yard, the waiting wife watched her warring prince go, her heart heavy as he carried a piece of her with him into battle.

She didn't pray anymore.

The Gods had seen fit to snatch her son away, and their cruelty had hardened her heart to stone. Yet, as she stood on the battlements of the Keep, watching the wounded men stagger through the gates, she felt the faintest pull toward the Sept, an old, almost forgotten reflex. The soft murmurs of hymns, the flicker of candles, the scent of incense - all seemed like distant memories of a life now lost to endless war.

So many men. Sons, brothers, husbands, uncles…

The scene below was a scene of abject suffering, a picture of agony and despair. Soldiers limped and staggered, their bodies broken and burnt, some supported by their brothers in battle, others barely able to move. Blood stained their armor, their faces twisted in pain, their eyes hollow and vacant. The air was thick with the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and the acrid smoke from dragonfire, a vile miasma that clung to her senses. The cries of the wounded echoed in the courtyard, a chorus of despair that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls and pierce her heart.

Her gaze flitted over the faces, each one etched with pain and horror. She saw men clutching at wounds, their fingers slick with blood, their expressions a mixture of shock and resignation. There were those whose eyes stared unseeing, their bodies no longer vessels of life but remnants of what had once been vibrant souls. Young boys, barely old enough to be called men, uncharacteristically sobbed. Older men, who had seen countless battles, now faced the grim reality that this war may as well bring their end.

Then she saw him.

Barely alive, Aegon’s body was a ruin of burns and bandages, carried on a stretcher like a broken doll. His frame was now a pitiful sight, his breath shallow and labored. She’d never liked Aegon in all truth - but he was her King. If he died, would all this blood be for naught?

Her heart clenched as she tried to move closer, to see the extent of his injuries, but the soldiers turned him away, rushing him towards the Maester’s chambers with a sense of urgency that spoke volumes.

“Make way for the King!”

She felt the strength drain from her legs, her back sliding down the cold, unyielding stone of the castle wall. Shock and despair settled over her like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. How much more of this horror could she endure? How many more lives would be lost before this nightmare ended? The enormity of the suffering, the endless cycle of loss and pain, was almost too much to bear.

Criston Cole emerged from the chaos, looking as though he had walked through the depths of Hell. His armor was blackened, his face lined with exhaustion and grief, his eyes dull and haunted. When their eyes met, she saw a flicker of something she never expected - pity.

“Princess, you should not be here.”

“What happened? Please tell me, Ser Criston.”

“King Aegon valiantly slayed Rhaenys and the Red Queen,” he said, his voice raw and weary, barely more than a whisper - empty. “Led his men into battle with valor. And now he’s brought back in a damned box, fighting for his life.” In his voice was a heaviness she never thought she’d hear from him - but how else was he supposed to sound when he’d watched a boy he helped raise himself come back looking shriveled in burn wounds? Her throat tightened, and tears threatened to spill. The weight of his words crushed her, a stark reminder of the relentless cost of war.

And where was Aemond? Her thoughts turned to him, a fresh wave of dread washing over her, suffocating in its intensity.

“What of my husband?”

“With Vhagar at Blackwater Bay. I… May I suggest that you keep away from him for a time, Princess? Give the Prince time before you go to him. Anger and… one does not have control over their words or actions after having immediately come back from a battle. Especially one like this.” It seemed like he was concerned for her, but she detected a sneer in his tone, especially in his last words.

Since when was Ser Criston Cole’s anger meant for Aemond? What could have possibly happened?

Blackwater Bay stretched out beneath the setting sun, the waters shimmering with hues of gold and crimson. The sky had dark clouds mingling with the fading light. The scent of salt and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the distant cries of seagulls and the echoes of the day's violence. The waves lapped gently against the shore, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had unfolded earlier.

Aemond stood beside Vhagar, the massive dragon that had been his companion through his latest victory at Rook’s Rest. Her scales, a mottled mix of bronze and green, glistened in the twilight. Vhagar's snout was as wide as a cart, and Aemond leaned against it, his forehead resting gently against her scales. He murmured softly in Valyrian, his voice a soothing melody that calmed the mighty beast. The dragon's breath, warm and steady, seemed to wash over him, ruffling his silver hair. Her massive chest rose and fell with each breath, a rhythm that mirrored the ocean's tides.

From a distance, she watched, her heart pounding in her chest. This was the closest she had ever been to Vhagar, the legendary dragon whose mere presence could instill fear in the bravest of men. She had seen Vhagar from afar many times, a distant silhouette in the sky or a menacing figure on the horizon, but never this close. She hesitated, unsure if she should approach. Would she be welcomed, or would Vhagar see her as an intruder?

Summoning her courage, she stepped forward, her feet sinking into the sand as she made her way toward them. The closer she got, the more details she noticed. Vhagar's scales were not just bronze and green but interspersed with streaks of darker hues. The dragon's claws, as long as swords and just as sharp, dug into the earth, leaving deep gouges in the sand.

Aemond lifted his head slightly, his keen senses alerting him to her presence. He turned, his gaze meeting hers, a mixture of surprise and something softer in his eyes. He didn't say anything, but his eye spoke volumes. With a slight nod, he acknowledged her approach, his silent permission for her to come closer.

She took another step, her breath catching in her throat as Vhagar's massive head turned toward her. The dragon's golden eyes locked onto her, and for a moment, she felt a wave of fear. But Vhagar didn't move, only watched with an inscrutable gaze.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching the dragon's scales. The heat radiating from Vhagar's body was almost overwhelming, a reminder of the sheer power contained within. She glanced at Aemond, seeking reassurance, and he gave a small, encouraging nod.

Gathering her courage, she placed her hand on Vhagar's snout. The scales were surprisingly smooth, warm beneath her touch. She felt a tremor run through the dragon, a rumble that seemed to resonate deep within her own chest.

"She won't harm you," Aemond said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Are you alright?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of the turmoil she sensed within him. The tempestuous energy that seemed to emanate from Vhagar mirrored the tension she felt in Aemond, a war-heavy restlessness that seemed to seep from the dragon into her husband.

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "Hm," he replied, his tone clipped. The anger in his voice was barely contained, simmering just beneath the surface.

She took another step closer, her hand still resting on Vhagar's snout, the warmth grounding her. "I can feel it," she said softly, "...the fury. It's in Vhagar... and in you."

He met her gaze again, his eye hardening. "War does that to a man," he said bitterly. "It changes you."

She nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the smooth scales of the dragon. "It's not just the war, is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "There's something else."

For a moment, she expected him to speak of the men they had lost, the lives extinguished under his command. As their war general and First Sword, she thought he would be burdened by the weight of their deaths. But as his eye flashed with anger, her heart sank, a knot of dread forming in her stomach.

"Aegon," he spat, the name laced with venom. "That fool rode in on Sunfyre and stole the glory that was rightfully mine. I fought, I orchestrated this victory, and he swoops in at the last moment, drunk as a street lecher, to claim it as his own."

Her breath caught in her throat, the raw bitterness in his voice slicing through her. "Aemond," she said gently, "I know you wanted to prove yourself, to show your worth. But isn't it enough that you fought bravely, that you survived? Aegon is battling for his life, but you have come out unscathed!"

His eye narrowed, the fury in his gaze burning even hotter. "It's not about survival," he snapped. "It's about being remembered, about being recognized for my strength, my skill. And he took that from me."

The realization hit her like a blow. He was not mourning the fallen soldiers or the horrors of war. His rage was fixated on Aegon, on the stolen glory. The bloodshed, the loss of life, barely seemed to register in his mind.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What about the men we lost? The lives that were sacrificed?"

He looked at her, his expression hardening further. "They were necessary," he said coldly. "A means to an end."

Her heart broke at his words, the chasm between them widening. The man she had married, the man she tried to love, was consumed by ambition and a thirst for recognition to the point of it being beyond inhumane. She glanced at Vhagar, the dragon's golden eyes reflecting her own despair.

"I thought..." she began, her voice faltering. "I thought you would care about them, about the lives we lost."

Aemond's eye softened slightly, a flicker of something like regret passing over his face. "I do care," he said quietly, "but not in the way you think. My duty is to win, to secure our place. Everything else is secondary."

As Aemond's words hung heavy in the air, she felt disillusionment settle upon her heart. She couldn't bear to look at him any longer, her gaze drifting to Vhagar whose golden eyes mirrored her own despair. The dragon, magnificent and fearsome, was a reflection of Aemond's ambition, a creature driven by instinct and power, heedless of the lives trampled beneath its might.

At that moment, she understood Criston's anger. She felt a wave of sympathy for him, for having to witness the transformation of the boy that he helped raise and taught, into a man driven by ruthless determination. Was this what Ser Criston feared? Was this the monster he saw lurking beneath Aemond's exterior, waiting to be unleashed by the brutality of war?

She didn't blame him for his anger. In fact, she shared it. She was angry at Aemond - for his callousness, for his disregard of the lives lost, for his single-minded pursuit of glory. But underneath all her anger, there lingered a deep, unsettling fear.

She feared that man he was becoming. What did it say about him that he cared so little for men that fought in his family’s name?

What did it say about her that she still yearned for him all the same?

Sleep eluded her that night.

How could it possibly come, after the horrors she had witnessed? And that too, only from the training yard! Aemond had been on the war ground, surely suffering even worse torments. She longed to seek him out, to offer the solace he might need, as she had done before. But how could she?

What of the men we lost? The lives sacrificed?

They were necessary... A means to an end.

He frightened her. War was transforming her husband into a monster—she knew he was bloodthirsty like every warrior who ever graced the earth, fiery with the dragon blood that coursed through his veins. But was he truly as callous as he seemed today?

A means to an end... Did he think of Aerys that way too?

Her son, her precious boy…

No.

The darkness of the night weighed heavy on her heart, each passing minute a relentless reminder of her fears. The once comforting silence of their chambers now felt oppressive, suffocating. The flicker of candlelight cast dark figures, transforming familiar surroundings into a space that she hated to remain in.

A means to an end... Was that all they were? Was that all their son was? The questions gnawed at her soul, each one a dagger of doubt and despair. She feared for Aemond, for their future, and most of all, for Aerys - the innocent caught in the maelstrom of her husband’s making.

Sleep eluded her that night, and with it, any semblance of comfort.

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and dread, each thought more tortuous than the last. She could no longer bear the torment alone, her heart ached with the weight of her fears. Driven by a desperate need for answers, she found herself rushing to Aemond’s chambers in nothing but a shift and her robe, her hair unkempt, the lack of sleep and stress etched into her face.

Bursting through the door without knocking, she stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Aemond stood before her in his dark green leathers, a cloak draped over his shoulders, the flicker of the torchlight illuminating his features. He froze at the sight of her, his eye piercing straight into her soul.

“Wife, you are not dressed.”

"And you are. It is late in the night, and you are dressed. Where are you going?" she asked, her voice trembling, barely a whisper.

His silence was deafening. The tension between them was palpable, a suffocating presence in the room. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing her growing despair.

"Where are you going?" she repeated, her voice breaking.

Still, he said nothing. His eyes, usually so full of fire and passion, were now cold and distant. She took a step forward, her hands trembling, reaching out to him as if trying to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.

The whorehouse. Was he going to the whorehouse again? Where else had he ever gone at this time of the night?

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and doubt. The thought of him seeking solace in another’s arms twisted the knife deeper into her heart. Tears welled in her eyes, her voice breaking as she spoke.

“You said the soldiers were a means to an end,” she choked out, her words trembling with emotion. “Is that all Aerys was to you too? Is that all I’ll ever be?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face hardening. “Do not bring Aerys into this,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

She wounded him, but she couldn’t stop herself. “How can I not?” she cried, her tears flowing freely now. “You talk about sacrifices and means to an end. Is that what we are to you? Just another sacrifice?”

His eye flashed with a mixture of anger and pain, his body tensing as if ready to strike. “You know nothing of what I endure,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Do not presume to understand.”

“Then help me understand,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Tell me why you leave me here, alone with my fears.”

“Do not ever suggest,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, “that you and our son are anything less than everything to me.”

Her body trembled, not from fear, but from the raw intensity of his emotions. Tears streamed down her face, her voice a broken sob. “I don’t know what to believe. You’re going back to the whorehouse, and I don’t know what to think. I thought we were doing well but—”

Aemond’s silence was like a chasm between them, widening with every passing moment. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his pride and his vulnerability. But still, he said nothing.

Her heart shattered at his refusal to speak, the weight of her doubts and fears pressing down on her. “Is it the whorehouse?” she whispered, the words barely audible. “Are you seeking comfort in another’s arms again?”

His face contorted with rage, and in a swift, violent motion, he grabbed her shoulders and slammed her against the wall. The force of the impact left her breathless, the pain a sharp reminder of the distance between them.

“How dare you,” he hissed, his face inches from hers.

She trembled beneath his grip, her tears falling like rain. “What am I supposed to think?” she sobbed. “You leave me night after night, and you won’t tell me where you go, or what you do. You insist that you are true to me in your heart, but that means nothing when the servants keep seeing you slip out of the Keep and into Silk Street. How am I supposed to believe in you, when you keep pushing me away?”

Aemond’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. “I fight for us,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Everything I do, I do for us. To protect you, to avenge our son. Do not question my loyalty.”

Her voice was a broken whisper, the pain in her heart almost unbearable. “Then why does it feel like you’re slipping away from me?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

He silenced her with a kiss, fierce and desperate, pouring all his anger into that single act. His lips crashed onto hers with an intensity that took her breath away. It was not gentle, but raw and consuming, as if he were trying to convey every unsaid word, every buried emotion, through the touch of his mouth on hers. Her protests melted away, her body responding instinctively to his touch.

She felt his hands tremble as they cupped her face, his fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened, his tongue seeking hers with a hunger that spoke of months of separation, of sleepless nights and lonely days. Her own hands reached up, clutching at his cloak, her fingers digging into the fabric as if she feared he might slip away again.

Their breaths mingled, warm and erratic, each exhale a whisper of longing and regret. She tasted the salt of her own tears on his lips, mingling with the unique taste of him - how could you miss something so much if you had very little of it to begin with?

His lips moved with a desperate urgency, as if he were trying to memorize every contour, every curve, and commit it to memory.

He was kissing her. He was kissing her. He was kissing h-

His lips on hers, her breath and his as one, their souls entwined. She felt the weight of his body pressing against hers, the solid, reassuring presence of him grounding her in the reality of the moment. The room around them faded away, leaving just the two of them, locked in a world where only their connection mattered.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm echoing the frantic beat of his. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her shift, his warmth seeping into her skin, banishing the cold that had settled in her bones during his absence.

He broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. His eyes bore into hers, speaking volumes without a single word.

He had not kissed her since their wedding ceremony. This was the first in more than a year.

"Don't go," she whispered, her back pressed against the cold, unyielding stone of his chambers. His dark presence loomed over her, a shadow that both entrapped and intoxicated her. She was in no place to command, but this was a desperate plea, the truest command she had ever uttered. "I am.. I am a mother without a child, but tonight, let me be a wife to my husband. However you'll have me."

Her lips, soft as the brush of a feather, sought the hard line of his jaw, leaving a trail of tentative kisses. She held his head to hers, fingers tangling in his dark hair, lifting herself on tiptoes to reach him.

"Please, for once," she implored, her voice breaking. "I’m begging you, choose me."

His eyes flickered, emotions swirling within their depths. Intensity surged, a fierce storm, yet there was a hint of softness, a vulnerability that made her breath hitch. Then he laughed, a cruel, beautiful sound that sliced through her. She had always despised how his laughter made him even more captivating, even as it shattered her.

Humiliation washed over her, hot and sharp. She released him, feeling the sting of her own words. She had vowed never to beg for his love, yet here she was, laid bare and begging. And he laughed.

Her head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, she tried to step away, her heart a heavy stone in her chest. But he was quicker, his hand shooting out to slam her back against the wall once more. The force of it rattled her, but she could not escape the vice-like grip of his fingers on her arms. His face was inches from hers, the ridges of his brow now visible to her in a way that it had never been before. His lips twitched, a predatory smile playing at the corners, and his fingers dug deeper into her flesh.

His nose brushed against hers, a tender gesture at odds with the roughness of his hold. She braced herself for more cruelty, but his words were unexpected.

"You once said you didn’t like begging for me. Shame," he murmured, his voice a deadly caress. "I quite like it when you do."

She was ensnared, caught in the dark web of his presence, and despite everything, she realized she didn't want to escape. His touch, his words, his very essence were chains she had willingly bound herself with. All she could do was surrender.

“I now find that I’m not above it if it brings me to you,” she whispered, her voice a fragile murmur lost to the wind.

He sensed her surrender, an unspoken truce formed between them. Was it exhaustion, or a sense of defeat from all they had endured? She couldn’t say. But at this moment, she knew where she stood. She needed him. She had no one else, and she needed him to be there for her, with her. Pathetic, really. The cost of them finally seeing eye to eye was too high, but she couldn't help but crave it all the same. She sought the same comfort he did. It felt heavy, but a bond forged by a loss as monumental as theirs had to be, surely?

His grip softened, the rigid tension in his body easing. Sensing his unspoken assent, she moved her hands to the clasp of his cloak, her fingers trembling as she unclipped it one by one. She nudged him forward as she pushed it off, watching the thick cloth fall to the floor with a soft thud.

In a swift, almost predatory movement, he pushed her onto the vanity near them, his lips crashing down onto hers with a fervent passion that stole her breath away. His kiss was searing, consuming, filled with a desperate urgency that came with not having each other as long as they hadn’t. He moved from her lips to her neck, his hands bunching up her shift with a roughness that sent shivers down her spine. He hauled her thighs forward, spreading her legs wide, and stood between them, his hardness pressing against her clothed cunt as she perched precariously on the edge of the table. His lips marked her skin, each bite and suckle sending jolts of pleasure and pain that mingled until she felt dizzy with desire.

She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers digging into the leather of his back, holding on as if he were her anchor in a storm. A moan escaped her lips when his thumb pressed against her damp smallclothes, a wicked smile curving his mouth in response. The smallclothes were swiftly discarded, his thumb tracing the slick line of her slit before he plunged a long finger into her warmth. She gasped at the sudden intrusion, her body arching into him. It had been so long since she’d felt him.

Her eyes fluttered closed, but his voice, rough and commanding, pulled her back. “Look at me,” he ordered, his tone a dark promise.

Her gaze locked onto his, the intensity of his stare holding her captive as his fingers pumped in and out of her. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, building until she thought she might shatter. Her world narrowed to the man before her, his touch, his presence, his power over her.

His fingers worked her expertly, his thumb circling her pearl as he added another finger, stretching her, filling her. She could feel the coil tightening in her core, the pressure mounting as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders as she held on for dear life.

“Issa ābrazȳrys,” he growled. His voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through her. My wife.

He thrust harder, faster, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss as he drove her over the edge. Aemond tasted the copper tang of blood blooming from her lips from his attention and was certain he was going to lose all control. She came undone around his fingers, her body shattering in a blinding wave of pleasure. Her eyes never left his, her gaze locked onto his as she fell apart, her climax ripping through her with an intensity that left her trembling in its wake.

He held her through it, his fingers slowing but never stopping, prolonging her pleasure until she was spent, her body limp and sated in his arms. As the last tremors subsided, he pulled his fingers from her, bringing them to his lips and tasting her essence with a satisfied smirk.

She was his, utterly and completely, and in that moment, she knew she would never be free of him. Nor did she want to be. It scared her, but she could not help herself.

Her lord husband. Hers, hers, hers, h-

“Gevie.” Beautiful.

“What?” she asked, her voice breathless and filled with anticipation.

He responded with a firm squeeze of her hips, urging her to remove his jerkin and undershirt. Her fingers trembled with excitement and desire as she worked at the fastenings, feeling the heat radiating from his body. She wobbled slightly as he lowered her to stand, catching the smirk on his face as he steadied her. The look in his eye, dark and predatory, sent a thrill through her. His touch was both gentle and commanding, a stark contrast that made her knees weak.

Her robe and shift followed quickly, sliding from her shoulders in a soft whisper of fabric. She stood before him, exposed and vulnerable, watching his single eye darken with raw desire as her breasts spilled free. The intensity of his gaze made her shiver, a delicious anticipation coiling low in her belly.

This time, she was the one who initiated the kiss, her lips seeking him with a desperate hunger. She pressed herself against him, reveling in the sensation of his bare skin against hers, his muscles taut and unyielding beneath her fingers. His hands roamed her body with a possessive urgency, gripping and kneading her flesh as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

He guided her gently backwards, his movements controlled and purposeful. The back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she let out a soft gasp as he laid her down, the plush, satin-chased mattress cushioning her fall. She bounced slightly, her hair fanning out around her head, and looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Her gaze flickered to his eyepatch, a question forming in her mind, but she made no move to remove it.

His growl, low and primal, reverberated through her, sending a shiver down her spine. His hands moved to her thighs, spreading them wide, exposing her to his heated gaze. He lowered himself over her, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her neck and collarbone. She arched beneath him, her nails digging into his back, leaving red marks in their wake.

“Gevie,” he whispered against her ear, the word a rough caress that sent a jolt of desire straight to her core.

His fingers found her entrance, teasing and testing, before he thrust his hardened cock in her with a single, powerful stroke. She cried out, a mix of pleasure and pain, her body stretching to accommodate him. He set a relentless pace, each thrust driving her higher, pushing her closer to the edge of oblivion.

Her hands clung to him, nails scraping down his back, drawing blood. She bit down on his shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise, marking him as hers. He responded with a harsh slap to her thigh, the sting adding to the heat between them. His hand then moved to her breast, squeezing and kneading, his mouth descending to capture a nipple.

“A mother without a child,” she had once said. He remembered those words as he let go of her leaking breast and thrust into her with renewed vigor. Her second climax came swiftly, his fingers working her to pleasure, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into her. She shattered around him, her body convulsing, her cries filling the room.

Even as she came undone, he didn’t stop. He continued to thrust, using her body to chase his own release. She clung to him, her body spent, her mind a whirl of incoherent thoughts. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he neared his peak. His movements became erratic, desperate.

“I’ll make your belly round with my heir again,” he murmured, his voice strained. “I want to see you dripping with my seed.”

She could only moan in response, the thought of another child not something she had entertained - not so soon after Aerys. But in that moment, with him inside her, it was all she could think about. He thrust one final time, burying himself deep inside her as he came, his release filling her, marking her as his.

Another child. Another child. Another-

The words echoed in her mind as she lay there, sated and spent before she fell asleep in his chambers for the very first time.

He was back at the Keep that fateful night, the acrid smell of blood thick in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of fear and sorrow. He pushed open the door to Aerys' room, his heart pounding in his chest. The once pristine nursery was a scene of unimaginable carnage.

Blood smeared the carpet in grotesque patterns, splattered as if by some violent, monstrous force. It pooled on the floor, thick and dark, congealing around the lifeless body of his son. Aerys' headless form lay cradled in the arms of his wife, her wails piercing the oppressive silence. Her face was one anguish, her eyes red and swollen from relentless tears.

She was screaming, but he couldn’t hear her - only the ringing in his ears.

Aemond's legs felt like lead as he stumbled forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “No, no, no…” His eyes were drawn to the small, severed head lying a few feet away, Aerys' lifeless eyes staring up at him with a silent accusation that pierced at him.

The scene shifted violently, and he was atop Vhagar, the ancient dragon roaring beneath him. They were in the skies, the cold wind and rain biting at his skin. Below, he saw the small figure of Lucerys Velaryon, desperately trying to evade him. The storm raged around them, but nothing could drown out the roar of Vhagar as she lunged, her massive jaws closing around the boy and his dragon.

“No, Vhagar! No!” Aemond screamed, though his voice was swallowed by the wind. He watched in horror as Vhagar's teeth tore through dragon and rider alike, the blood raining down upon the stormy sea. The boy's scream echoed in his mind, a sound that would haunt him forever.

The scene shifted again, and he was back at the Keep. This time, he saw Aegon, battered and broken, lying on the stone floor. Aemond’s chest tightened with a mixture of anger and regret. He had warned Aegon, advised him to stay put, to avoid the fight.

“Why didn’t you listen?” Aemond’s voice trembled with rage and sorrow. “I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother. If you learnt to respect me, to fear me!”

In his nightmare, Aegon's eyes opened, filled with a pain that mirrored Aemond’s own. “This is your fault,” Aegon whispered, burnt beyond recognition, his voice a hollow echo. “All of it. You started it!”

The nightmare repeated in a relentless loop. Aerys' bloodied room, Vhagar's deadly bite, Aegon's broken body. The guilt and horror twisted inside him, a never-ending torment.

Suddenly, amidst the chaos, a warm sensation began to seep into his consciousness. It started faintly, then grew stronger, more insistent. A vision of his wife appeared before him, holding their son, Aerys, who was smiling and content. Her eyes, filled with love and concern - he has seen concern on her face, but she looks much more beautiful in love with him, he decided - reached out to him.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

Her words pierced through the fog of his nightmare, anchoring him. He kept hearing it, over and over, until he realized it wasn’t just a dream. The warmth he felt was real. Her touch, her voice, were pulling him back from the brink.

His wife had stayed to share his bed.

Aemond’s eyes snapped open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was disoriented, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to him. He heard her voice again, soft and soothing, as she held him close.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

He felt her arms around him, her hand moving to his head, stroking his hair. He could still hear her voice, the same words repeated like a prayer, grounding him in reality. Aemond buried his face against her breast, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his nightmare. She rocked him gently, her touch a balm to his tormented mind.

After what seemed like hours, he began to calm down, his breathing evening out. She continued to hold him, kissing his head, her presence a constant reassurance. Aemond’s hand moved instinctively to her breast, seeking the comfort of her body. He wrapped his arm around her, clinging to her like a lifeline, squeezing her so tight like she’d slip through his fingers. When his weight became too much for her to bear, she gently lifted his head, making him look into her eyes. She kissed his forehead, her touch tender and reassuring.

This time, she reached up and unclasped his eyepatch with no hesitation.

Does she see what everyone sees? Does he terrify her?

She adjusted herself, crossing her legs to allow him to rest his head upon her thigh. She began to massage his scalp, her fingers working through his hair with a soothing rhythm.

No signs of terror. Or was she indifferent?

As he lay there, her touch grounding him, Aemond’s mind replayed the words he had uttered in his nightmare.

“I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother.”

The realization hit him like a blow. In his delirium, he had revealed a truth he had kept hidden. Would she have him still?

She was worried. The entire night and everyday forward, she worried about the man her husband had become.

He’d attacked his own brother at Rook’s Rest.

And yet when he took her once more the same night, she didn’t want to push him away.

What’s a cold-blooded killer to a simple woman who only wants to be held in her husband’s arms?

“I forgive you.”

He stood by the windows, the moonlight spilling over his form, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His hair, pale as starlight, shimmered in the dim light, and he seemed lost in thought, gazing out at the night sky.

She paused, taking a moment to observe him. Two days had passed since their night together, and in that brief span, something had shifted between them. It wasn’t love, no - but a deeper understanding, a mutual respect that had begun to root itself in their marriage. They were not affectionate, no tender kisses or whispered endearments passed between them. But there was a newfound ease in their interactions, a subtle partnership that had grown stronger in its quiet way.

He turned, sensing her presence, and their eyes met. She had come to understand his character, the motivations that drove him, and the burdens he carried. She wouldn’t ever justify any of it, not when the price was too steep. But it was a time of war, and she had to see everything around her differently now.

In her heart, she pondered their relationship, this delicate bond. They were equals, a balance of strengths and weaknesses, each compensating for the other. In Aemond, she saw a man driven by a relentless need to prove himself, to carve out a legacy that would be remembered. He was formidable, fierce, yet there was a loneliness to him, a void that no amount of ambition could fill.

They never addressed what he’d divulged to her in his nightmare-addled hours, how he’d treated his own brother as collateral damage. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent agreement to support his ambitions without question. It was this unvoiced pact that had solidified their marriage, making it stronger in its own peculiar way. She admired his cunning, his strategic mind, and in return, she offered her own strengths, her own form of loyalty that was unwavering.

What else was she to do? She couldn’t leave him for fear of her life, but she could choose to be useful to him in their time together. She could try.

Besides, is this not what she wanted?

No, she did not want a man who tried to bathe his own brother in dragonfire, she thought. But he has been good to her since Aerys’ death, so good…

As she looked at him now, she saw not just her husband, but her partner. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by a common goal, driven by a shared determination.

To survive, to thrive. They might never be lovers in the traditional sense, but they had forged something perhaps more enduring.

She tilted her head up in acknowledgement, but then she noticed what he held in his hands.

The iron and ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror. His brother’s crown.

A quick and cutting reminder of what he’d done. A crown that his brother had been anointed with, now in her husband’s nimble fingers. He let the crown dangle from one hand as he reached out to her with the other, so she came to him, her steps uneasy but surer than ever.

He lifted the crown up to her bosom, gesturing for her to take it - so take it she did.

The weight of Aegon the Conqueror's crown was the first thing she noticed - it was heavier than she had imagined. As her fingers traced the intricate designs, she marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into creating this legendary symbol of Targaryen rule.

The crown was a perfect mix of beauty and menace, reflecting the dual nature of its wearers. The metal was cool to the touch, smooth yet deceptively heavy. The rubies caught the firelight and seemed to burn with a fire of their own. The crown's inner band was lined with rich, black velvet, worn smooth by the many heads it had adorned. She ran her fingers along the lining, feeling the faint indentations left by those who had worn it before her, from Aegon himself to the rulers who had followed in his wake.

Now, her own husband was empowered by the power this crown symbolized.

With a steady breath, she stood on her toes, lifting the crown higher. Aemond lowered his head slightly, allowing her to place the crown upon his brow. The moment was charged with tension, the air thick. As she settled the crown onto his head, it fit as if it had been made for him, the rubies gleaming against his silver hair.

Her hands lingered for a moment, adjusting the crown until it sat perfectly. She stepped back, her eyes never leaving his as he turned to the mirror on his vanity. She stood right by his side, catching his gaze in their reflections.

Aemond straightened, the crown now firmly on his brow, and he looked every inch the king he aspired to be. The shadows in the room seemed to recede, and for a moment, the firelight cast a golden halo around him.

“Looks better on me than it ever did on him,” Aemond said, his voice low and edged with a bitter satisfaction, the statement hanging heavy in the air.

The shock of his words registered in a flicker of her eyes, a tightening of her lips, but it was there, palpable between them. Sensing her reaction, he squeezed her hip, his touch possessive, as if to anchor her to him.

“Do you not agree, wife?” he pressed, his tone challenging, almost playful but with an undercurrent of something darker. His words passed like heat through her ear as he bent down onto her shoulder to utter them, in heavy contrast to the coolness of the crown that now kissed her skin.

“You mustn’t say such things,” she replied, her voice a careful blend of caution and reprimand.

“‘Tis the truth, is it not?” he insisted, his gaze unwavering, boring into hers, seeking affirmation or defiance.

“I will not answer that question,” she said firmly, her tone brokering no argument.

Aemond’s eyes flashed, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. “I wear it better than the King,” he spat, the last word laden with contempt.

She met his eyes in the mirror, her reflection as resolute as her stance. “You are my lord husband, the Prince Regent. It is not my place to disagree,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, a clear indication of her refusal to partake in a conversation that bordered dangerously on treason.

“Perhaps I should commission a crown for you. A queen to stand by me,” he mused, a dangerous glint in his eye, his hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

Her mind raced, a cold dread seeping into her thoughts. If they were to be the King and Queen, then half his family would have to be dead. Aemond was not above hurting Aegon - he’s already done it once. No, no, no—

In a sudden and decisive moment, she broke away from his grasp, her skirts swishing as she whirled around. The silk and velvet fabric rustled in the heavy silence. She reached up and took the crown from his head, her hands steady despite the tumult in her mind. She set it on the vanity with deliberate care, the metal clinking softly against the polished wood.

Aemond’s smirk deepened at her defiance, a spark of amusement in his eyes. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering on her cheek. “You’ve never been a woman of growth then?” he challenged, his voice a low murmur, his breath warm against her skin.

“Only that which comes without bloodshed,” she retorted, her voice steady, though her heart pounded in her chest.

“Hm,” he hummed, his expression inscrutable as he took a step back, giving her space but never breaking eye contact.

The room was thick with tension, the crown now a silent witness to their exchange. As she looked at him, she saw not just the ambition that drove him but the danger that lurked beneath.

His ambition was a fire, one that could either warm him or consume him entirely.

In that moment, she knew that their survival depended not just on their unity but on her ability to temper his desires. She would stand by him, support him, but she would also be the voice of caution, the anchor that kept them from drifting into chaos.

The tension in the room ebbed. "When do you march to Harrenhal?" she asked softly, her fingers deftly working the fastenings of his tunic so she can undress him for bed.

"In a fortnight," Aemond replied, his voice steady. "Cole and I will amass the troops needed by then." He lifted his arms slightly, allowing her to pull the tunic over his head. The fabric rustled as it fell to the floor, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Her movements were precise and practiced as she helped him undress. She removed his eyepatch too, revealing the sapphire set in his empty socket. This act, once so charged with tension, had become almost inconsequential - their marriage has grown, she thought.

As she moved to unlace her own dress, Aemond stepped behind her, his fingers skillfully undoing the laces of her bodice. "My mother does not speak much to me anymore," he said quietly, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. "I believe she is jealous of my authority - power that she would have liked to wield in Aegon's stead, if the council hadn't chosen me."

She listened in silence, feeling the weight of his words as he undid the last lace. She shrugged off the dress, letting it pool around her feet before stepping out of it. "Your mother loves you," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "But the burden of power is heavy, and it changes people."

Aemond’s hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment before he stepped back, allowing her to put on her shift. She moved to the vanity, removing the pins from her hair and letting it fall in loose waves around her shoulders. She caught his reflection in the mirror, already under the sheets, watching her with an intensity that made her heart quicken.

When she turned to join him in bed, the faint firelight cast a soft glow over their room. Aemond's gaze followed her every movement and she slipped under the covers, the warmth of his body a welcome contrast to the cool air of the chamber.

They lay facing each other, the silence between them comfortable. She reached out, her fingers tracing the contours of his face, feeling the roughness of his scar and the smoothness of his skin.

Aemond's hand moved to her forehead, brushing away a stray lock of hair before trailing down the side of her face, his touch light and deliberate. "The war progresses," he began, his fingers following a slow, deliberate path down her neck to her collarbone. "Our troops are amassing strength, and Vhagar has had her rest."

She gasped softly as his hand moved lower, his thumb brushing over her breast, lingering there as he spoke. "The Small Council debates strategy for Harrenhal," he continued, his voice a low rumble, "and I've been training harder than ever."

“Of course you have.”

His hand moved to the other breast, cupping it gently, his thumb circling the nipple until it hardened under his touch. She moaned softly, her breath catching as she watched his hand in her line of sight, mesmerized by his touch and his words.

"We will strike with precision and force," Aemond said, his hand sliding further down her body, grazing her ribs and stomach. "Cole believes we can take them by surprise."

His hand slipped under her shift, his fingers finding her wet and wanting. She gasped, her hips arching toward his touch, her need palpable. "Aemond," she breathed, her voice a mix of plea and desire.

He wasted no time, his body moving to hover over hers. His lips followed the path his hand had taken, leaving a trail of fiery hot kisses from her neck to her breasts, each kiss punctuated by his words. "We will defeat them," he murmured against her skin, his lips closing around a clothed nipple, sucking gently before continuing downward. "We will take Harrenhal."

Her hands gripped the sheets, her knuckles white with effort, but he took one hand and guided it to him. He moved lower, his kisses searing a path down her stomach as he pushed her shift up, his tongue dipping into her navel. "Husband, please," she moaned, her body trembling with anticipation.

He descended further, his lips finally reaching her cunt. He licked a long, slow line from her entrance to her pearl, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub before sucking it gently. She cried out, her fingers tightening in his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth.

His tongue worked her with a practiced skill, flicking and swirling, his lips sucking and tugging. "So wet for me," he murmured between licks, his voice sending shivers down her spine.

She moaned louder, her body writhing under his touch, her need building with every flick of his tongue. "Aemond," she gasped, "I'm going to—”

"Sīr gevie." So beautiful.

His words pushed her over the edge, her body tensing as she came undone beneath him. She cried out, her fingers clutching his hair, her body shaking with the force of her peak. He lapped at her pleasure through her climax, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until she lay spent and trembling.

When she finally stilled, he kissed his way back up her body, his lips lingering on her breasts, his tongue flicking over her nipples one last time. He settled beside her, his head nestled between her breasts, his hand resting possessively on her hip.

She offered to return the favor, her hand trailing down his chest, but he stopped her gently. "Not tonight," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm as he buried himself into her chest as tightly as he could. His breath warm against her skin, he calmed down at the steady fall and rise of her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

The vision of the Conqueror’s crown on his desk - gleaming, taunting, terrifying - was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

Aemond found himself weighed down by emotions that he neither anticipated nor fully understood. This newfound closeness with his wife was a double-edged sword, cutting through his well-guarded defenses. The loss of their son had forged a bond between them, a shared grief that brought them closer in ways he couldn't have predicted. Yet, he felt an undercurrent of unease.

His mind, ever analytical and cautious, wrestled with the implications of their growing connection. The admission of his near-fratricidal thoughts should have been a cause for her to recoil, to distance herself from him. Instead, she had not only forgiven him but had also invited him into her bed, an act of trust that both warmed and unnerved him.

Why? Why? Why?

Aemond's wariness stemmed from the unfamiliarity of it all. Affections had always been something to grasp at. His life had been a series of calculated moves, a constant struggle for power and control. But now, he found himself speaking truths he had never intended to share, revealing parts of his soul he had long kept hidden. It annoyed him, this loss of control. It annoyed him how easily she could draw out his secrets, how her presence softened the edges of his guarded heart.

She’s never proven herself to be anything but faithful, his wife. Even when he was less than good to her, she did her duty like the Princess she married him to be.

Yet, beneath the irritation and paranoia, there was a deeper, more profound desire. He wanted this connection, this closeness that terrified him. He yearned for the comfort of her touch, the solace of her understanding. It was a maddening paradox: the need to protect himself clashing with the desire to surrender to her completely.

This was not like with Sylvi, whom he had not gone to see since his wife had willingly come to him that fateful night. Here, it was a partnership of equals. Neither of them knew where it was taking them, no experienced hand to guide them.

He’d begun fucking her each night too, and he wondered how long it’d be before her womb quickened with his child. They needed an heir, and he needed to give her a child again.

He’d wronged her the first time, he won’t do it again.

Aemond sat on a chair beside the hearth, with her sitting at his feet with her embroidery in a rare moment of undisturbed rest. His fingers dug into her scalp in a calming manner, though it was more an effort to calm himself than her.

Regency. The word lingered in Aemond's mind, a whisper of power and responsibility. He would approach it with an iron fist. He would not be made a fool of, not like Aegon. His thoughts of being better than his brother consumed him, a fire that burned with fierce determination. He would rule justly, with strength and decisiveness. No one would dare challenge his authority or question his decisions. He would be a leader worthy of his name, a ruler who commanded respect and fear in equal measure.

And he would have to do it all in his brother’s name.

He looked down at his wife, her presence grounding him in the reality of the moment. His fingers moved gently, tracing the contours of her scalp, feeling the softness of her hair. This simple act of touch was a rare comfort for him, a connection that soothed the tumultuous thoughts swirling in his mind.

“He has bastard children, you know?” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“Yes?” she replied softly, her eyes focused on her embroidery.

“He used to watch them fight.”

“Fight?” she echoed, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Silver-haired baseborn babes, thrown into fighting pits to satiate the peculiar needs of the likes of him,” Aemond continued, his tone hardening with disgust. “I’ve had to pull him back to the castle many times after his outings to these places. It is depraved. He… is depraved and a fool. He dishonors Helaena and their children, and then he goes on to make a mockery of his mistakes by watching them scratch and bite at each other, sometimes even until death.”

She then looked up at him, her fingers hovering over his knee in patterns he could not see, her embroidery forgotten. Her eyes searched his, a quiet intensity in her gaze.

“Do you have any baseborn children?” she asked, her voice calm but probing.

“I would not sully myself as such,” he responded sharply, a flicker of anger igniting in his chest.

“You used to frequent the whorehouse too. It would not be completely out of the question.”

Her words stung, and he thought of how he’d always made Sylvi take moon tea after their trysts, how careful he had been. “None of them are worthy of a child born of Valyrian seed… of dragonfire.”

“And I was?” She referred to her time as a mother in the past tense, and it made him bristle.

“You are my wife. Would you be so stupid as to keep yourself on level with a commonborn whore?”

“They used to warm your bed the same way I do.”

“It was never the same,” he snapped, his voice cold and final. A long silence followed, the weight of their conversation hanging heavy in the air.

She then spoke again, her voice softer. “It’s good that you don’t have any illegitimate children. Say what you will about them, but they are simply babes. Born through no fault of their own. If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them.”

If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them. Her words echoed in his mind, striking a chord deep within him. He was taken aback by the weight of her statement, the truth that lay beneath her gentle rebuke.

“Are you calling the King illegitimate, wife?” he asked, his tone challenging.

“I will admit to no such thing,” she said, her voice steady and unwavering with a playful smile.

Minx.

She then stood, the movement breaking the tension that had settled between them. He watched her, waiting for her to help undress him for bed, but she stopped in front of him, her toes shuffling anxiously. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation that held her back.

“Out with it, wife,” he commanded, his voice softer now, a hint of concern creeping into his tone.

“I think I may be with child again. I am not sure, but my blood is late and… I simply feel it. It is too early. Anything could happen, but I did not want to keep it from you. Not now, not in a time of war when things are uncertain.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Aemond felt the world pause. He stared at her, the implications of her revelation sinking in slowly, like a ship slipping beneath the waves. He was not visibly overjoyed, but he hoped she saw his calmness in the way he let his hand rest on her now-flat belly, in the way his eye crinkled and his jaw slackened.

Aerys, Aerys, Aerys.

The name echoed in his mind, a reminder of their shared loss, a shadow that still haunted them. He shared her caution, so he tried to not get his hopes up until she carried the child to term, birthed it, and then watched it grow. His heart thudded in his chest.

“Good,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mirrī zaldrīzes syt issa naejot gaomagon paktot ondoso.” A little dragon for me to do right by.

He let his hand linger on her belly. His mind wandered to the possibilities, the future they could have. A child, their child, born from both their strengths and their shared grief. He wanted to prove that he could be a better father, a better husband.

He wanted her to think better of him. It was a fragile thing, this warmth they had built – delicate and easily shattered, but it was there.

A few days later, she kept her eyes glued to him as he began his trip to Harrenhal. She only turned briefly to assess all that was happening around her as the troops readied themselves, and he wondered about how much of this was new to her; how much of the world she’d actually seen.

He then remembered Aerys, and that she’d spent most of their marriage in pain, heartache and horror.

Perhaps she’d seen enough.

MASTERLIST

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jassumkiddos · 2 years ago

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Rorschach test / tea leaf reading / my nail polish that I keep scratching at

#painting my nails to stop biting them: 👍 getting a new habit of scratching off the paint: 👎#should i tag this as parallels?

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beetboxx · 24 days ago

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a siren’s call home - a.h.b x reader

pure, sickeningly sweet fluff in which you wake up to andy home from tour, finally.

content disclaimers: not proofread, religious reference, reference to sexual activity but no smut, language? maybe?

author’s note: we are so back squad. it’s only been like two years. i haven’t written in so long so we can call this a test run as i get back into the swing of things. ill update my intro post to better align with what im into! feel free to come and talk to me about prompts, ideas, random thoughts, whateva. i miiiiiiggghhhhtttt write some smut next. hope you enjoy!!

orange light intruded through window shutters like holy arms, caressing the cozy room you laid in with a touch of warmth to counteract the bite of cold at your feet and nose. what was also fighting against that was the thumb stroking the small crevice between your nose and your cheek, not doing much to help but comforting nonetheless. it was the exigence to your wakeup, a bit alarming at first until you understood the source- a large hand with long fingers attached to a proportionally long man smiling like the protruding rays of sun through draped brown, ginger-ish curls, most of it lazily pulled back into a bun at the back of his neck. you registered the vague freckles speckling his cheeks as you blinked lazily, huffing and tensing your grip in your blanket.

“hi.” he said, breathing out a laugh as you felt his calf rub up against yours and his hand smooth against your cheek to your hair to comb his fingers through it as best he could, his nails scratching your scalp ever so slightly.

you sleepily murmured a response, a quick, “hi, andy,” scrunching up your face when his palm returned to your cheek. his other ventured to your waist under the comforter, soft and delicate and squeezing the plains and valleys of your side a bit when he felt like it.

”you’re pretty.”

for such a poetic and profound man, able of expressing emotions so difficult to pin down, he was seemingly struck dumb in this moment over the sight of you. maybe in order to allow his wisdom to return, maybe in order to attempt to become impossibly close to you, his other hand paralleled the other on your waist, pulling you into his torso and wrapping around to meet at the small of your back. you nuzzled into his chest, taking in his familiar scent of a cologne reminiscent of dark forestry and a breeze and placing your own hand on his shirt at his heart to feel it flutter at your fingertips. comfortable, comforted.

“when’d you get back?” you asked, voice coming out as a mellow drawl.

andrew hummed, placed a kiss on the top of your head. “late.”

“you should have woken me up,” you whined, rubbing your eyes.

another kiss, this time to your forehead where your skin meets your hairline. his lips were warm against your chilled skin.

“you say that,” he teased, accent thick with sleep and homecoming, “but you would have crucified me had i actually done that.”

“crucified, no. pinned you to the bed in a similar pose and jumped your bones, maybe.”

you grinned, leaning your head back to allow enough room to kiss his jaw. a stubble met your lips, one that had grown out and been trimmed many times over the course of his touring, all phases of which you unfortunately, miserably, missed.

“hush. you’re dreaming.”

“am not.”

andrew laughed, you squeezed him in your arms. his laugh, although quiet in volume, felt like a dose of hospital-grade medicine to your yearning-induced blues in your system as soon as it entered your ears. his voice and presence was coaxing you awake, a process usually so difficult and taxing, flooding your growing consciousness in a pool of comfort. you missed him. you missed him like a wilted flower misses the sun. you missed him in a way that could only be equated to something of cosmic origin.

“i missed you,” he whispered. thank god.

you returned his sentiment. silence then fell like a thick blanket over you both, thicker than the one bunched up at your shoulder. it sat there for a long while, robbing the both of you of thought except for the feeling of relief. andrew’s thumb rubbed back and forth on your back, a reminder of existence so you didn’t float away. you could have sworn he fell asleep with how quiet he was and how steady and light his breathing was.

you sighed, began squirming your way to get up at least to a sitting position- but you didn’t get far, that ambition quickly being squashed by two lean arms squeezing tightly, barring you from moving away from andrew.

“no.”

a mumble, quick and straight to the point. you huffed out a chuckle, choosing not to argue and enjoy the moment. moments, andrew decided for the both of you. very long, undescriptive in quantity moments. one of his hands moved up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in closer and raking into your hair to rub at your scalp. he was wearing a gray crewneck, you noticed, with unfamiliar blue embroidery of the name of some U.S. state, vintage style. you didn’t recognize it, guessing he must have gotten it on tour at whim.

he was definitely tired- exhausted, even. the lines and circles of color under his eyes had emphasized themselves, but the sight of you gave them a certain light that made you know he wasn’t going to sleep. too many thoughts, too many things to do now that he was home and finding himself complete. he was completely overwhelmed with the feeling of being home that he felt perfectly energized- that, and three cups of coffee he had had just before laying down beside you definitely helped. he took your hand in his as if he was inviting you to a dance, pressing the back of yours against his chest. to further trap you in his web or to just get closer to you, you’ll never know.

“honey, i have to get up eventually,” you remarked, trying to convince yourself more than him.

“no you don’t,” andrew immediately replied without skipping a single beat, tightening his grip on you in case you tried to pull a fast one on him and get out of bed. one of his legs, clad in loose cotton sweatpants, swung over both of yours under the covers, effectively holding you right where he wanted you in his arms.

“andrew, i have to be a functioning member of society,” you joked, wiggling around just a little with no actual attempt to break free from his hold. truthfully, you could never: he had a hold on you and your heart so tight and driven by fate that you were damned for eternity to be consumed by your love for him.

“i can make you breakfast,” you added, craning your neck back to smile at him.

andrew hummed, clicking his tongue. “ooh. very enticing and unfair,” he said. “trying to seduce me with the prospect of food.”

“seduce? i am merely giving you incentive.”

he paused, thinking. his head tilted, as it often does when he is thinking. you took his occupation with thought for an opportunity to make a smart decision and begin your day, freeing yourself from his entrapment and slinking off the bed. he acted quick, however, letting out a noise of surprise and disappointment wrapped in one and throwing himself across the bed to your side. andrew wrapped his arms around your waist as you stood, stopping you from moving too far away from

him. not again. you figured he would be a bit clingy getting back from tour, but this was taking it too another (but very welcomed) level.

“andrew!” you whined without any real weight to it as his chin rested on your hip, grinning happily. your fingers tangled themselves in his wild hair, frizzy from travel and the usual irish moisture. his hair tie was certainly not doing a fantastic job at keeping it all back, strands thick and thin escaping its weak confines. you giggle, “you’re like a puppy sometimes, you know that?”

“and you’re like.. ehm.. a siren.”

you playfully scoffed, “a siren?”

“oh, yes, a siren,” he grins, pulling your waist in until you were sitting back on the bed. “a beautiful but relentless creature with an inclination for luring and trapping defenseless men such as myself.”

“and eating them,” you added.

“whatever,” andrew said, pulling himself up to sit beside you so he could drag you into his lap. you turned yourself and straddled his thighs, arms wrapping around his neck, your intentions for the morning entirely forgotten.

he kissed your lips, softly, like he was testing the waters. you thought your breath stunk for a second with how gentle he was- until you tried to peel away, only for him to grab your face and keep you in his entrancing kiss. he deepened it, mouth opening slightly in rhythm with yours, lips dancing together like they hadn’t in so long.

you stayed that way for a while, letting andrew delicately consume your heart and soul and very essence with his neglected mouth. you could feel his breath mix with yours and span over your cheeks, and you swear it was full of helium with how light and floaty your lungs felt. you pulled away, eventually, taking a little more willpower than you would like to admit as his charged lips pulled yours in like a magnet.

he sighed, happy and content as he stared at you with big eyes, twinkling with every overwhelming emotion he had towards you.

“you have me entirely whipped, woman. like a siren.”

“i know,” you replied, kissing his lips again. “i’m glad you’re home.”

“i know.”

#beetboxx beatboxes #hozier x reader #hozier #hozier fanfiction #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier fluff #hozier x reader fluff #good gods save me #i am just a girl #andrew hozier byrne #andrew hozier-byrne x reader

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ddejavvu · 11 months ago

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pairing: anakin skywalker x reader

summary: you think anakin's scar is sexy // based on this post and the line, "during heated moments of course, when you dig your nails into his face as he prompts you to 'give me another one, baby. cut me open, make me bleed.'"

cw: smut, minors dni. blood/gore (she scratches him and draws blood), don't like don't read.

Sex with Anakin is a bloody thing; the rush of it through your ears and the tang of it on your tongue as your spit runs hot. Though it mainly stays beneath your skin, rising to the surface to splotch you purple here and there, it occasionally surfaces due to the harsh bite of Anakin's teeth.

He's latched onto your shoulder now, some base instinct he doesn't bother to combat. He grunts against your skin as he ruts into you, teeth digging sharply into your skin. He hasn't broken it, but he will if he clamps down harder, and there's no telling what he'll do.

"Fuck, Anakin," You wince at the pain that's boiling your blood, sending shockwaves of its heat to your core, "Be- be careful, you're gonna leave a- mm! - a scar."

He exhales through his nose; you feel the breath against your shoulder.

His pace doesn't slow, but his teeth unlatch from your shoulder, leaving strings of spit behind, and his lips press there lazily.

"You and scars," He hums thoughtfully, almost amusedly, "You fuckin' love 'em, don't you?"

"Hm?" Is all you can manage as Anakin latches to your jaw now, his lip a tight, sucking ring.

"You love my fucking scar," He accuses, licking a hot stripe of saliva up your jawline and over your cheek. It puts the aforementioned scar in your view, and you admire the way it cuts jaggedly close to his eye.

He's right; it's hot.

"I do," You breathe, really more of a moan as Anakin's dick prods deep into your sensitive cunt, "I- It's so pretty, Ani."

"Yeah?" He asks, breath hitting your face, "Give me another one, then."

"What?"

"Give me another one," He repeats, breaking the bruising seal that his hand has had over your hip since he'd first laid over you. He lifts his hand to take your own, bringing it up to his face and setting it over his eye. Your nails rest gently against his tan skin, and his breath shudders when he exhales over your mouth.

"Dig your fucking nails into me, baby. Give me another scar- cut me open and make me fucking bleed."

"Anakin!" You protest, momentarily horrified, "I- I can't do that! I can't hurt you!"

"You can," He urges- no, begs, his hips snapping faster and faster into yours as he smashes your hand to his face, feeling the bite of your nails, "Do it, baby, fucking- fucking do it, give me another scar!"

"Anakin-"

"Do it!"

You let the heat of the moment seize you, and, though all five of your nails dig into his skin, one breaks through. You scrape your middle finger so harshly against his eyebrow that it draws blood, a crimson streak that lays lopsided and not quite parallel against his now-healed scar.

The burning pain that accompanies your nail's sharp edge is enough to push Anakin over the edge, and you feel yourself succumbing to your own orgasm as he begins to fuck his way through his inside of your spasming cunt. When the height of it takes him he nudges your hand out of the way and rubs his face against yours, leaving you with a gory smear of blood against your own eyebrow.

Something about it makes you sob; not sadness or anger, but perhaps sheer viscerality. Anakin's blood on your face feels cosmically binding, wrought from the edge of your nail at his heated insistence. He feels the shake of your chest as he collapses above you, his dick still inside of you though it softens now that he's spent.

"Shit," Is all he can offer, and you agree.

"Does it hurt?" You ask curiously, knowing that an apology will be dismissed; he'd begged for it, after all.

"A bit," He shrugs, eyes shut despite the crimson stain just left of them, "I've had worse."

"It'll scar," You note, perhaps stating the obvious but acknowledging it now for the first time.

"Yeah. Now I've got double the sex appeal," Anakin nods absentmindedly against your chest, more focused on regaining his breath, "And every time you see it you'll think of how you gave it to me."

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker scenario #anakin skywalker oneshot #anakin skywalker one-shot #anakin skywalker one shot #anakin skywalker headcanon #anakin skywalker headcanons #anakin skywalker hcs #anakin skywalker hc #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfic #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker blurb #anakin skywalker drabble #anakin skywalker dialogue #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker smut

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justanotherrpmeme · 3 months ago

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Abrasions

"Do you trust me enough to let me leave a mark?" "The sting of the cut excites me more than anything." "I want to feel your nails digging into my skin." "Every scrape tells a story." "A little pain can be so intoxicating, don't you think?" "I crave the sensation of your blade against my skin." "The sight of your blood excites me beyond words." "Let me make you mine, mark by mark." "The pain is fleeting, but the pleasure lasts." "I want to see my marks on you, always." "Scrape me, cut me, let me feel alive." "The sight of your scratches makes my heart race." "A little blood adds to the thrill, don't you agree?" "Feel the burn and embrace the pleasure it brings." "I love the way you gasp with each scratch." [SCRATCHING] The sender gently drags their nails across the receiver's back. [CUTTING] The sender carefully makes a small cut on the receiver's forearm. [ABRADING] The sender uses a textured cloth to rub the receiver's skin, creating a series of tiny abrasions. [BITING] The sender bites down on the receiver's shoulder, their teeth leaving indentations and slight scrapes. [SCRAPING] The sender drags a rough edge across the receiver's thigh, creating a line of superficial cuts. [PINCHING] The sender pinches the receiver's skin with their nails, leaving small red marks that linger. [GRAZING] The sender lightly grazes a sharp object across the receiver's chest. [MARKING] The sender uses a piece of broken glass to create a small cut on the receiver's leg. [DRAGGING] The sender drags the blunt edge of a knife across the receiver's stomach. [CLAWING] The sender uses their fingernails to claw at the receiver's back, creating a series of parallel scratches. [PRESSING] The sender presses a serrated edge against the receiver's arm. [SCRITCHING] The sender scratches the receiver's neck with their fingernails.

#ask meme #rp starter #roleplay meme #rp meme #rp ask

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lady-harrowhark · 2 years ago

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Gideon’s blood and the Tomb. I’ve got two points here that dovetail somewhat…

Let’s review some key events. I realize these probably seem a bit all over the place, but I do believe they come together. I’ve tried to put these in roughly chronological order.

John attempts to consume the soul of the Earth, and then creates a physical body for Alecto: “I ripped half my ribs from my body and made you from the dirt, my blood, my vomit, my bone.”

Ten thousand years later, Gideon and Harrow duke it out. The initial recollection of the fight says that “Harrow had scratched until she’d had half of Gideon’s face beneath her fingernails.” The more candid HtN version has Gideon telling us, “You clawed my face so bad that my blood ran down your hands; my face was under your fucking fingernails.”

Harrow opens the Tomb with Gideon’s (read: John’s) blood on her hands.

Harrow sees Alecto, falls in love with her, and decides to live.

At some point while in the Tomb, Harrow apparently kisses Alecto: “She hadn’t come on purpose; the scrap of black-eyed meat had asked for it—the chain of a kiss: the ice that burnt the flesh of the mouth that had stuck to the mouth that was frozen.”

At Canaan House, Ianthe ascends and tells the others that step six of the process is to “consume the flesh. Not the whole thing, a drop of blood will do to ground you.”

Harrow’s letter tells her she owes Ianthe “the favour of the chain”, which extends “into the House, but NOT into the Tomb.” The agreement takes precedence over any oaths sworn to others, including John, except for the Holy Corpse.

Harrow kisses Ianthe to inspect her jaw and re-swears the oath.

Harrow’s Nova AU has her retrieving the chain of Samael from the Anastasian. This is considered a sin severe enough that the Reverend Father whips her, but she is allowed to keep the chain. Denied the role of Reverend Daughter, Harrow tells Ortus that she is “the unfulfilled vow and the bloody teeth of the unkissed skull.”

Alecto kisses Harrow, bites her, and recognizes her by her blood - the blood of Anastasia’s line. Alecto tells Harrow that she is very sorry about Samael, and she vows the favour she had promised to Anastasia to Harrow.

We see over and over this theme of consuming another life, whether body or soul: we get two sides of this coin when we compare Gideon’s “All I ever wanted you to do was eat me” to John’s statement that “it’s the human instinct, to take.” Consuming the flesh is, per Ianthe, one of the steps to taking in a cavalier’s soul and becoming a Lyctor, directly paralleling John consuming the Earth, both physically when he eats dirt and spiritually when he takes in her soul. Thus far, though, we don’t know how or if Harrow consumed Gideon’s flesh in the interim between chapters 36 and 37 of GtN.

But here’s what I’ve been wondering: assuming Ianthe is correct (and telling the truth) about the steps to becoming a Lyctor, to what extent does the order and timing actually matter? I think there’s a distinct possibility that Harrow had consumed Gideon’s flesh years before they even came to Canaan House.

Because Harrow had Gideon’s face under her fingernails. And Harrow bites her nails.

HtN, chapter four:

You held your left hand up before your face, before the light, the even white light with its hot tungsten filaments. The thumbnail was whole and even. Too even? Were you wont to chew your fingernails still, that unattractive tic of your girlhood?

And again in chapter twenty-one:

She took off her gloves, and with the edges of her fingernails - bitten to the quick, and never much help - she started to prise open one wrinkled corner.

If the steps do not have to be completed strictly in order, Harrow may very well have already checked off step six if she were biting her nails with Gideon’s flesh and blood still clinging to them.

The other thing going on here is that we get these repeated connections between chains and favours and kisses. I don’t feel like we have quite all the pieces yet to draw any definitive conclusions, but it seems that the favour of the chain may have something to do with the Reverend Family’s vow to protect the Tomb. Particularly, Harrow describing herself, sans Reverend Daughter title, as “the unfulfilled vow” as she wields the chain of Samael lends itself to this interpretation. I also find it very interesting that this unfulfilled vow is paired with “the bloody teeth of the unkissed skull” given that upon waking, Alecto kisses Harrow, bites her, and draws blood which then allows her to recognize Harrow as one of Anastasia’s descendants.

Before that kiss, though, there was another. Alecto describes being called back by Harrow’s kiss, presumably when she broke into the Tomb as a child. I have to wonder if blood was playing a role here too. Alecto says that Harrow’s flesh stuck on her frozen lips, that the ice burned her. If this kiss also drew blood, it could be that the blood of Anastasia’s line was the key to calling her back. However, there may have been someone else’s blood on Alecto’s lips that day. If Harrow had been biting her nails, which she’d earlier used to claw Gideon’s face, she very well may have had Gideon’s blood in her mouth as well. As John’s daughter, her blood was able to open the Tomb. Was it able to call Alecto as well? Could “the chain of a kiss” be referring to Harrow transferring John’s blood between Gideon and Alecto?

Overall, it seems like we’re circling something akin to a blood oath or living blood ward. The thalergetic nature of blood certainly aligns with the symbolism of life and light that we see connected to the Earth and Alecto, in contrast to the thanergy that John cultivates. Alecto’s physical form is derived from John’s blood, and his power is derived from her soul. If indeed a kiss and a few drops of John’s blood, shepherded into the Tomb by Gideon and Harrow, are enough to call Alecto, I cannot even imagine the pyrotechnics show that we’re in for now that he’s had a run-in with the business end of her sword.

#i've had the nail biting = step six thing percolating since pre-nona days #but the chain of a kiss part didn't hit me until the other day #at which point i quite literally froze in my tracks to process #i can't really blame harrow though. breaking into an apocalypse-initiating tomb would be a real nail-biter #(sorry i just think puns are funny automatically)#i do think there's a good chance they were already partway to lyctorhood by the time they got to the First #pre-lyctors. if you will.#nona the ninth spoilers #ntn #harrowhark nonagesimus #john gaius #gideon nav #alecto #alecto the ninth #the locked tomb #tlt #tlt meta

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angel-of-the-moons · 1 year ago

Text

Cycles

Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader

TW/Content Warnings: NSFW, Smut, PIV Sex, Heat/Rut Cycles, Territorial, bit of Feral!Miguel, improper use of webs, pheromones, hormones, predator/prey dynamic if you squint, Unprotected Sex, Biting, Scratching, Bondage(?), Breeding Kink (c'mon we all know Miguel has one), established relationship, boyfriend/girlfriend, rough sex, oral sex, blowjob

MINORS DNI: I am not responsible for the content that you are about to read/consume, if you are upset by the themes in this fic, do not read it and scroll on by!

A/N: For context, you are a Spider-Woman who is one of (maybe the only) the few Spiders who have similar powers to Miguel. This is my first Miguel x Reader fic I've ever written, and my first fic ever posted here on Tumblr! (Header does not indicate reader's race)

Earth 7164. New York. Middle of summer.

The scent hit him the moment he tore through the portal. A heavy, sweet, earthy scent that flooded his whole body with a rush of adrenaline. Even the fat droplets of summer rain that fell from the dingy skyline did little to diminish that delicious, mouth watering scent.

Your scent.

His body was trembling as he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to rid himself of the tension that roped its way through his heavy muscles. His talons flexed as he gritted his teeth, each drag of his lungs pulling your scent into his body.

Miguel O'Hara was a man who would claim he had a good sense of control over his urges. He would also say he was a good boyfriend, attentive. A bit protective (some would say possessive).

But, he had been neglecting you as of late, his duties in the Spider Society and ensuring the safety of the universe had kept him away from you these past few weeks, and he almost lost track until he felt that familiar boiling of his blood, an itch that he knew could only be scratched by you.

And he knew that you would be experiencing a similar situation to him, almost parallel. In fact, he surmised you were probably the only Spider who had similar powers. The only difference was that whereas Miguel's powers were (sort of) intentional, and other Spiders were given to them after being bitten by radioactive spiders... You were born like this. They didn't know why. Hell, you didn't know why.

You had the venom (you could consciously control how much you pumped out in every bite), you had your own talons (although yours were a part of your nails, not in the pads of his fingers and toes), the wall crawling abilities, natural web-shooting...

And your cycle. At first having you around was torture on his senses when it would roll around. It would start with your scent changing; the dampness he picked up from between your legs making the blood rush straight to his dick. More often than he'd like he'd have to excuse himself to his private lab to jerk himself off until he felt some of his clarity return.

But it was always just a temporary relief. It only got worse when your breeding cycle and his rut cycle synced up, resulting in the two of you needing to almost be sedated and kept away from each other. (How Lyla kept that under wraps, Miguel never knew.)

And once your dynamic shifted and you started seeing each other, and eventually getting intimate... well. He was positive that Jess or Peter suspected what was up... Especially when he would disappear to your universe for a week or so, only to come back in a slightly better mood, small dark patches peeking out from beneath the collar of his suit, or you would be walking funny or unable to sit comfortably.

Right now, though, those thoughts were shoved to the back of his mind. The only thing he could think of was you. He could smell you, taste you in the air. This was your territory, and he... Could be considered an intruder, depending on your mood.

A male spider waltzing into a pissed off and horny female spider's web during breeding season.

Shaking his head, he took another deep drag of the air around him, the smell of the city mixing with your earthy, almost fruity tones. Your scent was faded slightly, but he could still use it to track you beneath the smog, garbage, and vehicle exhaust.

It's not like he didn't know where your apartment was... But he knew during this period of time you'd be restless, irritable, angry.

And mind-numbingly horny.

Miguel launched himself up, slinging his wrist out and using his glowing webs to propel himself in between the buildings and skyscrapers; leaping, flipping, arching through the sky in a red-and-blue blur.

He knew he was closing in on you. Your scent was all but strangling him, choking the air and what little sanity he was clinging to right out of him.

He should have known you were waiting.

Miguel was rammed into with the speed of a runaway train, the oxygen he so desperately needed ripped from his lungs as he tumbled with a roll onto the rooftop below, landing on all fours as his talons dug into the concrete and tar, leaving deep grooves as he slowed himself.

He lifted his gaze to see you land in front of him, chest heaving, body trembling.

"I have been waiting for you, for almost two weeks." You wheezed out.

"Hell of a way to greet me, querida." Miguel grunted, pulling himself to his feet.

Beneath your mask, he knew your eyes immediately dragged down to the hard bulge pressing against his suit, the hard outline of it sending a fresh throb of arousal straight to your core.

"The kick was a bit much." He said, trying to maintain a professional composure.

But his control was quickly slipping.

"Shut the fuck up."

The short rebuke didn't surprise him.

"Should have been here days ago." Miguel said, swallowing hard at the lump in his throat. "I know that. But--"

You cut him off by lunging at him, hurling your full weight onto him and pinning him down beneath you.

The heat between your legs felt like it melted through his suit, burning the skin beneath and causing a fever to spread.

You raised your fist to bring it down on his face but his reflexes allow him to catch it, gripping you like a steel vice. His other hand gripped your thigh as he planted his feet on the rooftop, rolling to pin you beneath him, his massive frame caging you in.

He squeezed your hips between his thighs, muscles tensing and twitching, breathing heavy. Your free hand reached out and clawed at him, tearing at his suit, leaving a rainbow of glitched out fabric behind, small droplets of blood rushing forth to drip down his tanned skin.

He gritted his teeth at the sensation, the sweet burn sending another wave of heat through his body that made his cock twitch.

You were past talking, past negotiating and being civil. You knew what you wanted, and you wanted it now.

You breathed heavily, gritting your teeth as Miguel gripped your thigh and forced your knee by your head, squeezing the plushest part as his face dragged down to the dark patch soaking through the fabric of your suit.

Using this new position, you kicked at him square in his chest and threw him off of you.

Before he could right himself, you rolled to your feet and jumped off the roof, shooting a web to sling you away from him.

Sure, you were horny and wanted to ride his cock til he couldn't see straight for a month. But he had been gone for weeks and you had been struggling with your own self-care, your measley silicone toys and vibrators barely able to compare with that womb-punching length that Miguel crammed into you, or his skillful and knowledgeable hands rubbing you until your eyes rolled back. But right now, you were pissed.

He wanted your pussy? He was going to have to work for it.

And if that meant playing your cat and mouse game for an hour, building the anticipation and making his cock leak; aching, desperate for a taste of you? So be it.

You played this game for a while, teasing him, getting within arms reach before yanking yourself away at the last possible second, thwarting his attempts to catch you.

Sometimes you liked to play with your food.

But all games come to an end. And this one had an abrupt ending when Miguel headed you off, tackling you to the roof of some abandoned warehouse, pinning you down on your belly, hands above your head.

"Bout fucking time I caught you. Tu pequeño bromista.." (You little tease.) He snarled, leaning down to your ear as his mask dissipated from his head, letting his wavy chocolate hair fall free, damp strands plastering themselves to his forehead.

His eyes were wild, red and glowing; pupils blown wide.

"Fuck you." You hiss, squirming under him.

"Oh, sucederá en, no te preocupes." (Oh, don't worry, it will happen.)

Miguel raised his free hand and brought it down hard on your ass, making you bite your lip to contain the mewl that tried to claw its way out of your throat.

"Look at you, now, hermosa." He sneered, his chest huffing in a small, humorless laugh. "I can fucking smell you from a mile off."

He reached down and cupped your mound, his fingers squishing slightly in the damp fabric of your suit; but once again you deny him a moan, instead biting into your lip, fangs threatening to puncture your lip.

You squirm an arm free and go to elbow him in the face, get him off of you. (Or under you.)

But he predicted that. That's what always got you going when you were in the middle of your cycle. You liked it rough.

His large hand completely encircled your elbow and forced your arm back down. Quickly, he used his glowing, laser-webs to secure your wrists together before he gripped the fabric of your suit with his talons, shredding it as he yanked you over so you were on your back.

Miguel smiled and yanked your mask off of your head, tossing it to the side before gripping your chin with his fingers, putting enough pressure to keep your eyes on his.

"Now... What should I do with you?" He said contemplatively, tapping your cheek with his index finger, making a show of thinking, his eyes dragging over the flushed features on your face, your tongue darting out to wet your dry lips.

"Ah. That's it." He grinned, his slightly askew teeth gleaming in the dark. He grips you by the front of your torn suit and pulls you to your knees as he stands.

He grips the crotch of his suit, and rips at it with his talons, the torn edges doing that kaleidoscopic glitch of colors as his cock springs free from its confines; large, twitching, angry red tip leaking in excitement.

You have to bite your tongue to keep in your little groan, your heart soaking through and dripping out through your suit.

"Hmh." He grunted, annoyed. "I'll loosen your fucking mouth. I've been keeping myself under control this whole time. But now? I'm not going to be gentle."

He gripped your hair, just shy of painful as he dragged your head to his crotch, the tip of his cock smearing his precum across your cheek.

"Chúpalo." (Suck it.)

You finally give in, your hands bound in your lap as you drag your tongue along a prominent vein in the velvety skin of his shaft, earning a deep, rumbling groan from him that you swore sent vibrations straight to your cunt, making you flutter around nothing.

You pull your head back and swirl your tongue around the tip, pulling and tugging as you lap at his slit, eagerly tasting every drop of pre he was giving you before diving in and taking the rest of his tip in your mouth, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm.

He massaged your scalp, his talons tickling the skin under your hair as he encouraged you to continue.

But you knew his calm demeanor wasn't going to last. It wasn't long before he grabbed at your hair with both hands, forcing you to choke down on his length, just shy of blocking off your airway as he fucked your face, the tension and stress from your cat and mouse game coming out as his tip kept shoving at your throat, your nose brushing the dark curly hairs at the base, his balls slapping your chin with every thrust; saliva pooling around his length as you keep your fangs pulled back as you let him use your throat like a fleshlight.

You close your jaw microscopically, fangs grazing the flesh.

"Míralo!" (Watch it!) He reprimanded, pulling your hair roughly to pull you back, his cock springing out of your lips with a wet pop, saliva connecting the tip with the soft pink muscle in your mouth like a weak bridge.

"Be a good girl." He snarled, pulling you back down on his length, barely letting you catch your breath before forcing you all the way down, tears welling up in your eyes and falling down your cheeks as you choked and gagged.

You knew exactly how to lick, suck, and tug at his cock to get the best reactions, the most delicious sounds from him.

You snuck a glance up at him, watching as he tipped his head back with a throaty groan as you greedily swallowed him down.

You moaned around him; his cock throbbed.

You felt him twitch, felt his hips sputter as he gritted his teeth.

"Fuckin' close." He snarled, looking down at you as your eyes connected with his feral ones.

You rocked your clothed cunt on your heel, trying desperately to get some friction to your aching clit. Miguel caught this motion, and held you down on his cock, choking you from not letting you ease off.

"You're not allowed to touch yourself." He said through gritted teeth, pulling your head back with a harsh tug, letting you get a gulp of air before voraciously fucking your mouth again. You obeyed his command, sitting in your slick that was dripping down and out of you, your folds puffy and neglected.

"Fuck..." He breathed heavily, he could feel that burn, that coil about to snap, his blood boiling and rushing straight to the tip of his dick as he felt his balls draw tight.

You moaned softly around him, gagging slightly before that rush of heat flooded your mouth as you worked your throat to swallow every last drop of the load he was feeding you.

Miguel panted, dragging some much needed air in his lungs as he let you pull back, hacking and coughing as your airways flooded with oxygen again. You grin maliciously and bite down on his thigh. No venom of course, but just enough to remind him you were there, earning you a sharp glare and a slap to the back of your head as you licked your lips.

He ran a hand through his hair, and it wasn't but a moment later before he yanked you to your feet, and shoved his tongue past your lips to overpower yours, tasting his cum lingering on your breath as his heavy rut-scent flooded your nose. You moaned shamelessly into the kiss, biting and tugging at each others lips until a burst of cooper flooded your mouth.

Miguel pulled away and licked at his bloody lip, before his mouth twisted into a snarl. He barreled into you, forcing you against a rooftop air-conditioning unit.

His hand reached down as he ripped at your suit, your breasts bouncing free.

Of course you weren't wearing a fucking bra. Probably no panties either. Because you were just that fucking horny and desperate.

He leaned down and took one of your pebbling nipples in his mouth, biting and sucking roughly as you push your head back against the unit, the metal bumping as you do, a strangled cry coming from you.

He pulled back, before delving back down and putting the same torture on your other tit. This time however he pulled back, biting down on the marshmallowy flesh, making you mewl out as his tongue laves over the mark he made.

"Miguel!" You snarl, thrashing your leg to kick at him, your frustration and neglect finally getting to you.

Miguel caught your flailing lim and forced it up, pinning it against the air-conditioning unit with another shot of his webs, before securing your already bound hands with more, above your head.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his hot and heavy breath ghosting over your sweaty skin, before his hands once again swiped and gripped at your cunt, pawing at it like a cat kneading a blanket.

Miguel lazily dragged two fingers torturously slow up your slit, before punching your clit hard through the fabric.

"You've been misbehaving... But I know you're just going to keep acting out until I give you what you want." Miguel sneered into your ear.

You whimpered, arching into his touch as he pulled away, making a frustrated sob at the lack of contact.

You nearly had the air punched out of your lungs when Miguel dropped to his knees, inhaling the scent of your soaked pussy like it was a drug he needed a hit of. He opened his mouth and dragged his tongue up the soaked fabric, before latching on and sucking.

Now this was new. Getting eaten out through the fabric of your clothes. There was too much contact but somehow not enough as he rutted his nose at your clit, sucking more at your folds drawing more of your slick through the fabric.

You thrashed against his webs, trying so hard to roll your hips and fuck his face, but with the way you were pinned, you were at his mercy, especially when he hoisted your free leg over his shoulder. He pressed two fingers against your covered hole as he furiously suckled your clit.

Your orgasm crashed into you so hard you couldn't even manage a scream, your mouth just hung open on a silent cry, eyes rolling back as a fresh gush of slick leaked through your suit.

Miguel smiled against you and tore your suit's crotch open, and you shivered as the humid, summer air made contact with your slick and creamy folds. You barely had a second to realize what was happening before Miguel plunged back in, his nose rutting your clit once more as I sucked at your cream, your slick covering his chin.

Miguel was the best sexual partner you ever had, he knew exactly how to eat you out to the point you lost your voice without even using it.

Just as your second orgasm was creeping up on you, he pulled his mouth away, wiping his face clean with the back of his hand and licking his chops like a dog eyeing a juicy stake.

His cock bobbed against his stomach as he stood, a steady stream of precum dribbling out of the tip and to the ground below.

He pulled your free leg to wrap around his waist as he slid the underside of his cock against your puffy cunt.

Miguel bit down on your shoulder, hard as he forced himself into you with one brutal thrust, pushing the air out of your lungs as he punched your guts through your womb with his cock, spearing you wide as he set a rapid, relentless pace for the both of you.

You uttered breathless pleas, praises, and incoherent mumblings with each thrust; the two of you grunting and moaning in each others ears like rabid animals, Miguel's cock slamming home into your pussy, squelching, dripping, the slap of skin and hips colliding filling the very atoms around you.

Your body screamed, cried, ached for him to fuck you, fill you up to the brim.

Miguel's tip crammed against your cervix in such a brutal way that you swore he bullied himself into your womb with every thrust. It was a blossoming pain that bled into pleasure, quickly bringing you back to the edge of your second orgasm that he had denied you.

"That's it, baby." Miguel snarled in your ear. "Ah... So tight for me. You want me?"

You nodded, whimpering and sobbing into his shoulder.

"Want me to fuck you til you can't walk for a week? Stretch you til all you can think of is my cock?" He said, his voice edging on a gleeful tone as he pants, turning his head and licking at the sweat on your neck.

"Want me to fucking breed you?"

You bite into his shoulder at that, whimpering as his suit glitches around your fangs and you lick at the blood welling up.

He hissed, and his pace became frantic, almost angry as he reaches down and pinches your clit like before, and your orgasm comes flooding through every blood vessel in your body as you jerk mindlessly against him, your pussy crushing down on him, milking him for everything he can give you.

He moans loudly in your ear, snapping his hips up into yours, balls slapping your ass as you cry out, sobs wracking your chest as your vision blurs and the tension rips out of you.

You whimper, and hiccup against him when he forces himself into you one last time, his tip kissing that oh so lovely spot inside as he pumps his heavy and sticky load deep inside your pussy, dripping out of you with each jagged thrust as he fucks you through his orgasm.

When Miguel's hips still, his hand pets at your hair as he kisses your jaw, nipping the skin there as he slices the webs holding your legs and hands up.

"Mmmmh. I needed that." Miguel sighed into your hair.

You grunted in response, your fists gripping at his suit as you pull him down for a hungry and toothy kiss.

"Take me home and fuck me." You demanded.

All Miguel could do was smile, and carry you back to your apartment. The real trick was keeping his cock sheathed inside of you as he swung from building to building, trying to avoid anybody who may have a camera phone...

But honestly? You didn't care.

However...

The two of you did care, a few weeks later.

When two little pink lines appeared on the stick in your hand.

"Fuck."

#miguel o’hara x reader #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #spiderman 2099 #miguel O'Hara x you #my writing #spiderverse smut #smut

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clown-cafe · 1 month ago

Text

After talking about this with a friend earlier, I wanted to make a post as a place to theory-craft about Jonathan potentially being the Little Pale Girl's next vessel (the witch?)

I know this is a popular theory

But these are things I've picked up on that made me personally believe it. I'd be super interested if people have other ideas/interpreted any of these differently 👀

1) In Terrifier 2, Jonathan wanted to dress up as Art for Halloween. That's always felt like foreshadowing waiting to happen to me personally.

2) Sure, Sienna can see the Little Pale Girl in Terrifier 2 because she's some kind of warrior angel force for good. What about Jonathan being able to see her? Is it just because they're related, or was he chosen to be able to see her?

3) Sienna and Jonathan always felt like direct parallels of Art and The Little Pale Girl to me. Not exactly evidence, but I've always correlated them in my head.

4) The Little Pale Girl/Victoria have already nailed mimicking Jonathan's voice. I know she also mimics Sienna's aunt and uncle, but mimicking Jonathan twice in two different forms... Hm...

5) Jonathan is seen taking medication and telling someone in a very deliberately included shot of his phone that "It's getting worse/bad again (can't remember wording - I need a rewatch)"... what is? We never find out the details of his trauma. We never find out what exactly caused Jonathan's meltdown. Are his issues similar to Sienna, or is he dealing with something far more sinister.

6) We never see what Art and Victoria did with Jonathan. I do not believe he's dead. I simply do not. Maybe they're holding him somewhere. He feels like a real ace in their sleeve for dealing with Sienna - why wouldn't they kill him in front of her if they wanted to break her that bad.

7) Victoria/Pale Girl were built up to be a very important figure in Terrifier lore in Terrifier 3. But Victoria is presumably dead now as a vessel. She'll n e e d a replacement.

8) Jonathan is particularly closed off and calloused in Terrifier 3 which, don't get me wrong, can definitely just be his trauma. But he wasn't at the start of Sienna's hospitalisation. When he was studying demonology and writing to her that they "Need to kill the Little Pale Girl before it's too late." He of all people knows what she is - where's his urgency.

9) Lastly, this may be entirely unrelated. But Art ate Victoria's face. Then she was possessed presumably by the time she attacked Monica Brown.

At the end of Terrifier 2, Art is seen attempting to eat parts of Jonathan.

Not killing him.

Biting him.

With all his tools that he has there

That he could have been torturing him with-

Biting him.

And I'm sure Art has bitten more people and I just forgor

But it keeps coming to mind again and again.

Feels significant somehow.

With all the chances Art had to kill that boy.

Why was he alive so long.

#jonathan shaw #art the clown #sienna shaw #victoria heyes #the little pale girl #terrifier 3 #terrifier 3 spoilers #terrifier #terrifer 2 #terrifier spoilers #terrifier theory

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yes-divine-ruler · 1 year ago

Note

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Can you do a 20, 27, 31 and 93 with a virgin!fem!reader x Kai Anderson where he finds out by some darkweb site that the reader is a virgin, and he gives her her first time lol <3

Benefactor - Kai Anderson

x virgin!fem!reader

cw: smut with a plot, corruption and size kink, loss of virginity, mentions of a knife

wc: I cut it down to 3.7k lolll!

@evanpetersfansblog @kitwalkersgfff @quicksilversg1rl @iruzias @alexxavicry @soaringcloud@laynna-mcknight @humdrumexistence @simp4petermaximoff @evan4ever @paujmr @jangsuzchap @meganxfox @divineruler @spill-the-t @hihidora

Kai didn't know what he was searching for. Until he found you.

The basement was dark, the only light evidently emitting from the desktop screen. Kai had found himself down a deep, dark rabbit hole of drugs, guns and all sorts of illegal videos. He'd spent so much wasted time consumed by the screen in front of him, he'd almost scrolled passed your ad.

Take my Virginity, Give me $10k for College

To say Kai was intrigued was an understatement. He'd clicked on your ad with curiosity, sighing deeply as he flicked through your photos. Kai could feel the innocence radiating off you from the screen. To think such a sweet girl was so eager to give it all away made Kai's cock twitch.

He zoned in on your photos, leaning forward with his nose almost pressed against the desktop. He couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to twirl your soft hair around his fingers. How it would smell. How gentle you'd be, and how easy it would be to stimulate you. How supple your skin would be under his calloused fingers and every little whine he'd force out of you. How tight and wet you'd be, squirming under him as you squeezed around his cock. Milking him of all the cum he had.

After almost no consideration, Kai decided that you'd have to be his for the taking.

So he messaged you.

You were surprised to see that your ad had gotten some attention. You'd wondered how long it would take for some sick, twisted pervert to take the bait. The answer: one day. His profile was so unknown; no photo or anything about himself that might interest you. You almost didn't open your inbox. Yet, your eyebrows knitted in confusion opening his message.

hey, 30 yo and willing to do whatever it takes to be the one to fill ur dreams

Thinking your ad would attract men much older, you were pleasantly surprised there was only a decade difference between you. You bite down on your thumb nail, your chin rested on the palm of your hand in concentration.

a picture, maybe?

Anticipating his response, the fingers on your other hand drum softly against your desk. He was just online.

Within minutes, he'd sent back his response. Your gaze followed your cursor as you clicked on a censored .jpeg file. Your surprised reaction, instant, as you drank in his appearance. Handsome, dark eyes and long, blue hair. He wore a long black coat. his legs clad in black jeans. Combat boots on his feet. He looked like he belonged on the dark web, but never in a million years did you think he'd click on your ad. Nor did you think you'd be remotely attracted to the person who did.

Your potential benefactor went by the name of Kai. He was strangely polite and considerate. The thought that maybe he wasn't real crossed your mind.

Despite your suspicions, you'd found yourself parked outside Kai's desolate motel the next day. This was your last hope at a future, you had nothing to lose.

Putting on a parka and beanie, you exited your car. You knew that Kai would be in room 206. With the cash. All you had to do was knock a few times.

With a burst of courage, you set out to find room 206. Your teeth chattered in the cold. You tried hugging your parka close for warmth. You drone in on the room numbers as you ascend the outdoor stairwell to the second floor. Without long, you were in front of Kai's room.

Suddenly hesitant, you freeze parallel with the door. Fear will not get the better of you. He won't hurt you, you have a photo of his license.

You finally knock on his door.

It felt like years before the door finally opened. From the inside, the heater warms your shaking body immediately.

You look up from your shoes to see Kai looking down at you. Somehow he looked even better than the grainy photos. He smiled as stepped off to the side to allow you room to enter. You take the invitation. A sense of relief washes over you as the blood rushes back to your fingers.

"Hey."

Kai slides the deadbolt and his hands sit in his coat pockets. The coat he wore in his photos.

"Hey," you reply softly, observing Kai's face.

"Nice to finally meet you, doll," Kai removes his hand from his pocket to offer you a handshake.

You slide your cold hand into his, satisfied with his warmth.

"You too, I didn't think you were real," you blurt nervously. Kai turns to hang his coat behind the door.

"Real as it gets," Kai chuckles, "I'm honoured I get to help with college."

Kai offers to take your parka. He hangs it with his own jacket and turns towards the bed. He sits on the edge and pats the spot next to him.

You fidget with the sleeves as you sit beside him. You notice his intoxicating scent immediately.

"Still cold?" He asks. Every word he speaks is accompanied by a minty coolness.

"Huh?"

Kai points at your chest. Right to where your nipples stand out from under your white shirt. You offer Kai an awkward smile.

"Oh, it's okay, it's warm in here, really," you reassure. Kai just laughs.

Shifting closer to you, he places a hand on your knee. Your body stiffens in surprise. His strong, veiny hand grips onto the skin of your thigh. You shiver to his touch.

"Where's the money?" You ask, attempting to remind Kai why you're here.

"In the bag. Have a look."

Kai gets up and encourages you to follow him to the corner of the room. A small bag sits on a dining table. You watch in anticipation as he unzips the bag, revealing a small stack of cash. The band reads "$10,000".

"Can I touch it?" You question with innocent eyes.

He nods and passes you the cash. It takes everything in you not to bring it to your nose to smell it. It would be yours soon.

You secure the money back in the bag and follow Kai back to the bed.

Before you can sit beside him, Kai grabs a hold of your hips. He positions you between his legs without a word.

"Why are you still a virgin?" He speaks suddenly. His eyes hungrily rake down your body. He thought he might break you if he squeezed too tight.

"Um, I dont know. Never felt comfortable with anyone, I guess," you reply timidly. Kai's fingers begin to bunch up the hem of your shirt.

"Hm," Kai’s lips form a thin, straight line, "is it okay if I take this off?"

You nod and allow Kai to pull your shirt over your head. You hadn’t worn a bra underneath. Suddenly, your bare breasts were on display for him.

He groans as you stand tall for him. You inhale a few deep breaths to try ease your nervousness.

"You're so fucking pretty, you know that?" Kai's hands return to your body. His thumbs trace up from your hips and settle under your tits. You'd never experienced something so intimate before. His hands felt like velvet and left a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"Thank you," you mutter reluctantly. You bite down hard on your bottom lip as Kai’s thumbs flick over your sensitive, already taut nipples.

His teasing eases as his hands travel back down the curves of your body.

"Is this okay for you?" He asks sweetly, "have you ever had someone touch you before?"

"Yes,” you squeak out, “and no."

His fingers hook into the waistband of your tights and panties. He pulls them off your legs agonisingly slow.

A string of arousal drips from your core and sticks to your panties.

"Does it feel good? To be touched?" Kai already knows the answer. He silently admires your bare and vulnerable body standing before him. He loves how easily you respond to his touch.

"Yes," you admit, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to build some friction. Your body was so easily aroused, it was pathetically humiliating.

"Lay down," Kai instructs, shifting to give you the space to lay on the bed.

You lay back on the bed with shaky breaths. Your legs bend at the knee and your ankles stay clamped together.

Kai steps away from the bed and strips to a pair of grey boxers. The sight alone ignites a dull pulse between your legs.

He looked like he’d walked straight out of a men’s fitness magazine. Kai was beautiful and carried this dangerous confidence with him. For a moment, it felt like you’d met a more traditional way, and not though the dark web.

Kai lays beside you, and clings onto your opposite hip. He leans in and his lips ghost over yours. Even just a hint of feeling them on yours was exciting to you.

"I knew I had to have you," he whispers, planting a kiss on your cheek, “you’re so delicate.”

Kai trailed gentle kisses to the corner of your mouth. Your core didn’t let up; continuing to pulse in ramped need.

His lips suddenly meet yours. They move in perfect synchronicity with yours. His warm tongue prods at your tightened lips, begging to explore the inside of your mouth. You open your mouth, moaning softly as his tongue takes on yours in a sticky battle for dominance.

Your thighs rub together as Kai's softly pinches your erect nipple. His mouth leaves yours and instead, attaches to one of your hardened peaks. He swirls his tongue around it before sucking it into his mouth. A low rumble works its way from the back of his throat.

Kai's cock twitches as he hears your first whimper of pleasure. He sinks his teeth softly into your perked bud hoping to get a small whine from you. Your cunt weeps with every noise you make. It begged to be attended to.

"You make such pretty sounds," Kai whispers against your skin as his kisses travel downwards.

You watch with heavy eyes as he trails kisses from your breast to your hip bone. He places a firm hand on your knee. You lurch forward and your mouth opens to object.

"Don’t talk, just spread your legs," he uses light force on your knee to open your legs. Your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you’re exposed fully to him.

Kai situates his head between your open legs and sucks in a shuddering breath.

He positions his fingers over your clit, applying enough pressure to have your hips jolt into his hand.

"Someone is needy," he hums, admiring your glistening cunt as it clenches around nothing.

"Kai," his name rolls off your lips pleadingly. Kai uses a single finger to dip between your folds and scoop your arousal. He pops his finger in his mouth and closes his eyes contently at the taste.

He opens his eyes and they peer hungrily into yours. He was silently asking to go down on you.

"Please," you whine in torment.

Kai wraps his arms around your thighs and brings your pussy impossibly closer to his face.

He sets out to work straight away, drawing your small, swollen clit between his wet lips and sucking on it softly. The foreign spike in pleasure had your body trembling.

Kai sets a flat tongue against your clit, before licking a thick stripe to your entrance. He probes inside with the tip of his tongue. He was already obsessed with the way you tasted.

"Your little pussy is perfect, made just for me," Kai mumbles against your pussy. The vibrations shoot through your core.

In response, your hips buckle up to meet his face. But Kai continues to slurp and suck at your heat. His palms lay flat against your hips to hold you in place as he pleasures your pussy. He wanted to get as many sounds out of you as possible.

A rising heat forms in your lower abdomen and you squirm under Kai's touch. Your orgasm builds rapidly as your walls continue to pulse,

Kai takes the opportunity to toy at your entrance with the pad of his thumb. He eventually sinks it inside you. The stretch is only minimal, but you still let out a small cry.

"Shh, it's okay," he reassures you, looking up at you and noticing your discomfort.

He begins to move his thumb, thrusting it slowly inside you. He hushes your every cry, until they switch to small moans.

"How's that feel?" Kai asks, removing his thumb and using it to brush slick over your clit.

"Better. It feels good," you say, propping yourself up on your elbows. You needed to get a better look at what he was doing to you.

"I'm gonna put in two now. Okay?" He doesn’t wait for a response, instead sliding his big fingers inside you.

His fingers fit snugly inside you. You grip around him with uncertainty. The deeper he plunges, the more uncomfortable it gets.

Another cry pushes past your lips as he pushes his fingers in knuckle deep.

"That's it," he coos, "you're doing so well, baby."

His consolation makes you relax and soon he's able to curl his fingers up to where it swells to his touch.

Kai lets out a low grown as your tiny cries turn into desperate gasps for air.

Your legs spread further apart as you approach your peak. You cover your mouth with your hands to hush your moans.

“Oh Kai, I’m sorry I’m gonna-”

“Don’t be sorry, let go doll. You’re allowed to cum,” Kai continues to lap at your swollen clit until a feverish heat pulsates through your body.

Kai moans against your pussy as your ever-tightening hole clenches in time with the pulse of your hardened bud. You cry out as your orgasm washes over you in strong waves.

When you’d come down from your high, Kai pulls away, panting for air. He wipes the slick off his chin with the back of his hand. You look at him in awe with doe-like eyes, never thinking that your dark web experience would be even remotely close to this.

“Come here,” Kai says softly, moving off the bed to stand at its foot. You sit up and position yourself on all fours to crawl over to him.

Your face is met with his clothed erection. You notice the tiny wet patch where the outline of his tip is. Your mouth waters thinking of what he has hiding under the fabric of his boxers. It was unlike you to be so ravenous for any man.

“Stick out your tongue,” Kai tucks his forefinger and thumb under your chin and brings your face up to look at his.

You maintain eye contact as your tongue sweeps across your bottom lip and then sticks out.

Kai pulls down his boxers, never once breaking eye contact. He positions his leaky tip over the warm expanse of your tongue. He tasted salty, a flavour you weren’t expecting.

Kai runs his tip hesitantly across your tongue. You begin to drool down your chin from a build up of spit.

“Open your mouth for me, baby,” Kai maintains a firm grip on your chin as he forces your mouth open.

“That’s it,” he groans, sliding the swollen, angry tip of his cock into your mouth, “just like that, baby”. You hold your breath as his cock fills your mouth. He rocks his hips slowly into the back of your throat.

Kai lets out a soft moan as he feels your tongue on the underside of his cock, sliding from the middle of his shaft to the sensitive slit indenting his tip.

“Such a pretty little mouth,” he says with a satisfied sigh. Unable to hold your breath any longer, you discover you can breathe from your nose.

His hand lays steadily on the top of your head as he guides his cock deeper into your throat. You gag as he nudges the back of your throat. He holds your head securely in place. Panic sets in as you look up at him with a tear cascading down your cheek. You were hoping he’d take it as a sign to let go. But Kai persists, fucking your mouth in a way that has your throat ache.

Placing a hand on his thigh, you try and push him away. Kai eventually takes the hint, yanking your mouth from around his cock, leaving a rope of saliva still stuck to him.

You double over as you cough to soothe your throat. You swallow all the spit that accumulated in your mouth. Kai chuckles at your inexperience. He found your innocence amusing knowing he’s about to take it away. He softly pushes you back onto the bed.

“Bit much for your first time?” Kai asks as you lay with your legs spread for him. You nod; not feeling able to form a coherent sentence just yet.

“It felt so good though,” he says with a small whine, “I loved watching you choke on it.”

Your eyes widen in surprise as he nudges his tip between your soaked folds. Your breath catches in your throat as his cock made the first advance inside you, splitting you open only slightly. Your cunt transuded with a bountiful amount of slick, seeping down the tip of Kai’s cock and drenching the sheets beneath you. Your body was more than ready for Kai. He thrust his hips forward, burying himself entirely in your cunt.

His eyes become impossibly darker as his pupils grew triple in size.

The moan he lets out after being completely surrounded by you was low and animalistic. Your hands shoot out to grab a hold of Kai’s shoulders as a pang of discomfort shoots through your core. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as you hopelessly stare up at the man above you.

“Kai, it hurts,” you whine as a tear falls. Kai’s expression doesn’t soften like you expect it too. He pulls out entirely, to just to slam back into you for a second time. You yelp in surprise and dig your nails into his shoulder blades at the sudden fullness. Kai begins to slowly rock his hips. Your mouth falls open and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and adjust to his size.

Kai can barely think straight, preoccupied by the way he’s stretching you out. He wonders how he managed to fit himself inside something so small and tight.

As the tears continue to run down your face, Kai wipes under your eye with his thumb.

“Kai! Please... talk to me…” you plead, digging your fingernails into his skin deeper. You were sure you’d leave bloodied crescent-moon indents in their wake.

Kai doesn’t notice your pleading nor the pain your fingernails were trying to inflict. He was consumed by a need to finish inside you.

Had you even thought of a condom? Kai certainly didn’t. He knew his intentions were to stuff his cum so far inside you it couldn’t spill out.

You were his, and unbeknownst to you, this arrangement was far from over. Like Kai promised, he’d do anything to get his hands on you. Even if that meant he had to do it the hard way.

Your mind began to race with irrational thoughts. You’d finally built up the courage to open your eyes again. Much to your disbelief, Kai’s were closed, and his face was twisted in some sort of sick pleasure. Yet, every thrust of his hips earnt another cowardly whimper from you. You were beginning to think you’d never adjust to his size.

“Y/N,” your name sultrily rolls of his tongue making your ears perk up, “you’re taking me so well, baby.”

Your lips curl into a small smile hearing his voice again.

“I’m gonna cum soon, okay? But I need to go a little faster, do you think you can take it?” Kai’s eyes flutter open and suddenly he’s peering down at you. You nod, mentally preparing yourself to be at his disposal. Kai leans down and plants a small kiss on your cheek.

“Say it. I need to hear you say it,” Kai growls, his fists balling the sheets by your head. You open your mouth to speak but your lips quiver in fear. You tongue juts out to wet them.

“Yes, Kai,” you respond finally, before another gasp pushes its way passed your lips.

Kai shows no mercy, snapping his hips furiously. The bedhead hits the wall again and again. The subtle knock rings loudly in your ears alongside every soft groan your cunt squeezes out of Kai.

He feels so deep inside you that you swear he’s rubbing up against your cervix.

“Oh fuckfuckfuck,” Kai seethes between grit teeth as he chases his own orgasm. Your core ached, but you still ran a hand reassuringly through his hair. You weren’t sure if it would help, or how to help, but you knew once he was finished, it would be done.

Kai snatches your hand in his, squeezing it in a tight fist as he cums. His last few thrusts were slow and sloppy.

He pulls out finally, pulling his glistening cock away from your cunt. You hadn’t noticed the blood until you reached down to cup yourself. It felt a lot wetter than usual.

“It’s normal,” Kai could read your panicked expression as you sat up in the bed.

“It is?” you asked, still perplexed. This wasn’t how you ever pictured it. It wasn’t supposed to hurt and you weren’t supposed to bleed.

“Yeah,” he says nonchalantly, pulling up his boxers without cleaning himself off.

You nod, exhaling as you get off the bed to dress yourself. Your body continues to throb and ache as you slide on your tights and pull your shirt over your head. You wondered when everything would stop hurting.

Once fully dressed, you turned back towards Kai, prepared to seal the deal and leave this motel room.

Nothing was ever that easy with Kai.

When you’d turned, you were face to face with a knife, held out inches from your face and glimmering in the overhead light. Your eyes zero in on two more people wearing eery clown costumes.

You freeze in place, taking a precautionary step back. A maniacal smile spreads across Kai’s face as the clowns step forward.

“Kai?” you ask softly, raising your shaking hands up in the air to show you weren’t a threat. This was all too good to be true. Who the fuck are they and where did they come from?

“The money? Kai?” you try again, your words only coming out a whisper.

“You get your money, sweetheart,” Kai reassures you and the clowns laugh. He pulls something that looks like a piece of rope from his pocket.

“...But I’m not done with you. Yet.”

#evan peters #evan peters fanfic #evan peters requests #evan peters fanfiction #evan peters imagine #evan peters smut #evan peters x reader #american horror story #2nd person pov #fem!reader #ahs kai anderson #kai anderson smut #kai anderson #kai anderson fan fiction #kai anderson x reader #ahs fanfic #ahsfx #ahs fandom #ahs cult

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astrum-aetherium · 1 year ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ astrum's the secret history & henry winter thirst masterlist ⋆｡°✩

hi, all! because we are slowly but surely approaching the 200 posts mark and this blog hasn't even been up for a full month, i've decided to provide all those who are new to my page a handy tool to facilitate orientation. when you expand this post, you will be greeted with a summary of all of my original posts and asks regarding the topic of my blog — incessant, tenacious, shameless thirst for the secret history's very own henry marchbanks winter.

admittedly, i am a complete sucker for lists and organizational tools, which is why this will simply be a heavenly experience for me — even more so because i'm currently procrastinating writing my term paper. however, without much further ado — find the list below the cut.

-> IMPORTANT NOTE: due to the link limit on this post, i can no longer expand it to my liking. because i don't want to create a second masterlist (just yet), however, you will find any newer uploads linked in my own reblog of this post (look in the notes).

˚₊· ❥ general — sfw, informative, personal

my opinion on tsh / addressing the problematic aspects of tsh / henry's middle name being 'marchbanks' and a possible explanation / what henry might've whispered to camilla / my opinion on whether or not henry and camilla were in love / my fancast(s) for henry / my favorite books / my opinion on dorian gray as a character (+ parallels with tsh) / comparing henry to marble statues / modern media henry would be into / elaboration on camilla macaulay / will i be writing about other tsh characters? / tips on getting into classical studies / country house daydreams

˚₊· ❥ henry winter nsfw scenarios

general headcanons about henry's sexual preferences / summer thigh riding / car sex / study date sex / mating press position with henry / riding henry / scratching his back during intimacy / bondage with henry / henry being into bdsm / henry's dirty talk part one / henry's dirty talk part two / neck teasing & biting / henry and cnc / dumbification with henry / henry sucking his partner's fingers / sucking henry's fingers / henry & cigarettes after sex / henry physically responding to pleasure / henry being distracted by your moans while studying / henry & the smell of gasoline / henry muffling you due to your volume / relentlessly teasing henry / cockwarming during studying / sex at bunny's funeral / henry calling you 'good girl' / henry and aftercare / giving henry head to cure his headache / size kink with henry / ignoring henry while he gives you head / clit spanking with henry + coming from your clit being spanked / you and henry at the beach / doggy style position with henry / henry with an inexperienced partner / inexperienced henry with an experienced partner / being bratty with dom!henry + being bratty and fighting henry back / henry burning you with his cigarette / shotgunning a cigarette with henry / jacking henry off with pretty nails / henry using his diary for dirty entries in latin

-> own category — sub!henry: general headcanons / ignoring needy sub!henry / sub!henry punishing you back / making sub!henry beg + reaction to his begging / mirror in front of sub!henry / henry still being dominant while subbing

˚₊· ❥ henry winter sfw / mildly nsfw scenarios

henry & hanahaki disease au / henry with a polar opposite partner / henry with a partner similar to judy / spoiling his partner / getting off on spoiling his partner / enemies to lovers with henry / best friends to lovers with henry / academic rivals with henry / henry being soft(er) with his partner / henry during your period / henry's birthday party at francis' country estate / falling asleep on henry whilst reading / owning a locket with henry's face in it

˚₊· ❥ general satiric / amusing scenarios

gay hampden / list of pop culture scenarios flea wants the greek class to go through / henry holding a baby / playing roblox with the greek class / greek class barbenheimer feud / locking the greek class in a room with the percy jackson movies / the greek class' opinions on percy jackson / being locked in a room with henry / henry watching reality shows with you / henry turning up at your house / showing the greek class colleen ballinger's apology video / keeping the greek class in a glass terrarium / forgetting henry in the cereal isle at walgreens / the greek class being actual people (+ bunny shitting headcanon) / bunny possibly being okay (they revoked their statement) / henry writing smut in his diary

˚₊· ❥ henry winter scenarios inspired by songs

taylor swift — last kiss / taylor swift — illicit affairs / dead girl walking part one + part two

˚₊· ❥ bonus: prose and poetry shared by my saturn anon

one — marble / two — divinity / three — dancing in the rain / four — intimacy overseas

#astrum masterlist #astrum asks #the secret history #dark academia #henry winter imagine #henry winter x reader #henry winter thirst #indulgent thoughts #henry winter smut

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the-kr8tor · 1 year ago

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Parallel Cut

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 4.3k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (Hobie is taller than r though) , TW violence, CW injury, CW food mention, suggestive content.

My Navigation

Thread the Needle Masterlist

CHAPTER 10 >>> EPILOGUE

You walk through aunt Janet's shop, eyes adjusting to the lights. The smell of the store wafts through your senses, the old carpet smell, rows and rows of fabric displayed on the shelves smelling of chemicals and dye. There's a faint smell of leather lingering in the air, reminding you of Hobie. Trainers squeak briefly on the floor, waking you up from your zombie like trance.

When did you even get here?

Your mind has been noisy since yesterday, you've mostly been on autopilot, muscle memory guiding you to your destination. Rubbing your tired eyes, barely sleeping last night, you had the urge to knock on Hobie's door to help soothe your screaming head. You feel a throbbing pain behind your eyes, temple aching in a stabbing headache.

You make your way towards the register, finding it empty, you ring the call bell.

"I'll be there in a second" Janet's voice answers. You have no energy to reply back.

Bouncing on the balls of your feet, fingers fiddling with your ring, its red beady eyes glaring at you, you turn it around so that it faces your palm. Clutching your hand into a tight fist, you're sure it leaves a spider shaped indent on your soft skin.

You already know you're not gonna take the offer so why are you feeling this way? Is it because you're afraid of telling Hobie? If you did, what would be his reaction to it? Whatever it is, you won't accept the job. You only have one Hobie, there'll always be another job, right?

Exhaling, you scratch off a bit of your nail polish, it falls on the floor like snowflakes. Janet finally makes an appearance, cane thumping against carpet, face lighting up when she sees you.

"And here I thought you wouldn't pick up your order" she chuckles, eyes staying on your leather jacket. "Nice jacket, wonder whose that is?" Janet gives you a teasing look, eyebrow raising knowingly.

Giving her a shy smile, you bite your lip. "He made the move– well it was a team effort for the both of us" chuckling, your eyes twinkle when talking about him.

Janet claps her hand, you jump slightly at the cracking sound. For an old woman she could clap really loud. She grins widely at you, smile lines prominent.

"Oh my days! Finally!" She clutches her pearls, "oh so proud of you, sweetheart. Tell me, How'd it go? Only if you're comfortable of course"

"Well he made this really dramatic entrance at the show, running late of course" Janet hangs on to every word, eyes flickering to your tired ones. "After he walked on the runway he just upped and kissed me" you say still in disbelief, happy that you've finally told someone else in person.

Telling Yuri and the others on the phone wasn't as satisfying as you thought it would be. Still, their happy screeches and between 'told you so's'– It left a very giddy look on your face while Hobie rolls his eyes at Yuri telling James he owes her money. Ned was yelling the entire time, chanting 'I did that!' On the speaker, so loud in fact you thought he was gonna break it.

You didn't even mean to tell them at first, but when you answered the phone, Hobie's phone at three am, voice hoarse, sleep still in your eyes with Hobie tangled around your body, telling you in his sleep deprived voice to drop the call, it's safe to say your eardrums almost burst out with (a very drunk) Ned's surprised screech followed by (an equally drunk) Yuri and James. There goes keeping it a secret for a while till you two get the hang of things.

Despite that, your past thoughts linger in the back of your head, hammering loudly, threatening to break down your defensive walls.

"But you don't look too happy" Janet pipes up after your retelling. She looks concerned, lips turning into a thin line. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I'm really happy" Voice quiet, surprised that she saw through the cracks. You're really happy but the offer has your very being torn in half. Occupying your thoughts, eating you inside.

"Honey, I have five children and eleven grandkids, trust me I can tell." She sighs, eyes softening. "You don't have to tell me, but if that boy did something–"

Shaking your head, you're prepared to defend Hobie with your life. "It's not him." With a wobbly breath, you ask her for advice. "Did you ever have to leave someone you love because it'll be better in the long run?"

"Depends, better for whom exactly?" She turns around, grabbing your order from the shelf behind her. "And why would it be better for them?" Bringing the rolls of fabric on the counter with a thump.

"Nevermind, it's nothing" you retract your previous words. Palm aching from how hard you're clenching your fists, giving her a tight lipped smile.

Janet nods, genuine concern on her face. "I don't want to push you, but if you still want my advice just ask." She rings up your purchase.

"Thank you" paying for the fabric, you walk away from the cashier. An idea pops up wherein you don't have to directly ask, because if you did, it would make it real.

"A friend of mine was offered a job" biting your lip, you're technically not lying to her since your classmate Hannah got offered the same thing as you.

Walking back to the counter, Janet listens intently. "And uh, she's worrying about leaving her friends because the job requires her to move away," you pause for a brief second. "Really far away. And she hasn't told them"

"Give your friend my congratulations then." She smiles at you, "Was it a good offer at least?"

"Yeah, they gave m–her a lot to consider. It's a great opportunity for her," with all the numerous visits at her shop, you've grown to trust Aunt Janet with her wisdom in life, not to mention you're quite similar to each other. You value her opinion.

"But she's anxious because she wants to stay with her friend?" You nod at her question, knowing exactly what she's implying. "Well, ask her what was her initial reaction to the news, that usually gives a lot of information on what she truly feels" remembering your excitement and happy first reaction, you try to cover it up in your mind.

"She really doesn't want to leave him behind" your eyes start watering at the thought.

"Does she love him?"

"A lot, she loves him so much it hurts sometimes." You inhale at the confession, feeling guilty that you're dumping it all on Janet.

She takes your clenched hand that's been shaking on the counter, unclenching it, your nails leave half moon indents on your palms.

"Just talk to him, tell him. He'll help her figure it out, better than this old woman can" Janet squeezes your hand. You nod, taking her advice.

"Thank you, I'll tell her that" smiling at aunt Janet, you blink away the tears pooling in your watery eyes.

"Do you want to have a cup of tea? My daughter just sent me a batch from India. I think you'll like it." Janet asks, determined to help ease your mind off of things.

"Okay, sure" accepting, she leads you behind the counter into the back of the store.

—

You wave to Janet goodbye, stomach full of tea and biscuits. Opening the door, you stop in your tracks.

Hobie leans on his bike, grinning widely as he sees you come out of the store. He gives you a look that sweeps you off your feet, feeling like you're back in school having a crush on your best friend. Your heart sings in his presence, a giddy smile on your lips, practically skipping over to him.

"Hi, what are you doing here?" Your smile turns into a frown when you spot a cut on his lip. "Holy shit! What happened? Who did this to you?" Anger settles in your chest. Hands carefully cupping his jaw, scanning for more injuries. You grit your teeth, winching at the thought of him getting hurt.

"It's nothing I can't handle, you should've seen the tosser who tried to take me on" He holds your wrist, calloused fingertips massaging the tensed muscle.

"Are you okay? Any pain?"

"I'm fine, I can barely feel it now" it's how he finds out about his enhanced healing, thanks to the ability, he healed it in no time. The injury looked much worse before coming to you. Still, he savors you doting on him, "Gromit, I'm fine, yeah? Don't worry"

You let out a breath you didn't notice you were holding. Hand sliding down to his neck, fingers fiddling with his necklace. "Are you sure? Let's just go home for today, then you can tell me who I need to beat up" pulling back, your eyebrows knitted together.

"Nah, c'mon. I feel better now that you're here" Hobie pats the seat of the motorcycle. Noticing that you haven't moved, he tilts his head, giving you his most convincing smile. "Gromit, love, cherry" He calls every nickname you have until there's a shy smile on your lips, he even calls your most embarrassing childhood nicknames, "little worm, pebbles, guppy" you hide behind your hand.

"Okay, enough" you laugh, embarrassed at the names, especially that you're on a semi busy street. Taking your hands away from your face to cup Hobie's mouth. He smiles underneath it.

"There she is" Hobie brings you closer, pulling you by the sleeve of his jacket.

"I hate you" you grin through it, eyes flicking down to his lips, worried that you might exacerbate his injury if you kiss him right there and then.

He chuckles deeply, "You love me though" Hobie shuts down your apprehensiveness, lips a breath away from yours.

Sighing, you act exasperated but your love struck smile betrays you. "Unfortunately, I do" you quip back, words stitched with fondness. Closing your eyes, he guides you into the kiss. Hands flying to the back of his neck, deepening it further.

The nagging feeling stays, whispering and taunting. You push it far back in your mind, it gnaws and claws, begging to be let out.

—

You whistle out at the breathtaking view in front of you, clutching the bag of fish and chips in your arms, Hobie helps you take off your helmet. The cliff overlooks the city's landscape, sunset turning everything around you in an orange glow. To your right is a dozen or so picnic tables, moss clings to the wood, still it stands tall. Behind is the woods, thick enough to get lost in, curved oak and pine looming like giants. Birds chirp in the background adding to the calm scenery.

"Do you take all your women here?" You ask teasingly half seriously.

"Only the ones I've pined for since childhood" he joins your side, shoving you with his hip lightly. Hobie takes the bag from your arm in exchange for his hand. Intertwining his fingers with yours as heat rises to your cold cheeks.

You and Hobie are the only ones in the place, save for a few birds and critters hanging around. Cold air nips at your neck, the sun making it warm enough to enjoy the weather.

Hand in hand, he guides you towards one of the tables. Sitting down, you inhale the fresh air. Hobie gives you your share of chips, you smile at him appreciatively.

"So, who do I have to beat up?" You ask, cracking your knuckles for added effect.

Hobie chortles, "hell, I'll even help you"

"What happened anyway?"

He sighs, frustrated. "We got blocked, they knocked down one of us for no reason. Things escalated" Hobie saves you from the violence. "Fuckin' Wilson Fisk still sits pretty up in his ivory tower" his frustration barks back. "Sorry" He exhales, unclenching his fists.

"Don't be, I should've been there. I'm the one who should be sorry" You take his hand, squeezing it three times.

"If you were there, you could've gotten hurt. Don't think I can handle that" The thought of you almost getting trampled back in the pit still weighs heavy in his mind. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a quick yet affectionate kiss over your skin. "Everyone's fairly okay, we got out early. We'll try again though"

"I'll be there next time, are you sure it's not hurting anymore? Once we get back home, I'll put some betadine over it" the thought of you on his lap, cooing and cleaning his wounds fills him with affection.

"I'm sure, love" Hobie exhales. "Let's eat, it's starting to get cold" you nod, still concerned for him. Hobie watches your eyes roam around the greenery. "D'you seriously not remember this place?" Sitting next to you, he sips at his drink, avoiding his cut lip.

"Why? have we been here before?"

"Yeah, school field trip. Our classes had the same schedule. This is where we ate lunch, remember now?"

"Oh, shit!" Recognition flashes on your face. "Where we got left behind by the bus!"

"Mm-hmm" He points at you with a mouthful of chips.

"We got left behind because you were too busy snogging what's her face behind a tree to remember the call time"

"No, I wasn't," he shakes his head. "You gotta get your memory checked, love"

"Nuh-uh, I remember it because it was what everyone was talking about"

"We got left behind by the bus because I was lookin' for you" his face turning serious.

"What?"

"I never snogged anyone here" he scoffs, "wankers were stirring up rumours 'bout me again." Hobie scoots closer to you, "I got back to the bus after going to the toilets. I watched your bus get filled up but I never saw you get on. So I came back out to look for you"

You nod, trying to recollect the memory.

He walks you back to that day. "I looked around, asked your classmates. No one saw you. I was starting to panic, thinkin' you got lost in the woods, tempted by a ghoul or somethin'" you snort at his joke. "Found you ten minutes later, crouched on the grass, drawing a fucking flower"

You hide your face in embarrassment, remembering exactly why you hid there. Memory brings you back to that day.

Hobie finally finds you, he feels like he can breathe again. Sitting quietly next to you, his eyes linger on the side of your face. Clutching your sketchbook and pencil in a tight knuckle grip.

You sat there in silence until you forgave yourself for loving him.

"Oh fuck" voice muffled by your hands. "We were stuck here for like three fucking hours because I was such a dramatic bitch!"

"Well, it was a pretty flower" he tries to make you feel better.

"That was not my best moment" you chuckle, "I remember running there because I heard about you kissing someone. Guess I've got a penchant for running away huh?"

"No matter, I'll keep trying to find you whenever you do," you smile sweetly at his words. "Or just catch you before you do"

"You're implying that there's going to be something for me to run away from" you joke, Hobie goes with your bit.

"I don't think there's any more crude rumours of me out there. Think you're good, love." You shake your head with a playful roll of your eyes, cleaning a crumb off his cheek. Hobie gives you a peck on your finger tip as a thank you.

A comfortable silence blankets you both, your mind takes the quiet to its advantage, it goes back to Janet's advice. Mrs. Williams' words echo around you, layered on top of Riley's offer. Heart beating fast, the plastic spoon snaps in half as you grip it too tightly.

Hobie's head turns towards the crunching sound, "you alright? Let me see, you might have splinters"

"I'm okay, just flimsy plastic"

"Here, you can share mine."

"Thanks"

Silence permeates the air once again.

"I need to tell you something" you and Hobie say at the same time.

"Age before beauty" He pokes your side with a chuckle.

You bite your lip, gaze lingering somewhere other than his face. Eyes moving at the gaps of sunlight on the trees. Maybe you shouldn't tell him, you're gonna stay with him anyway, what's the point? You find It painfully difficult.

Because if you did tell him, it would all feel sickenly real. A gut feeling fluttering restlessly, mind predicting the outcome of the conversation.

Hobie notices your apprehensiveness, he calls your name tenderly. Encouraging you to speak your mind.

"Do you remember that bloke back at the fashion show?" Bravery taking over with a shaky voice.

Humming in understanding, Hobie moves his leg over the bench, straddling it to look at you fully.

You fake a smile through it, "well he offered me a job"

"Bloody good on you, love!" He pats your arm, hand staying on it. "Well deserved!"

You smile bashfully at his reaction. "Thanks, but I'm not gonna take it" you bravely look at him, focusing on the slow knit of his brows.

"Why not? 's a good opportunity" his hand slides down your arm, landing on your thigh, unmoving, tethering you to him.

"It's just that– they want me to move to the US for it." Sighing, "so, I'm not taking it" you watch as Hobie's smile fades, the cogs in his head moving rapidly, jaw clenching, wrapping his mind to what you just said.

"Sorry, what was it you're gonna say?" Trying to change the topic, Hobie takes your hand in his.

Heart lodged in his throat, Hobie stays quiet for a minute, for you it seemed like forever. The only sounds are the leaves blowing in the cool air, birds happily chirping as if they're mocking you. Faint traffic beeps from below, it might as well be right next to you with how deafening the silence is. The food you ate sits weirdly in your stomach. You try to even out your breathing as Hobie finally opens his mouth to speak.

"I fell for you right here, did you know that?" He squeezes your hand. You did not expect for him to say that, shaking your head, your heart beats a thousand times per minute.

"You gave me a sandwich– made me one, actually" he continues as you listen on. "Because you know I wouldn't bring my own lunch. You cared for me when no one else did. Then you upped and disappeared that day and–" Hobie releases a shuddering breath. "I just panicked. Then that turned into relief when I finally found you."

Stray tears slide down your cheeks. "As I sat down next to you, realizing that I was panicking because I loved you. And was afraid you were already gone without knowing how much loved you were"

A sob breaks through when you see his watery eyes, something you would've never thought of ever seeing from the strongest person you know and love.

"Hobie–"

"Take it, take the offer" he says woefully.

You shake your head like a child throwing a tantrum. "No, I'm not leaving you," your voice breaking. "I can't"

"You've wanted this since–before you've even met me." Hobie chuckles humorlessly. "I don't want to hold you back" softly, he cups your face in both hands, afraid of what he'll do next. "Do you want it? I won't hold it against you, I want you to fulfill your dreams" even if I'm not a part of it.

You nod your head slowly, answering his question, soft hands holding his trembling ones tightly. "Please, just say the words and I'll stay." You sniff, acting brave. "Please say it!" Balling his shirt in your fists. You hope, wish that he changes his mind. That he would tell you to stay with him. But you know him better, Hobie's a lot of things, selfish isn't one of them.

He stares at your glimmering eyes, watching his own face contort into sorrow. Killing the part of him that wants you to stay.

"You need to go" sobs wracked your body when he utters the words. The ground would've swallowed you whole if not for his hold on you. But it'll be okay if it did as long as you fall with him.

It's love in its most painful form.

His heart breaks for what he's about to do. Hobie takes out his favour card from his pocket, punching out all the remaining logos. You can barely see through your tears while he does it, the card looks bare in his hands. Small circles of logos taken by a gust of wind. He calls your name softly with no malice or resentment in his voice.

Nothing remains on the piece of paper.

You want him to scream and curse at you, make him feel something else instead of sadness. Instead, Hobie hugs you through it, shoulders shaking, hands wrapped around you protectively. Your hands cling to his vest like it's your lifeline.

You hate that you broke his heart after filling it with love.

In between weeping, you mumble 'sorries' love overflowing for each other, cups filling to the bream.

"I'm sorry," you look at him through the tears, cheek on his broad chest, he shakes his head, rocking you slightly in his arms. You feel his racing heartbeat.

"Do you regret this?" Us? You ask tentatively, sniffling. You don't want him to resent you for stringing him along just to leave him right after.

"No, never. I'll do it all over again if I have to.'' He doesn't regret loving you or even confessing, the only thing he grieves over is that it took him too long to do so, he would've had more time with you.

He resents himself.

"I'll wait for you" he blurts out through the tears.

"Please, don't. You don't have to"

"I've waited for you for as long as I could remember and I'll wait for decades more if I have to." He wipes your cheeks, you savour him with every touch. Hobie asks the dreaded question, "when are you leaving?" Whispering it to you so that the world doesn't know. Just you and him on that park bench, bodies in a tight embrace, love pouring out from every pore.

"In two months" you answer with a frown, tears still flowing freely.

"It'll be the best two months of your life then" he captures your lips in a solemn kiss, memorizing every detail, engraving it into his brain.

—

Hobie kept his promise, those two months were the best you've ever had. You and Hobie did everything you've ever wanted together. Moved in with him on that houseboat you've briefly called your home.

Bodies joined together on his sheets you've mended, love and laughter lit up the entire house. With every caress and whispered confessions sends you two reeling over the edge.

Still, your parting looms over your heads. Tears wiped away as soon as they started, reminding you that you won't be truly apart when your very souls have been intertwined since the beginning.

With tearful eyes and sad smiles you part with the love of your life. Promises of late night calls and hand written letters falling on both your lips. Kisses lingering, touch fading as you fly off to your new life.

Hobie takes your photo with him on every patrol, tucked safely inside his leather vest, fingers gliding over the seams you've stitched together.

You look at the polaroid of you and Hobie before bed as you end your call with him, his voice anchoring you. Looking at the moon on your small window brings you comfort that the same one watches over him.

He wakes up alone, sun beaming down on his face, smiling fondly, the thought of the same sun bearing down on you fills the hole in his heart. Reminders of you stays in his home, *your home. Throw pillows on his lumpy couch, your slippers in the bathroom, mug sitting next to his. He leaves it where you last put them, waiting for you.

You endure.

Slowly but surely you grow accustomed to your new life, getting used to the empty space beside you. You meet like minded friends, they help you get out of your shell.

You find yourself, the same one you've lost years ago.

Both of you try to make time for each other even with the time difference and busy schedules. You write letters sprayed with your perfume, a piece of fabric from your newest design is taped inside, words filled with adoration and content. Hobie replies immediately back, with blood stained knuckles he writes quickly. He leaves a dried flower inside the envelope, his letters always ending with the same three words.

After a rough battle, Hobie finds himself recruited to some society full of people with abilities like him. He doesn't seem so lonely anymore. A heavy weight lifted off his shoulders.

You see Spider-Man on TV one day, smiling as the reporter tells the audience that Wilson Fisk is finally out of power thanks to the spandex and leather clad hero. Even with the grainy footage, you recognize Spider-Man's vest.

You dream of each other, dreams getting blurry every night until it's foggy and muddy, turning into a dreamless sleep.

Hobie sees your familiar face, a version of you at least, he doesn't run to her or talk, just watches with a faint smile on his lips. Glad that you're happy in every dimension. He harbours no sadness or even guilt, just love. He'd always miss you but his happiness for you would always win over the emotion.

With each sunrise he wakes up to, satisfaction flowing through him, knowing he chose well. One day he looks next to him without sadness blooming in his chest, just a fond smile under his mask.

He's proud of you and you're proud of him. Sometimes that's enough.

Your love for each other never waned, it stood dormant in your hearts, waiting and yearning for the day you finally reunite.

Until you thread the needle again.

A/N: AHHH!! IT'S FINALLY DONE! From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading, and interacting with my lil story! And thank you for sticking around this long ❤️

Until next time, lovelies (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

(Please read the epilogue when it comes out ily)

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