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fireside-fanfics · 11 days ago

Note

Hiiii

Can you do a fic for Joaquin Torres x pregnant reader where shes having a hard time because someone (e.g. family member) is being a terrible person and just hating on the reader for anything and everything regardless of whether shes pregnant or not (imagine MIL from hell)

I got really carried away with this fic and I really enjoyed writing it! I hope you like it!

Our Kind of Love

Cami had always been the middle child; she was the only girl in a house full of loud, chaotic, overprotective brothers. Seven kids. Six boys. One girl with curls too big, feelings too loud, and skin too brown for her mother’s approval. She was Afro-Latina, like her father, who called her Reina and never once tried to shrink her. He taught his kids Spanish by singing boleros during bath time and reading poems by Nicolás Guillén at night. He taught Cami to hold her head high, to take up space, to be proud of all of who she was—even when her mother told her to quiet down or “stop acting like a little man” every time she had an opinion.

Her parents had divorced when she was six right after her baby brother was born. Most of her siblings had stayed with her mom, either by court default or inertia. But even then, even that young, Cami had drifted toward her father’s house like a flower finding sunlight. At first it was just weekends. Then school nights. Then most of the week. By the time she hit middle school, she lived there full-time.

Her mom didn’t fight it, didn’t beg her to stay, didn’t cry or question or even flinch. She just let Cami go, but the absence of custody wasn’t the absence of cruelty. Even from a distance, her mother knew how to reach for her with claws hidden in polite smiles. Phone calls full of backhanded compliments. Family parties with cutting remarks in front of cousins. Snide comments about her hair, her laugh, her “attitude,” and later, about the kind of men she dated—until Joaquín finally asked her to be his girlfriend when they were 22.

Joaquín had been her best friend since pre-K. He saw through her silence long before anyone else did. His family had welcomed her in without question: fed her, hugged her, slipped her inside jokes and bendiciones and warmth like it was second nature. His mom called her mija by the third sleepover. His dad taught her how to make tamarindo juice and grilled her about her favorite books. They were the first adults besides her dad who made her feel safe.

She enlisted in the Air Force with Joaquín the minute they graduated high school, like they'd always promised each other they would. They made it through basic, through their first deployment, through dust storms and sleepless nights and letters home that never arrived on time. And when they got back, nineteen and alive and exhausted and full of a different kind of ache, they finally stopped pretending they weren’t in love.

Cami didn’t slam doors. She never raised her voice, never snapped back. She just took it. She didn’t allow herself to react the way her body begged her to—because growing up with a mother like hers had taught her early: emotion was ammunition. And her mom? She never missed a shot. So when Cami—nearly eight months pregnant, jaw tight and hands shaking—stepped through the door of the apartment she shared with Joaquín and gently clicked the door shut behind her, Joaquín immediately knew something was wrong.

He looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, crib instructions in one hand, Allen wrench in the other.

“Hey, hermosa,” Joaquín said softly. “Everything alright?”

Cami didn’t answer. She slipped off her shoes mechanically, eyes not meeting his, then moved straight toward the kitchen without a word.

Joaquín stood, setting the wrench down carefully before following her. He called after her, “Cami? What’s going on?”

She was standing by the sink, both hands braced on the counter like she was trying to keep the whole world from tilting.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” she said finally, voice low. “I knew better. I knew better.”

“Your mom?”

Cami gave a humorless laugh and muttered, “She’s still her. No matter how much I wish she wasn’t.”

She turned, eyes glassy now, and Joaquín immediately reached for her. Her arms folded tightly across her chest. She leaned into him without hesitation, burying her face in his chest as the first tear slipped loose.

“She said I looked bloated. Said you probably weren’t sticking around long, that no man wants to ‘deal with a woman like me for long anyway.’ Said the baby was probably an accident. That I’ll ‘hopefully be a better mother than I was a daughter.’”

Without a word, Joaquín wrapped both arms around her, pulling her into his chest. His hands pressed flat against her back like he could hold her together by force. Like if he anchored her hard enough, maybe the words wouldn’t sink in so deep. Maybe they’d just slide off his skin instead of carving their way under hers. She trembled against him, shoulders barely shaking but enough for him to feel. Enough for him to know she was unraveling in silence, the way she always did when it got too much.

“I’ve got you, mi amor,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “She doesn’t get to hurt you like this anymore.”

Cami didn’t answer right away, just let out a breath that sounded too much like surrender. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, hiding from the world in the only place that had ever felt safe. And Joaquín held her tighter, as if he could absorb the years of pain she carried. As if he could replace all the damage with the love he had for her—fierce, stubborn, and unconditional.

He didn’t know how to undo what had been done, but he knew how to stay and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I thought maybe the baby would change something,” she whispered, finally breaking the silence. “Maybe she’d finally see me as enough.”

“Camila, she doesn’t get to define you. Not anymore. She never did.”

“I know that,” she whispered, “but I still feel it.”

Joaquín gently tilted Cami’s chin up with one hand, his thumb swiping beneath her eyes.

“She doesn’t get to hurt you like this anymore,” he said quietly. “You’re not a child trying to earn her love. You’re a grown woman building a beautiful life. You’re growing our son, Cami. You’re the bravest person I know.”

She looked down at her belly, then back up at him. “It still feels like I’m failing. Like I must have done something wrong if she hates me this much.”

“No, baby, she hates that you survived without her. That you got out. That you didn’t shrink yourself to stay small enough for her comfort. And I hate that she’s made you feel like being you isn’t enough.” Joaquín kissed her and pressed his forehead to hers. “Because I’ve known you almost my whole life. And I swear to God, you’re everything.”

Cami swallowed hard and leaned further into him, seeking the kind of comfort only he ever seemed able to give. Her arms wound tightly around his torso, clutching him with a desperation that made his ribs ache—but Joaquín didn’t flinch. He just held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other threaded gently through her curls, slow and steady.

Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his hoodie, brushing over the familiar fabric of his compression tank. She traced slow, looping patterns across his back—an old habit, instinctive and grounding. It was something she’d done for years without thinking, a quiet language between them. A way of anchoring herself when everything else felt like it was spiraling. A way of saying thank you without needing the words.

Joaquín didn’t speak anymore. He just let her draw whatever she needed from him, his steady warmth a silent vow: he was here. He wasn’t going anywhere. Her lip trembled again, but this time she didn’t cry. Cami just nodded slowly, like she was finally allowing herself to believe him.

“I’m done trying,” she whispered. “For real this time.”

“You don’t have to go back,” he said. “You don’t have to ever make space for someone who uses your vulnerability as a weapon.”

Her lungs filled with air like she was bracing for a storm, and she let it out in one long, trembling sigh.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because you’ve got a family right here. One that sees you. One that’s gonna show our kid what love looks like—not conditional, not twisted, not cruel. Just real and safe and supportive and honest.”

Cami rested her hand on her belly, where their son kicked lightly in agreement.

“I used to wish she was more like my dad,” she said after a moment. “But now? I think I’m just gonna be him. For our baby. Everything she wasn’t.”

Joaquín smiled, soft and full of pride. “You already are, querida.”

In that quiet, exhausted, love-drenched kitchen, surrounded by half-built cribs and years of hard-won trust, Cami finally let herself feel what her mother never gave her: enough, whole, and loved, exactly as she was.

The following night Joaquín had an important work meeting with Sam that he couldn’t back out of so Cami assured him she’d be fine with her brothers. Cami sat tucked into the corner of Danny’s giant sectional sofa, a heating pad under her lower back and a glass of ginger ale sweating on the coaster in front of her. Eight months pregnant and worn down to the bone, she still managed to be the calmest person in the room, which wasn’t saying much—because her brothers were pissed.

“I need you to say it again,” Danny said, pacing like a caged tiger. “Word for word. I want to make sure I’m furious about the correct things.”

“Danny,” Luis groaned, already rubbing his temples.

“No, no—let her talk—because I swear to God, if she said what I think she said—”

“She said I looked puffy. That Joaquín is gonna leave me once the baby is here. That the baby was probably an accident. And,” Cami took a breath, then exhaled slowly, “that maybe I’ll be a better mother than I was a daughter.”

Silence. A full three seconds of thunderous, choking silence.

Then Isaiah muttered, “The audacity of that woman could power a whole city block.”

“She’s so lucky I got soft in my old age,” Julian said from his seat on the floor. “Back in the day, I would’ve shown up with a boombox, a list of grievances, and a baseball bat.”

“I’ve still got that bat,” Danny growled. “Just say the word.”

Cami rolled her eyes affectionately. “You’re all a mess.”

“We’re a mess?” Elijah finally spoke up from the kitchen bar, where he’d been quietly fixing himself a third plate of empanadas. “Cam, she’s lucky she lives in a no-contact state with common sense laws, because I’d legally lose all chill.”

Luis nodded and asked, “You remember when she tried to ground you senior year for wearing hoops that she bought you? Like she wasn’t the one who gave them to you for your birthday and called them ‘elegant’?”

“I remember,” Cami assured him, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “I wore them to prom anyway.”

“My rebel queen,” Isaiah said, raising his bottle of Jarritos in a toast.

Elijah finally walked over and sat beside her, pulling her in with an arm around her shoulders.

“You know what I wish?” he asked.

“Tell me.”

“I wish she’d said that shit with me there—just once—because I would’ve gone full telenovela. I would’ve flipped a table. Cried. Collapsed dramatically. You know I’ve been waiting to do that in real life.”

Cami’s laughter spilled out before she could stop it, real and light. She collapsed gently against Elijah’s shoulder, shoulders shaking with the kind of joy that felt like a surprise.

“God, I missed that laugh,” Julian leaned his head back dramatically as he laughed with her.

Luis scooted forward on the carpet, suddenly serious as he said, “Cam. Real talk. What do you need from us now? You cutting her off for good?”

“I am—I have to, Luis,” Cami said, confidence rising in her words. “I told Joaquín last night. I haven’t blocked her yet, because I wanted to talk to you all first. I can’t keep trying just to get sucker-punched every time I breathe. This is it—I’m done.”

Danny nodded immediately. “We’ll back it. Whatever you need. No question.”

“You always do,” she said softly.

“Now we just get louder about it,” Isaiah added. “We don’t let her twist this like she always does.”

“She’s gonna try,” Julian warned. “Cry on Facebook, pull the ‘I’m just a concerned mother’ card. You ready for that?”

“Honestly?” Cami shrugged. “I’ve been holding space for her my whole life. Giving her room to become someone better, but last night I finally realized that she doesn’t want to be better. She just wants control.”

Elijah let out a long breath. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” Cami whispered. “I can’t be the best mother I can be if she’s around or has contact with me. And I don’t want her anywhere near my baby—not if she’s just gonna try to make him feel like I always felt.”

“That won’t happen,” Luis assured her, placing his hand on her arm. “You’re already breaking the cycle just by being conscious of it. You’re giving your son everything we didn’t get from her and more.”

“She doesn’t get to see him. Period,” Danny agreed.

“No pictures, no updates, no access,” Julian added. “We’ll block her from every direction if we have to.”

“And if she shows up in person,” Isaiah said, “we handle it. With manners. Maybe.”

“I’m bringing the bat,” Danny muttered again.

“Dios mío, please don’t bring the bat,” Elijah said.

Cami wiped a tear from her cheek as she laughed, “You guys are ridiculous.”

“You’re our sister,” Luis said simply. “The only one we got.”

“Built-in princess since birth,” Isaiah added.

“Don’t call me that,” Cami muttered.

“I called dibs on Favorite Sibling years ago,” Elijah chimed in. “Don’t make me fight the fetus.”

They all laughed again. The kind of laugh that left you looser in the ribs. That reminded you that no matter how many people tried to make you feel small, there were still some who saw you big.

“You don’t have to carry this alone anymore,” Luis said. “You never did. But now? We’re watching. We’re ready. We’re here.”

Cami looked at the six of them—her loud, loving, fiercely protective, and unapologetically inappropriate brothers—and let herself feel it, fully and without hesitation: she wasn’t the forgotten kid on the sidelines anymore, hoping someone would pick her. She’d been chosen. Claimed without condition. And for the first time in a long time, she knew—deep in her bones—that she was safe.

Cami could already smell the food before she knocked. Rich, warm, and laced with love: cumin, garlic, sofrito, chicken roasting in the oven, rice on the stove. She closed her eyes for a second and just breathed it in.

“You okay, cariño?” Joaquín reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I think so,” she whispered. “Just… overwhelmed.”

“You don’t have to be strong here,” he said. “Just be you.”

He opened the door and led her inside. The Torres home was always warm—not just in temperature, but in feeling. Soft salsa music played from a speaker tucked into the kitchen corner. Framed photos lined the hallway walls: Joaquín’s high school graduation, his parents at their wedding, his sister Maribel holding a cat that Cami swore had to be immortal by now.

“¡Mija!” came the instant call from the kitchen.

Joaquín’s mother rounded the corner with a dish towel in one hand and a full, beaming smile on her face. She didn’t wait—just pulled Cami into her arms like she'd been gone a year instead of a week. Cami melted into it. She’d been used to this since she was a kid. Since she first came over for a sleepover in third grade and Mrs. Torres made her a second plate of dinner before Cami could ask. Since Joaquín’s father started calling her “hija” during the summer before high school.

“Look at you,” his mother Esperanza said now, pulling back and pressing her palms to Cami’s cheeks. “You’re glowing.”

Cami let out a soft laugh and said, “That might be sweat. I think the baby’s trying to live in my ribs.”

“Then we feed you and cool you down. Come, sit. I made everything you love.”

His mom wasn’t kidding. The kitchen table was covered in all of Cami’s favorite foods. Arroz con pollo, maduros, black beans, fresh avocado with lime. Coconut flan chilled in the fridge. A pitcher of agua fresca glistened with condensation. And in the middle of it all sat Maribel, Joaquín’s younger sister, grinning like she knew a secret.

“I come bearing gifts,” Maribel said, sliding a canvas tote across the table. “I thrifted these the second I saw them. And yes, I cried at the shark onesie.”

Cami opened the bag slowly, one hand instinctively on her belly as if the baby might want to see too. There were five tiny onesies inside, all folded with care. One had little astronaut helmets. Another read “Made With Love and Sazón.”

“Oh my God,” Cami murmured, tears welling in her eyes. “Maribel, this is adorable.”

“I mean, you are cooking a baby, I thought he should dress accordingly.”

Cami chuckled through the lump in her throat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m amazing,” Maribel said, tossing a plantain chip into her mouth.

They sat to eat a few minutes later, and no one brought up her mom. No one asked her to explain, justify, or walk back anything. They just fed her, talked to her, and treated her like family, because she was. Cami wasn’t used to familial love being quiet. She was used to it being conditional, sharp-edged, something she had to earn. But here—between bites of rice and inside jokes—she started to remember: real love was soft. It was shown, not forced.

After dinner, as Joaquín helped his dad clear the table and Maribel wandered off to raid the fridge again, Esperanza knelt beside Cami’s chair and took her hand gently.

“May I?” she asked, and pressed a palm to Cami’s belly when she nodded. “Ay, Dios mío. He’s strong. I can feel it.”

Cami swallowed the rising emotion and managed to say, “He kicks like he’s training for the World Cup.”

Esperanza smiled, then met her eyes. “You’re doing beautifully, Camila. I don’t know what anyone else has told you, but I know strength when I see it.”

Cami’s throat tightened. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to; she squeezed her hand.

“I told Joaquín once—years ago—that I knew you’d be the one,” Esperanza continued. “Not because of the way he looked at you, though that helped.” She chuckled. “But because of how we felt when you came around. Like we already knew you.”

Cami wiped her eyes. “You’ve always made me feel like I belonged.”

Esperanza squeezed her hand. “Because you do. You may not share our blood, but this family? It’s yours. Has been since you stole my tamales in ‘03.”

Cami laughed through her tears. “They were just sitting there! I didn’t know they were for church!”

“You were hungry. You’ve never had to ask me to feed you. Not then. Not now.” Then, in a voice quieter than before: “And you’ll never have to earn love here. Not from me. Not from any of us.”

That was the part that undid her. The part Cami hadn’t even realized she needed to hear until the words wrapped around her like a quilt. She pressed her hand over Mrs. Torres’s, over her belly, and nodded through the tears.

“Thank you,” Cami whispered. “For seeing me, for loving me like your own.”

“We always have, mija, even when you couldn’t see yourself. We may not share blood, but this family? It’s yours. You’re ours. Always. Y ese bebé? Born into love. Into real love.”

That’s when the tears came. And not the kind her mother had always accused her of faking—not those sharp, defensive tears laced with shame. These were real. She wrapped her arms around Joaquín’s mother and hugged her tightly. When she looked up, Joaquín was watching her from across the room, hands folded over his stomach, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. Like he’d known this was what she needed. Like he’d orchestrated it.

Later, as the sun dipped low and Joaquín walked her to the car, Cami leaned into his shoulder, her hand laced with his.

“You planned that,” she said quietly.

“Maybe a little,” Joaquín grinned, the smile she always loved covered his face.

She looked up at him, eyes still shining. “That’s the safest I’ve felt in months. Maybe longer.”

“You deserve to feel that every day,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “Not just when your mom falls short. But always.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of the man who’d loved her since before she knew what love could look like.

“I’m glad you brought me here tonight,” she murmured.

“I knew you needed a reset,” Joaquín replied softly. “To remember that family doesn’t have to hurt. We’re your people, Camila. All love. All ways. Always.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “It shouldn’t hurt, not ever… And my son is going to know that. He’s going to grow up loved in all the ways I wasn’t. And that’s going to be enough. It’s already enough.”

Joaquín turned her gently and kissed her, long and soft before whispering, “I can’t wait to see you be his mom.”

Cami smiled against his lips. “You’re about to see me be so annoying with him. Matching outfits, little foam swords, custom soccer fits…”

“I’m terrified and delighted.”

She laughed, and it echoed down the street. This time, she wasn’t looking back. She was exactly where she was meant to be.

A few nights later Cami and Joaquín traveled to spend the weekend with her father at his cabin. The porch light buzzed softly above them as the sky shifted from orange to deep blue. Fireflies blinked lazily near the edge of the yard, and the faint scent of cigars from a neighbor floated through the air. Cami sat in one of the old wooden rockers, her bare feet tucked up beneath her, a chamomile tea in one hand. Her belly rounded in her lap like a full moon. Her dad sat beside her, a worn Yankees cap tilted back, watching the stars come in.

He didn’t speak at first. He never rushed these things. He waited until she was ready.

“I told her I was done,” Cami said finally. “For real this time.”

Her father nodded slowly. “I thought you might.”

“She didn’t even fight me, you know? Just rolled her eyes. Like I was being dramatic. Like I owed her something.”

“That woman ain’t ever understood the power of your peace,” he said. “You walking away? That’s the loudest thing you could’ve done.”

Cami leaned her head back. “It still hurts.”

“I know,” he said, his voice as steady as it had always been. “It probably always will. You don’t stop loving someone just because they don’t love you right.”

“I just didn’t think it’d still hit me this hard,” she whispered. “Even now.”

He reached over, took her hand in his calloused one—the same one that used to braid her hair when her mom wouldn’t bother, the one that taught her how to thread a fishing hook and press a crease into an Air Force uniform.

“You’ve always been a soft soul, mija. Even when you were tough. Even when you didn’t cry.”

Cami chuckled, “I cried a lot, Papi.”

“Not where anyone could see,” he said gently. “You were always protecting yourself. Even as a little girl.”

She swallowed hard. “And now I’m having a little boy. And I keep thinking… I don’t want him to grow up thinking love is something he has to earn.”

“He won’t, mija, because he’s got you.”

There was a brief pause.

“And because you learned from the best,” he added with a wink.

Cami let out a laugh through her tears. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But right.”

“Yeah, you are.”

They rocked in silence for a while, the wood creaking under them, the stars blooming above.

“You know,” he said after a while, “when your mom and I split, I knew you’d end up with me eventually, even when the papers said otherwise. I knew your soul needed more than rules and guilt. You needed warmth.”

“You gave it to me,” she whispered.

He smiled, his eyes glassy. “And now you’re giving it to your son. Breaking the chain, Camila. Making something new.”

She turned to him, eyes full. “I want to be just like you, Papi.”

He looked away for a moment, blinking fast, before clearing his throat.

“You already are.”

The night deepened around them, the stars growing brighter and the summer breeze cooling their skin. For a long moment, Cami and her father rocked quietly, the gentle creaking of the chairs the only sound between them. Finally, her dad spoke, his voice soft but sure.

“Whatever comes next, mija, remember this: strength isn’t just about standing tall. It’s about knowing when to lean on the people who love you. And you’ve got plenty of us here.”

Cami nodded, a warmth blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with the evening’s tea.

“I’m ready to build something better,” she said, eyes shining with quiet determination. “For my son, for Joaquín, for myself.”

Her father reached out, gently squeezing her hand one last time.

“That’s my girl. Always moving forward. Always breaking the chains.”

Cami smiled, feeling the weight of the past soften beneath her.

“Gracias, Papi. For everything.”

He tipped his cap, standing slowly. “Anytime, mija. Anytime.”

As he headed back inside, Cami stayed on the porch a moment longer, gazing up at the stars. The future felt vast and full of promise—a new story waiting to be written, one shaped by love, resilience, and the family she chose and was born into. And this time, she knew she was ready.

The room was dim and quiet, except for the soft hum of monitors and the quiet rasp of Joaquín’s voice in her ear.

“You’re doing so good, mi amor,” he whispered, brushing damp curls from her forehead. “Almost there.”

Cami couldn’t answer. Her jaw clenched against the contraction ripping through her, her fingers digging into his. She swore she saw stars. And then it passed. When she opened her eyes, she saw him again—not afraid, not flinching—just there. Like he always had been. Since pre-K and scraped knees and matching Air Force orders. Since childhood, since their first deployment, since they crossed that fragile line into love.

She nodded, heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “I can do this.”

“You already are.”

With a calm smile, the female doctor spoke up: “Nine and a half centimeters. You’re close, Camila.”

Cami’s dad stood near the door, silent but solid like a lighthouse. She could tell he was trying not to cry. He hadn’t said much since they arrived, just offered her his hand when she needed it, rubbed her back when the contractions grew cruel. She caught his eye now and saw it there — that proud, tender expression she’d only ever seen from him. The same one he’d worn the day she graduated basic. The day she moved in full-time at twelve and he quietly rearranged his life to keep her safe.

He nodded at her, voice hoarse when he said, “You got this, baby girl.”

Outside the room, her brothers were a whole different kind of chaos. Six grown men—loud, anxious, ridiculous—packed the waiting room like they were planning a heist. Danny was pacing. Luis had a stress ball. Elijah had music playing in one ear and a baby name bracket open on his phone. Julian, Isaiah, and Mateo took turns cracking jokes that didn’t land and praying in Spanish under their breath.

They all fell silent when the nurse poked her head out and said, “She’s pushing.”

Inside, a screamed ripped through Cami and her brothers all panicked. Cami bore down again, gritting her teeth, crying out. Joaquín whispered through it all. Her hands were slick with sweat, her heart pounding like a war drum. And then—

“Camila,” the nurse said gently, “look.”

The pressure broke, and a sharp gasp left her lungs as her son entered the world.

The baby let out a wail: strong, clear, demanding to be known.

“That’s him,” Joaquín laughed, choking on a sob. “That’s our son!”

Cami’s hands trembled as they placed him on her chest—warm and damp and perfect. His tiny fists curled against her skin, and his cry quieted the moment he felt her.

She stared at him in wonder, tears spilling freely. “Hi, baby. I’m your mom.”

He blinked, yawned, gripped her finger like he already knew she’d protect him with everything she had. Joaquín leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple, then to their son’s forehead.

“You did it, Cami,” he whispered, “You did everything.”

A nurse peeked in and asked softly, “Want your family to come meet him?”

“Yeah,” Cami looked down at the baby, still skin-to-skin against her chest, and nodded, “bring them in please.”

The door creaked open. And for the first time in her life, her people saw her whole—not broken or needing to be fixed—just radiant, real, and reborn. Her dad came in first, tears on his cheeks, and kissed her forehead the same way he had when she was six and scared.

“I’m proud of you, mija,” her father whispered. “You gave that baby the start you never got.”

Danny followed, whispering “holy shit” under his breath, then choked on a sob. Elijah cried openly. Mateo made a joke and immediately got smacked for it. Julian knelt at the side of her bed, awe in his eyes. Luis ran his fingers gently over the baby’s curls and murmured, “He’s got your hair.” The Torres family arrived moments later — Joaquín’s parents glowing with pride, Maribel sniffling and holding up a handmade blanket. His mom sat beside her and held her hand, eyes shining.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” she whispered to the baby. “You were born into love.”

Cami’s eyes welled again. She looked around the room at all of her favorite people. People who had chosen her, who had stayed, who had carried her when she couldn’t carry herself. This child would never have to question whether he was wanted. He would grow up surrounded by every kind of love: blood, bond, and chosen.As she kissed his tiny forehead, Cami finally understood: she had broken the cycle. She had become the mother she’d always needed. She was no longer surviving her story — she was living her legacy.

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torturedtypewritersdept · 6 months ago

Text

blue eyes + bruises - part five

✯ pairing:

doctor!rafe cameron x fem!reader

✯ summary:

a tragic car accident looks like it'll be the end for you, but dr. cameron is here to make sure that doesn't happen.

✯ warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, and fear, car accident, death of a spouse (not rafe or y/n), major surgery, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity back in 2021/2022 and i have rewritten + reshared it here :) the next chapter i spent literally so much time on and i can't wait to share it!!!!

m.list

—

Running. Rafe had always been inherently good at running. It was noticed for the first time in middle school by the track and field coach when he outran a bully. The talent was nurtured and he went on to be a track star in high school and college. It was a good skill for a surgeon to have in the midst of an emergency, the ability to run with dexterity and endurance and speed. At least that’s what Molly had convinced him of so she could ogle at his muscular thighs and chest at every track meet. God, did he miss her. The one thing he never thought he would have to run to is his girl, his wife, his molly, as she was wheeled into the emergency room. The words of the surgeon on her case played over and over in Rafe’s head – no matter where he was or what he was doing – the flashback of that night, of those words in that setting – about his wife – it was all too much, no matter how long she had been gone.

“Rafe, I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”

Dr. Charles Richardson looked his colleague, his friend, in the eye with a somber gaze. It felt to Rafe like the look of someone after they had spent an entire afternoon reading Edgar Allen Poe. The look in Charles’ eye made him angry. It wasn’t because of the circumstances, it was because he knew what the look meant – it meant his wife was gone. It meant Charles was looking at him the way he looks at a patient’s family and Rafe, while he was her family, he knew the speech, he knew the words, he knew this world. He knew it was all bullshit.

“Don’t bullshit me, Charles. If my wife is dead, tell me she’s dead.”

He growled.

“I’m sorry, Rafe.”

“You keep saying you’re sorry – say the fucking words. I need to hear you say the words. Not ‘I did everything I could’, not ‘I'm so sorry.’ You say the fucking words you coward.”

“She’s gone, buddy. She’s gone.”

—

Rafe was jolted out of his thoughts, out of the memory he had been encapsulated in for the last two years as you stirred awake. He sat there watching you, the steady rise and fall of your chest doing little to comfort him, though he knew it meant you were alive. His eyes moved from your sweet face to your leg that he had previously operated on, a black hinged brace lined it where it sat elevated against three pillows in an attempt to keep the swelling minimal. You looked so fragile, yet incredibly ethereal and soft and he couldn’t help but stare. It was impossible not to stare at something, someone that beautiful. To grow up that beautiful — he wondered what that was like as he sat there ogling at you. He pondered if he should let himself go there with you, if he could let himself feel the rush and the high of serotonin and dopamine that he clinically knew would be released if he was to allow himself to love again. Was he selfish for wanting to be happy? Was he chaos on two feet? Was he damnation on earth the way that he had convinced himself he was? What would become of you, if you were to love him? Would you wind up just like her?

He forced his overactive brain to stop spinning once he noticed your eyes were open and he brushed his fingers against your forehead.

“Hey, sweet girl. Welcome back.”

He cooed, his fingers running up and down the bridge of your nose and across your eyebrows in the shape of a “T”.

“Hi.”

You croaked out, throat dry and begging for a source of water. Rafe obliged, rising to his feet as his brain recognized your desperation, hearing the desert within your windpipe and bringing the water up to your lips with a straw.

“Suck slowly, okay?”

He instructed, running his fingers through your hair slowly and you followed his directions.

“How’s the pain?”

He questioned with a softness that you were convinced was less about him being a good doctor and more about him just being who he was – just being a good person.

“Like a five maybe. You’re still here?”

You lied, not wanting to see the life leave his blue eyes when you told him otherwise.

“That’s good. Yeah, I just wanted to sit with you for a while. Is that okay?”

He smiled softly, questioning you.

“Of course it is. Can I go back to sleep? I mean, will you be here when I wake up if I do?”

You questioned, a curiosity looming in your features, unsure why you would’ve stayed up if it meant more time with him.

“Absolutely, sweet girl. I’ll always be here.”

He smiled, sitting next to you, rubbing soothing circles into the top of your head as you drifted off to sleep. You weren’t sure what it was, but you knew that he was telling the truth, that somehow he’d always be around.

—

You looked up at Rafe as he moved around you, fluffing the pillows behind your head, you sat at an incline in the bed again, trying desperately to reach the tv remote that sat on the table beside you. He had been talking – asking you questions about your day, as if you had done anything except lay here, again. But, all you could think about is the fact that your favorite movie was coming on tv in less than thirty minutes and it was a simple pleasure you were going to indulge yourself in. You shut your eyes tight, squeezing them against your eyelashes with the force of a thousand suns. Rafe must’ve noticed the pained expression on your face because before you could even ride out the wave of discomfort, he had the remote in his hands and he was kneeling in front of you, squatting on the balls of his feet.

“Hey, sweet girl, can you look at me?”

He asked kindly and when the torment had subsided enough you blinked your eyes open, his piercing blue ones staring back into yours.

“What is it, from 1-10? and don’t bullshit me this time.”

His voice was soft but stern and you knew he meant business.

“It’s a nine.”

You said, grunting exasperatedly, frustrated and tired and sick – of – this.

“Shit – sweetheart you can’t let it get that bad before you tell me and why are you putting yourself in more pain by reaching for this? You could’ve asked me, I’m right here.”

He blurted out his questions in a brash way, waving the remote control in the air.

“My favorite movie is coming on, I just –, sorry, I’m just –”

A whimper escaped your lips as you stuttered and Rafe moved toward you again, bringing your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting your head up towards him as he took in the tears that lined your eyes. His heart broke at the sight.

“Hey – I know, sweetheart. You don’t have to be sorry, I know you’re frustrated.”

“How do you know how I feel?”

You questioned him with a hint of attitude. In your mind, it didn’t matter how many people he had operated on with your same injuries, he hadn’t lived it and because of that fact, he didn’t understand.

“Let me guess, you’re frustrated, annoyed, tired, sad and really wanting a shower?”

He asked you with a light chuckle, smiling the Rafe Cameron smile as you looked up at him with bewildered eyes.

“How could you possibly know any of that?”

You questioned him, confused. Did he go through this, physically? Did this sweet, sweet man hurt the same way that you had?

“Because I’ve been where you are.”

He stated very matter-of-factly and you were confused.

“You cracked your bones in a million places, too?”

Had he been through this, too?

“No, but I’ve been in a situation that was eerily similar.”

You were silent at his declaration, wondering what situation he was referring to.

“I can’t do much for you about a shower, it’s only been three days since your surgery and with you in this much pain, I don’t want you up and moving. But I can have Jenni give you a sponge bath. Would you be up for that?”

“Yes, please. That would – be amazing.”

He nodded and gave you the Rafe Cameron smile again, leaning in and placing a kiss on your forehead. Jenni and another nurse stepped into the room with everything they needed, setting up a bucket of water, some hypoallergenic soap and a sponge on the rolling table that each hospital room came with. Once they had everything set up, Rafe stepped out, being the gentleman he was, he wanted you to have privacy and he definitely didn’t want the first time he saw you naked to be in a hospital bed.

“He’s quite dreamy, isn’t he?”

A nurse that stood beside Jenni spoke into the air and your breath faltered. Were you that obvious? If this blonde bimbo picked up it – he probably did too. How fucking embarassing. Rafe had left the room only moments ago with a promise to come check on you shortly, but you so desperately wished he would save you from this woman as she stood in front of you preparing to strip you bare and see the most intimate parts of you, though it felt like she already had.

“He’s very nice to me.”

You stated, nodding with a soft smile though your tone was a bit curt. Jenni’s pager went off, signaling another emergency in the hall.

“Shit – I'll be right back.”

She muttered, running out of the room in a hurried fashion. The other nurse, who’s name you couldn’t bring yourself to remember, looked at the door as Jenni exited through the threshold – you were sure your recollection, or lack thereof, had more to do with the meds and less to do with her and the shitty vibe she gave off. She worked diligently, pulling down the hospital gown, noting the stitches that lined your chest as she drug the sponge gently over your soft skin.

“Don’t worry, he’ll get you better and forget you ever existed. He won’t give any of us nurses the time of day. Don’t get your hopes up. Besides – look at you.”

She replied, rolling her eyes as the words left her mouth. ‘What a bitter bitch’, you thought. You bit your tongue for only a moment before deciding to fully send it – there was nothing she could do to you – you were already bedridden, recovering from surgery and would be for the next few months – there was nothing she could do to you.

“You know, maybe Rafe hasn’t given you the time of day because your personality fucking sucks, just a thought.”

You spoke nonchalantly and before she could respond, she laid down the sponge she was using to bathe you with on top of your chest, took off her gloves and dug her long, manicured finger into the incision site Rafe had just stitched up on your hip. Your yelp was so loud Rafe heard it from the hallway, where he stood at the nurse’s station, finishing off your surgical notes. Suddenly, the hammering in his chest overtook him and he rushed into your room to see if you were experiencing post-operative pain or if something else was wrong. What he never expected to see was a nurse, finger deep into a surgical incision and you – your sweet face with tears cascading down it as your eyes pleaded for him.

“What the fuck are you doing to her?!”

He growled, rushing to your side, pushing her to the side and grabbing gauze off the table next to your bed, immediately holding it to your hip to stop the bleeding.

“I know, baby – I know it hurts. I’m sorry, I’m gonna fix it, okay?”

He pulled the gauze away from your hip and Jenni rushed into the room, taking in the sight of your stitches that were fresh and clean and showing signs of healing only minutes ago and were now torn and bloody and frayed like the pages of an old book.

“What the fuck happened, Rafe?”

Jenni all but squealed, rummaging through drawers searching for more gauze and a suture kit.

“F-f-fingers –”

You choked out, crocodile tears rolling down your bright pink cheeks as your fists clenched the sheets beside you.

“Sweet girl, we’re gonna fix it, okay?”

“No, R-rafe!”

“What do you mean, no, sweetheart? Talk to me.”

“Can’t do it anymore, can’t keep getting fixed. I’m not a stuffed animal that you can just keep sewing back up until all the stuffing has fallen out.”

He cooed, brushing the hair away from your forehead.

“I know, baby – I know you’re tired. But, if we don’t fix it you’ll get an infection and you’ll get sick okay? We have to fix it, sweet girl.”

You reluctantly nodded, letting him work, continuing to wail as each stitch was placed into your hip again, the skin irritated and sore and only adding to the discomfort that raked through your entire body. It was almost like Rafe knew when your breaths picked up and the weight of your new reality had fallen on your chest because he started asking questions – questions that you hadn’t answered – questions that no one had bothered to ask you in years.

“So, what did you do before – I mean, I can only assume you don’t frequent hospitals very often? Unless you’re one of those crazy people. Are you one of those crazy people?”

You threw your hand up to your mouth and let out a giggle.

“You’re cute when you ramble, Rafe.”

His lips turned up into a smirk. Your pain filled haze had you simply not caring about flirting with the man in front of you.

“Oh, so you think I’m cute?”

He questioned, eyebrows furrowed, laughing as he checked the fluids that hung behind your bed. Your face was red, realizing what you had previously said to him once his words had reached your ears. You wished the bed you laid in would swallow you whole, scared to look this beautiful man in the eye and face rejection. There’s no way the feeling is reciprocated.

“I mean, yeah. You’re an attractive guy, you’ve gotta know that.”

You stuttered out awkwardly and he simply giggled at the way you were shrinking into yourself, embarrassed at the compliment you had given him.

“Sweetheart, don’t be embarrassed. It’s okay, I’m flattered.”

He smiled – the Rafe Cameron smile – rubbing circles into your hand as you took in the words that left his lips.

He’s flattered. That’s what you say when you’re trying to let someone down easily. He doesn’t reciprocate and how could he? Just look at you.

The assault on your heart at the mercy of your brain was interrupted quickly by Rafe’s voice again.

“So, what did you do before? For work, I mean. You never answered my question.”

“Okay, nosey. I’m – well – I was a high school English teacher.”

You replied, with a sad smile.

“What made you want to teach?”

He asked, interested in everything that involved you.

“My younger sister, Ella has special needs and she wasn’t always treated fairly in the classroom; so I just wanted to make sure no child ever experienced that again.”

“You know what that tells me?”

He asked, a sly smile dancing across his face.

“What?”

You wondered out loud.

“It tells me that you’re sweet and a good person and that you could’ve never deserved for this to happen.”

“Thank you, Rafe –”

He looked at you as tears fell down your face.

“Sweetheart, what can I do?”

You didn’t answer him and your breaths only seem to quicken by the second and before Rafe could even think, he had kicked off his shoes and climbed in the bed with you, wrapping his arms around you tightly, one hand draping across your waist and one around the back of your head, pooling your hair in his hands.

“Shh. It’s okay, baby. I’m so sorry.”

He cooed.

“I-I’m never gonna b-be the same am I? I-I��ll n-never b-be able to teach again.”

You whimpered, crying into his chest.

“Hey, sweet girl, don’t say that. I’m gonna do everything in my power to make sure you teach again, okay? I won’t let anyone take that away from you, ever.”

His voice was soft and tender, afraid the wrong octave might rip you in half and you’d cease to exist right then and there.

“Do you understand? I won’t let that happen.”

This time he spoke with more force and you nodded your head reluctantly, unsure if you really believed him or not.

“Tell me something to make me forget, Rafe – What made you want to become a doctor?”

You questioned and he was uncomfortable, but the pleading look in your eyes made him answer anyway.

“It’s not a story full of glory, sweetheart. How about I tell you a better one, huh? How’s that sound?”

He questioned, his hands working against your scalp like his life depended on it.

“That sounds good.”

You replied, somberly, wondering what kind of hurt this beautiful, sweet human being had experienced to make him so closed off about his own life.

“Well – once upon a time, there was this doctor and he was a real asshole until this pretty girl walked into the hospital he worked at.”

“What did she look like?”

You questioned with curiosity-stricken features. He smiled at you, how he was the only one who got to see you like this. He couldn’t help but feel honored.

“I think she looked a lot like you, sweetheart.”

Your breath is caught in your throat at the fact that those words were coming from him. His hand motions continue against your scalp as you listen to his words, the euphoria that’s felt from the action is something you aren’t sure you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

“I’m glad I found you, Rafe.”

You mutter sleepily, listening to him continue the details of the stranger's beauty, who in his words, looked similar to you, before you promptly fell asleep.

“And I’m glad I found you, angel.”

He whispers, continuing to rub soothing circles into your hair, letting you cuddle deeper into him and for the first time Rafe had felt warmth in someone that wasn’t Molly. He had felt warmth and goodness and it wasn’t from her and it simply scared him half to death.

—

taglist:

as always, if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please shoot me an ask or comment on this post so i can keep track <3

@maybankslover @inthelibrarybtw @luvrcndy @silkylovey @yagirlwrites @obxbabygirl @rafeecameronsbitch @klutzy-kay24 @roseczbalt @akobx @allsmilesreally7 @wtfdudesblog @urdreamgirl12 @hockeybabe87 @sereneera @annaconscience @pogueprincesa @bibissparkles @obxbigsis

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steddieas-shegoes · 2 days ago

Text

as the poets say

for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'poetic justice'

rated t | 826 words | no cw | tags: alternate meetings, bartender eddie, open mic night, poetry, corroded exists without eddie...until now

also on ao3

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

It’s open mic night at the bar and usually that means a lot of drunk karaoke and the occasional duo or small group who actually seem like they know what they’re doing with the provided instruments. Eddie stands behind the bar waiting for his favorite singer, Jeff, to show up.

He comes almost every week, apparently requests off of work for it. He’s been looking for a band to be a part of, but so far no luck. Jeff may be the end of his search if he plays his cards right.

Jeff never has anyone else on stage with him, but one of the regulars mentioned seeing him perform with a drummer and bassist at another bar a while ago. Maybe he does this for fun, but has a real band. Maybe that band needs another guitarist.

He wipes down the counter again. There’s nothing on it. He’s just impatient.

Finally, after a loud and off-key rendition of Livin’ On A Prayer by two women who are officially getting cut off, Jeff takes the stage.

He has no guitar.

Eddie waits to see where this is going.

“Hi everyone. Nice to see you,” Jeff’s a fan favorite, smiling at the small crowd clapping in front of him. “Normally, I’m up here singing. I like to test covers for my band.”

Ah, so the regular was right. He does have a band. Maybe even a good one if he uses this place to test shit out.

“I write a lot of our own songs, but sometimes those songs end up being more poetic. Hope it’s okay that I read one to you tonight before I sing,” Jeff looks nervous now. Eddie’s jaw drops as he leans forward, bracing himself on the bar. “It’s about loving someone who will never see you as more than a friend.”

Eddie listens as he reads, gets lost in the imagery Jeff is painting. His words flow smoothly, much like his voice when he sings. It’s hypnotic almost, the way he goes from lamenting about sunshine and starry nights to rainy days with no umbrella. A lot of cliches, a lot of bittersweet heartbreak.

If anyone other than Jeff were reciting it, Eddie would’ve tuned out by the third line.

But his voice is weaving a tale and no one, especially not Eddie, can look away.

When he’s done, the room erupts into shocking applause. Even Allen at the end of the bar who doesn’t think bars should even have open mic nights gives a half-hearted clap.

Jeff thanks everyone, rushes to the edge of the stage, and swings his guitar over his shoulder.

He starts to sing Queen, his voice borderline too low to pull it off. Eddie likes it.

He pours another round of shots for the group of teachers in the corner who definitely have classes to teach in the morning, but don’t seem to give a shit. If they don’t, he won’t.

Only a few people go after Jeff– it’s hard to follow him– and then Eddie’s closing out tabs and trying to clean as much as he can. There’s a few people who linger, but most of them are awkwardly standing by the door waiting for the bouncer to kick them out.

“Any chance I could grab a shot before I head out?” Eddie looks up to see Jeff standing across the counter, shy smile on his face.

“Hm…I suppose for our best performer I could allow it.” Eddie grabs a shot glass from the rack. “What’s your preference?”

“Whatever’s easiest,” Jeff shrugs as he sits at a stool. “Just no vodka.”

“Tequila it is!” Eddie grabs another shot glass to do one with him. No one does shots alone at his bar. “Really enjoyed your poem tonight, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Jeff takes the shot off the counter, taps it against Eddie’s, and throws it back. “Kinda had to get it off my chest somewhere and I definitely couldn’t have done it around Frankie.”

“Frankie the guy it’s about?” Eddie asks after he downs his own shot.

“He’s the bassist in my band,” Jeff explains without outright answering his question. “Best friend since we joined band in middle school together. Straight as an arrow.”

“Tough luck, man. Been there.”

“Anyway, the band’s currently on a little break while we try to find another guitarist, so I guess I’ve just been in my head too much,” Jeff taps the counter and stands. He reaches in his pocket to pull out a few bucks and leaves them on the counter.

Eddie glances at the cash and back up at Jeff.

“You know, I play guitar.”

Jeff pauses. “You play it well?”

“I think so,” Eddie snorts. “I was in a band in high school. They all went to college, I didn’t get in. Only reason we aren’t on a headlining tour right now.”

“You free tomorrow?” Jeff asks, smirking back at Eddie knowingly.

“I can be.”

#eddie munson #jeff stranger things #corroded coffin #corrodedcoffinfest #stranger things

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fernpetals · 4 months ago

Text

This is the second part of THIS asks

Masterlist

Warning: Psychological torture, violence, gore, disturbing psychology, delusionional behaviour, dollification, allusions and direct mention of murder, description of dead bodies, violence and much more

Yandere David Allen Griffin

Honestly, this started as an analysis but now has turned into a whole one-shot, and finally, I have managed to finish it. Please brace yourself for the torture. Word Count: 6k+

GIF does not belong to me, credit to the rightful owner.

Unedited Piece

Imagine you take Joel's place in a yandere scenario, and it is not only women he murders. Men or women, David does not care as long as he has your attention.

Imagine starting out as a rookie, and your mentor gets this murder case, and inevitably, you assist him in it. The police have nothing on this man. No face, no pattern, not even voice or fingerprints. Nothing. But instead of your mentor, you give him one hell of a chase. You just won't give up on the murdered girl. It's annoying to David initially, but then, he follows your patterns. For a rookie, you have learnt one of the best techniques in the field–instincts. You rely on them, even if they are limited, you stick to them, and you almost have him on his second murder. Two murders in two fucking years and you almost have him.

Something shifts in David while he is being chased by a rookie cop. For once, he does not wish to get rid of a person in uniform. He realises how alive he feels, being chased by you–your attention, your moral view, your naivety regarding the justice system, everything about you. You become his fixation.

So it displeases him when the cases are declared cold. This means, your attention is going to shift, and he cannot have that. So he strikes again. This time, a blow close to your heart, your mentor, your godfather.

And something shifts in you. You have studied the case, you have been closest to him, a grasp away. Despite all the lack of evidence and diverting pieces, you know it is him.

And so the chase begins.

But this time, something is different.

To his utter surprise and frustration, you resign instead and go off the radar.

He cannot watch you, he cannot know where you are. Your apartment sits empty, you do not visit the cafe you used to or meet the people you used to. It's like you were never even there.

David is the type who loves to watch you- you fascinate him endlessly. It is different from the type of observation and purpose that Donaka portrays. David finds that he is not even searching for anything in you. He simply loves watching you. And now he cannot find you.

In his delusional, fucked up head, he believes that you are playing chase now. You want him to pursue you. So that is what you want? He will give it to you. He searches through the city, the alleys—everywhere and anywhere he can think of finding you– and is unsuccessful.

He cannot track you, your car is sold. He cannot see you, he can no longer watch you. David thinks he is patient, and he has been in many ways–he is a cold-blooded murderer after all. He thinks, he plans and then he acts. He is always ten steps ahead of the police.

But now, he gets a little restless, a little impatient, and so he skips the dramatics and dives into the murder. No more dancing, no more secret places. It is just a bloodied body in a shady alley. But he keeps in mind to not get caught, of course. The police also suspect that there are two serial killers in town. That helps because he does not enjoy the chase. Not unless it is you.

David Allen Griffin is obsessed with you to the extent that you become the sole purpose of his acts. So when you do not come out of your burrow even after three murders in six months, he stops. Getting caught and never seeing you again is his worst nightmare. his old tricks clearly aren't working anymore; the best he can do is to be patient and wait. He has many pictures of you, and every time he pays a woman to make his nights less lonely, he demands they wear a wig that is eerily identical to your hair and the clothes you are wearing in all the pictures he has of you. It is like that is the only way he can feel pleasure- deluding himself that it is you, trying not to look at the woman underneath while he thrusts into her

Imagine that after your godfather and mentor's death, you resign and fly off to another state or country, but the anonymous killer never leaves your mind. Everything you do is to reach him now. Your godfather's death haunts you, and while you pursue a degree in criminal psychology, you also visit a therapist regularly. The sleeping pills may make the nightmares stop, but they do not make you capable of overcoming the trauma of discovering your mentor's bloodied body in his apartment. You have come to realise that if you want to win his game, you will have to understand his mind.

Imagine returning five years later with a degree in criminal psychology and some field experience, not to join the police force this time, but a crime analysis and research agency where you can remain low-profile and off the radar.

For most, perhaps, not for David. he sniffs you out within six months of you being back in town, and to him, it is the February sun---warm, inviting and a relief from misery. Five years of waiting, of hoping, of writing love letters to you on your anniversary(the night you chased him, he remembers the date and the time) and leaving them at your still-unoccupied apartment, and he finally sees you.

David is delusional enough to genuinely believe that you have returned to the city for him. This time, though, he does not slip in a letter into your old apartment on your 'anniversary', he waits. He knows that you will return there one day. A month later, you do, and discover his previous letters, and while you are reading them, mentally trying to keep calm, he discreetly slips in the latest. You notice the distinct fragrance of your old perfume first and immediately spring to action, looking around frantically and reaching for your gun out of caution. And when you notice a delicate pink envelope in front of the door, you rush out, slamming the door open and not even bothering to close it.

David feels his blood rushing south when he watches you frantically look around the area. He even wonders if the back of the dark building he is hiding in is a good enough place to loosen his pants. Ultimately, he decides against it, being content in just watching you. He finally has you chasing him after years, and if this is not what he has waited for, then he does not know what he has been even doing.

To your utter disappointment, you fail to catch him once more, but now you have something substantial. You know that this man, this monste,r is somehow fixated on you. You have researched and helped solve such cases, but the difference is, this one is personal, and this is just one of the many aspects. You have not been able to figure him out until now. Now, you have something, a form of communication, albeit one-sided, but it is something and there will be more, you realise, sniffing the latest envelope that reeks of your old perfume. It's creepy enough that it is what you used to use, but what makes it creepier is that it was the perfume you reserved for special occasions.

You have been considering selling that apartment, but now you have decided against it. You keep that place but do go back to living in it. You know that he's clever; you need to be smarter.

David is smart; he somehow knows the inner workings of law enforcement, and he has forensic knowledge, but he is also delusional. When he sees you carrying his letter back to your new apartment he is yet to invade, it is all the confirmation he needs about you. You feel something for him, you have to. Why else would you be carrying those letters back to your place?

He is elated, he is over the moon. But the sheer joy turns into the in his mouth the moment he sees you with another man.

David fumes. He is the type to see you as his purpose but also his possession. Like his favourite toy, he would hate to hurt you. Seeing you all dolled up for another man makes his heart burn.

Do you not know? He burns for you, because of you? Are you tormenting him for giving you a chase?

From a distance, he watches, the burning simmers into a cold rage as he puts on his gloves and waits for that man to drop you home.

You are shocked to find the picture of your date all over the television two days later---murdered in his apartment. The police question you since you are the last person he saw before meeting his demise. Strangled with a piano string that cut into his neck with steady force. The pictures are bloody, and it almost seems like someone has tried to imitate the elusive serial killer but has been crueler. In your gut, though, you just know it's him.

You get the confirmation in the form of a picture of the man, clearly taken before his death. His terrified eyes stare at the camera as blood trickles down his temple. But what makes it worse is that it is wrapped in your old perfume fragrance. You try to curb the anxiety, slowly wrapping your heart with its thorny tendrils. You have been going to regular therapy since your mentor's death. it's getting better, all you have to do is control your breathing, you tell yourself.

The landline ring slices through the otherwise silent apartment. It makes you jump, but you rush to pick it up, albeit with shaky limbs. "Hello?"

The silence from the other end makes you frown. You listen closely, there is breathing. Someone is holding it close but not speaking. The breathing is light at first.

"Hello? Who's it?"

The breathing increases, turns a little louder, and your stomach drops. You go silent as well, waiting.

"Let this be a lesson for what happens when you go behind my back and cheat."

You hear his voice for the first time and freeze. It's deceptively pleasant and deep but with a soothing airiness to it. If you did not know better, you would have thought you could fall asleep to this voice.

But it's him.

The line cuts, but you feel his voice linger. he leaves an impression, an ugly impression and the burning hatred you have felt for him for so long rears its ugly head in the form of a crumbling bout of anxiety. You try to steady yourself, rushing towards your room. Pulling out the bottle of pills, you pop one into your mouth and swallow it with water, and you know that the voice will haunt you for a long time.

David’s attention shifts from just keeping an eye on you to keeping your attention on him again. He finds the research agency you work in and leaves an anonymous tip on one of his older killings for your boss. He knows this will get your attention, and to his utter delight, it does.

Five years ago, you would have jumped into a blind chase, an arrow shot in the dark struck something—so you would have chased it. But not anymore. You understand such games. You know it is him, and you are determined to outplay him. You humour him, following his lead, but in reality, you want to lure him out of his burrow.

Meanwhile, you frequent your new therapist. Since his call, you have visited twice a week instead of thrice a month. The building is a hospital that houses several departments. The psychologists and psychiatrists sit right on the top, with the cardiac department in the middle. Now, you have nothing to do with the cardiac department, yet more than once, you have crossed paths with a man in a white coat.

He passes you a silent smile, and while you are guarded and mostly exhausted, it is hard not to smile back. He has this sweet and welcoming air about him that perfectly pairs with his height and handsome features, a straight, sharp nose, and brown eyes that may seem deep brown at first, but when the light hits them, the honey-brown shines through. They have a warmth in them; he has something comforting about him. Though the analytical part of your brain can sense that he is far from gullible, he holds an overall warm and optimistic aura.

But that is all speculation. You have never truly spoken to him. He smiles at you, and you smile back. The rest of the ride is silent. You have crossed paths only three or four time,s but the familiarity is somewhat comforting.

Imagine one day, he does not get off on his usual floor, instead, he stays. You are surprised but do not comment; your work occupies your mind, and you are too exhausted to socialise anyway. You know his name by no,w though—Julian Mercer. He walks out of the lift with you instead and for a moment, you do feel an urge to at least say ‘hi’. Yet you don’t. Your insomnia is worsening, and you only want to find a way to sleep better. How will you outplay that monster if you can’t even sleep right?

“Is this the first time he has contacted you?”

“No, while I was actively working on murders, he sent me the location of two bodies anonymously.”

“And how do you know that it’s a man?” She asks.

You sigh and look up “He called.” You cannot bring yourself to say it out loud.

The doctor nods her head and scribbles something down on her notepad

“Did it scare you?”

You realise it did more than just ‘scare’ you.

“It rattled me.” You admit, “I have been more anxious, and I have not been able to sleep more than three hours. It’s like ten steps back.”

“Progress (Y/N) is never linear. Healing takes time, and time tests you.”

“ I thought…I did not think it would affect me this way.”

“I think he enjoys your attention, he clearly did not like you going on a date with another man.”

You look up to meet her gaze “Yes, he made it obvious.” You grit out.

“You might have to continue your medication for a while.”

“Figured that out.” You lean against your chair

Although you are continuing with your previous medication, no new has been added, with a regular session with your new therapist, you hope to leave the current ones behind as well. But the current situation seems to make that a tougher goal.

David is the type to stalk you; he has this intense fascination and predatory instinct warring within. He is more or less a psychopath, so what he feels toward you is pure obsession, not ‘love’. A part of him just wants to pounce on you, wrap his hands around your throat and watch the light fade from your eyes. Maybe he can keep all your belongings? Especially everything you used, like your half-empty water bottles, unwashed clothes, make-up—anything.

Yet another part of him, the stronger, bigger part, is fascinated by you—your movements, expression, grit, and breathing. You. Out of all the others on dollification, David truly sees you as an object. His most prized possession is that even though he believes that you and he balance and complete each other, you both need each other. His perception of you is complex and contradictory, and so is his mind.

When he gets his hands on your recorded session with your therapist, he spends hours listening to your voice. And he spends hours listening to all the times you have mentioned him.

“ I thought…I did not think it would affect me this way.”

“I think he enjoys your attention, he clearly did not like you going on a date with another man.”

“Yes, he made it obvious.”

He sighs. Listening to this conversation for the fifteenth time.

“You are upset, aren’t you? But I did it for you, for us. To make it work between us. And I would do everything to make it work. What is a relationship without any turbulence? It will make us stronger.”

He says out loud, throwing his head back.

Imagine him sending an anonymous note to the police about his next target. The place where they shall find the body. It is a riddle so as expected, the police make it public, and it reaches the intended audience– you.

You throw yourself into solving the riddle, figuring out the exact location. You are on a time limit though. You have to reach here before he does, with the body. This time, he calls you on your mobile phone.

“Don’t you feel alive? The chase, the rush. You finally have it all back. I gave you back your purpose.”

“You know nothing of my purpose. You think you do, though.”

You try to pry, get into his mind while you can.

“I know you more than anyone else (Y/N)!”

You breathe in. Small victory: he is getting worked up.

“I do not care about you or your riddles. I have left that all behind.” You lie, the city man in your hold as you try to put the dots together through the riddle.

The silence on the other end has your breathing paused for a moment before he speaks again.

“You have not left anything behind. You visit your apartment, you visit a stupid therapist, and you eat out at the same sad restaurant at a sad table every other day. I know deep down you miss me as well…You simply cannot forget, can you? That old man’s body on the pool of his blood. He choked on it, you have known. I know you took the postmortem report back home.”

Your breathing hitches as your fingers tighten on your flip phone.

“I am sending you another clue. After all, one of us has to work on this relationship.”

You bite your tongue to refrain from saying anything stupid before he hangs up.

You know you should not be doing this. You know that you are giving him exactly what he wants, but you cannot help it. Someone’s life is in danger, and the ex-rookie, idealistic cop in you cannot sleep on it. You can play his cruel games later; right now, you need to save an innocent person.

Of course, you fail to get there on time. Just as you think you have it all figured out, you reach the place, only to discover the body of a man lying dead, eyes open with the ghost of shock and pain lingering. It hasn’t been late, the blood has not even begun to dry up. You search around the place, anguished.

“Come out! I know you are here. Show yourself you coward!” You scream out, but all you get is the distant horns of rushing vehicles and the blowing wind.

David’s heart drums against his chest as he presses further against the pillar. It’s not fear, nothing about you scares him. It’s pure joy. You are only a few feet away; all he wants to do is pounce.

Would you bite him? Hit him?

Oh, he hopes you would be as passionate as him—teeth against teeth, mouth against mouth. Will you thank him at last? He has reignited the fire in you. He has given you a purpose.

—--

Imagine returning to your apartment later that night, exhausted and disappointed, when the landline rings, tearing through the heavy silence. You know who it is before even before picking up the phone.

“Did you miss me?”

“Just by minutes, I suppose.”

You know this is not the answer he was seeking, but you have no energy or patience to lure him, not tonight. You will have to be cold and thorough this time.

“Oh, (Y/N),” he sighs from the other end, “Only if you knew how hard I have worked for you to get here, for us to come this far, reignite the fire. You don’t need those stupid therapy sessions, you need me, like I need you.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? You do not understand, do you?”

“Understand what?” You frown

“Goodnight (Y/N).”

—------

You smile at the man in front of you. The pub is the perfect place for a drinks night—date night. You feel at ease after what feels like ages. Jack has a smile that can brighten the room and the kind, sincere brown eyes you wish to lean into. He makes you laugh and lean closer to him. He is everything a woman would wish for—kind, intelligent, sincere, cheeky, self-assured and gentlemanly. You feel the kind of warmth and security you wish you felt before. It makes you smile from within, beaming, blushing and giggling—back to the sweet days of giddy and carefree temperaments. You are never going to be the same, but it feels better when someone brings back those feelings for once

It goes well with a parting kiss and a promise of a second date.

Imagine fiddling with the lock of your door, a little drunk with a giggle bubbling in your throat before a gloved hand covers your mouth, snatching you away. Your instinct kicks in a moment too late, the sharp prick of a syringe weakens your kick to the shin of the assailant, it earns him a grunt, but your vision is already floating.

—----

You wake up with an ache in your neck and your vision still floating. You blink, trying to focus and help the dull ache behind your eyes. Your body feels heavy and achy, so when you try to roll your shoulders, you realise that your hands are tied behind your back.

Of course.

You groan, realising that you are in a sitting position, a wooden chair. You look around, only to find Jack tied on the floor, still knocked out, the dried blood on the side of his head and it becomes all too easy to guess how he ended up here.

You try to steady your heartbeat and let out a long, quivering exhale. That is when you notice the tape over your mouth.

Fucking great!

You huff, though you cannot bring yourself to be too upset. The bastard is finally going to show himself.

When you received his call, you knew it in your bones that he was targeting your therapist. The poor woman had nothing to do with this, and you would not let her be dragged into the mess. You had to come up with something. And if not your therapist, he might go after the poor doctor. It was unlikely, but you wanted to warn him anyway.

You needed someone to distract him, you had to piss him off, he would make a mistake. That was when you contacted your old colleague and friend–Jack Traven. You and Jack had joined the LAPD together, but after you resigned, he was selected to join the LAPD SWAT. You kept contact with him throughout your years abroad, the only person from your previous workplace you put efforts to maintain a connection with. It was to his credit mostly, Jack kept check on you, regularly contacting you through mails or calls. He was the one who knew that you were actively hunting your godfather’s killer, and he was the one you thought of when you realised that you needed help.

You reached the hospital earlier than your regular schedule with the intention of distracting your therapist and the doctor. You remembered that he was from the cardiology department “Hi, I am looking for Doctor Juian Mercer?”

The receptionist looked confused before shaking her head.

“You mean Doctor Joshua?” She tested.

“Oh no, Doctor Julian Mercer, uh, this is the department of cardiology, if I’m not wrong?”

“Yes, Ma’am, it is. But there is no cardiologist of this name working here.” You frowned, surprised.

“Um, could you check for me once?”

Sighing, she took out a file. “This is where the staff members are at the end and beginning of their shift.”

There was no Julian Mercer after all. Your throat parched as you began to connect the dots.

“Thank you so much.” You smiled at her before walking out.

Everything has gone according to plan. You called Jack, who had a friend help him make a fake profile of an electrical engineer, and you both acted to be on a date. You had deliberately avoided meeting Jack after your return; you did not want him to become a part of this mess, and it paid off. You knew he would know, and Jack is more than capable of handling himself. But the only surprise factor is that he has taken you along with Jack.

Clearly, you and Jack have underestimated him, and you know that he has taken off the gun strapped to your ankle because ropes dig in through your pants now.

You look at Jack with concern. Maybe involving him was a bad idea; he has his life ahead and the possibility of a bright, happy future. You had asked for someone else, someone not related to LAPD at all but willing to get his hands dirty, but Jack insisted that he would do this himself, he is a stubborn, loyal man of morals and looking at his unconscious form, you are afraid that this might be the cause of his demise.

No, no, no, focus!

You chide yourself, trying to keep your rising anxiety in check, shifting your attention to the ropes instead. No, they are knotted clever and tight.

Come out, come out, bastard.

You look around the dimly lit place. The small window shows nothing but darkness, making you grit your teeth. You know he is watching from the shadows; he has to be here somewhere, and the faint drag of metal along concrete confirms that.

Despite your best efforts, your breathing is not free from faint quivers. You almost flinch on hearing a click before a record starts playing, a kind of romantic song one wants to dance to. You look around, trying to locate the device, probably a cassette player.

Instead, he emerges from the shadows—and your theory has been proven correct. ‘Doctor Julian Mercer’ emerges from the shadows, wearing a black leather jacket and the same smile he has been greeting you with for a while. Now, all he seems to lack is a set of sharp, pointed teeth.

“And finally we meet, isn’t it romantic?” He looks around and purses his lips “Ah, maybe somewhere better, with candles, and…” his gaze falls on an unconscious Jack “Without unwanted company.”

He drags a metal rod along the concrete, sauntering towards Jack’s motionless figure. Your heart drums against your ribs as you try the rope while being as discreet as possible. But maybe you have not been quiet enough. He turns to you, the beaming smile returns, and you gulp faintly.

“I had planned a better setting (Y/N), and it was perfect, by the river, for a dinner date. But you—” He looks away and runs his finger through his hair “You just had to ruin everything.”

You feel your heartbeat picking up when he walks towards you instead. He leans in with both hands on the arms of the chair. If you want to lean away, anyone would, but you do not, you cannot afford to miss your only chance. You gulp and gaze into his bottomless orbs. At a glance, they might seem deep brown, but on closer inspection, they seem a shade lighter. From afar, he might seem a gentleman; on closer inspection, you can see the madness flickering in his orbs like a bonfire—controlled yet nurtured.

“Did you miss me?” He asks, tearing the tape off your mouth as you suppress a hiss.

The act tears off a little bit of skin, and a hint of crimson seeps out that he wipes off with his thumb before sucking it off. You breathe in deeply, subduing a shudder.

“I wondered why you went silent.” You whisper out.

It’s not a complete lie, but you refrain from giving him what he wants.

He smiles, sweet on the surface, and it makes it even more unsettling “Because I was waiting for you…Did you read my letters?”

“Yes. Yes, I read your letters, every letter.”

“Yes, I used your sweet perfume, just for you. I sleep with it every day. You know why?”

“Because you hunt at night?”

It makes him chuckle, his breath mixes with yours “Just to feel close to you. Just to smell you, feel you beside me.” He reveals, making your stomach flip, “You vanished,” he clicks his fingers “just like that. But I knew that you would return, could not let go of your old man’s dead face, could you?”

That makes the subdued fire within you rage; you may have managed to keep most of your emotions in check, but this is a sore spot.

“There it is, the fire—I knew I could reignite it, I always knew it, only I can keep it. I felt it that night when you chased me. You were so, so close.”

“Yes, I was so, so close.”

I should have shot you down

David smiles. “You see it, too; you just need to accept it. We give each other purpose and balance each other out. Like yin and yang, one cannot exist in the absence of the other. We need each other. Say it…admit that you need me (Y/N).”

“You know how many serial killers are active in the city right now?”

You feel slightly disoriented due to whatever he injected into your bloodstream. Your neck aches, and it climbs into a dull headache on the side of your head. But it all is worth seeing that sinister grin wiped out of his face.

“Five more. And you know how many serial killers I have profiled and analysed? Over twenty. Even when I was a rookie, I was analysing serial killers; even when I was studying Forensics, I was analysing them.”

“All because of me. I was the reason. I started this fire. I gave you a purpose. Say it!”

You look into his crazed eyes “You are just another paperwork.”

All traces of amusement or mirth evaporate from his eyes before a swift strike almost makes you topple over with the chair, but he holds it steady.

“Fuck.” You curse, your cheeks throbbing along with your head.

“All you do is put everything down the drain while I try to save our relationship.” You force down the pained whimper when he grips your cheeks to jerk your face towards him.

“It’s him, isn’t he? That therapist of yours and he are making you stray from your true purpose. Can’t you see it? We could make this work if that thing did not show up in your life again.”

For the first time in the night, you see his calm demeanour crack, showing a glimpse of his twisted mind.

“You…You should be thanking me. But you have been such a brat.” His fingers dig deeper, earning a pained gasp from you, much to his delight.

“Stop touching her.” Comes a tense voice from behind.

Your eyes turn to Jack, still lying on the ground, now glaring at David.

“Oh, look who’s awake!” David claps his hand with a grin as his attention shifts behind him, allowing you to move your shoulders a bit as you adjust your hands and fish out the thin and small but sharp pocket knife from your back pocket.

“Has nobody taught you that stealing is bad?”

“She’s not a thing, asshole.” Jack’s words earn him a kick on his stomach, and while you wince, you are partly thankful for this distraction, trying to cut through the ropes as fast as you can.

“You know what she just called me? Paperwork.” He grins, holding the back of Jack's neck and yanking him to stand up, only to kick his shin and make him fall back on the concrete

“I will give a nice, slow death.” He mutters, getting hold of his metal rod once more.

“Thank you.”

The rod ceases mid air “What did you say?”

“I said…Thank you.” You repeat louder, glancing at the rusted rod hovering over Jack.

David chuckles, clearly delighted. Dropping the rod on Jack’s shin, his grin stretches at the poor man’s groan before he walks towards you.

“Say it again.” He whispers, leaning to match your gaze

“Thank you.” You repeat, quieter this time.

“Louder.”

“Thank you.” You oblige, praying that Jack is not badly wounded.

“Good, very good… That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He leans closer, and while you try to keep your anxiety in check, the proximity makes you feel uneasy.

“Say that I give you purpose.” You can practically feel his breath over your lips,

“You gave…” You pause as he leans closer, his gaze dropping to your moving lips “You gave me a purpose.”

“Open your mouth.”

What?

“Open your mouth and stick your pretty tongue out.”

Okay, this is far worse than you assumed.

When you do not comply, he smirks.

“That’s why we are perfect for each other.” Without warning, he takes out a gun from his pocket and shoots behind him. The bullet hits the concrete pillar just a few inches away from Jack.

“NO!” You cry out, eyes wide and heart thumping

“Now open your mouth or the bullet hits his leg next.”

Trying to keep your breathing under control, you glare at him as you reluctantly open your mouth.

“Very good.” He drawls, slipping his thumb into your mouth, “Think twice before biting me.” He waves his gun in warning, still pointed towards Jack.

He lets out a sigh, resting his thumb on your tongue, and you wonder if he contemplating ripping your tongue out. But you already know that he might have something much worse in mind.

“You know how many times I imagined this? You showing me gratitude, accepting me, acknowledging this…This is the electric connection between us. This pull that always brings us together.”

You fume, not even having the luxury to grit your teeth.

“Now show me some gratitude and suck.”

Your eyes narrow at that.

He raises an eyebrow, pushing his thumb deeper “Is that how it’s going to be then? Well—Agrh!”

You flinch when hsi head wisp to the side and he pulls his thumb away, stumbling and clutching the back of his head instead.

“I said stop. Touching. Her.” Jack stands over, clutching the rod, eyes raging.

Grasping the opportunity, you spring to action, untangling your hands from the now cut ropes, you bend to free your feet as well while Jack knocks out the gun from David’s hand and lands punch on his gut.

But he has no idea who he is dealing with. David does not stay down for long, kicking Jack on the shin and pins him to the nearest wall by the rod pressing on his neck. “Should have emptied my gun into your head earlier.” David growls, choking Jack with the rod.

You lunge for the gun laying on the ground.

“Get the away from him!”

David turns to you and smirks.

“You cannot kill me (Y/N), you need me, we need each other. We are made for—”

You pull the trigger before he can repeat his delusional claims, watching his head jerk back before he falls to the ground with the rod, motionless while Jack hunches over, coughing.

“Time to sleep, scum.”

You whisper out, years of rage finally beginning to dissipate. You have imagined this moment every night, every day and watching it turned into reality, your hands shake with exhilaration.

“Y–you okay?” Jack’s voice is rough as he looks at you concerned.

“Yeah.” You finally lower the gun “Yeah, I am.”

“I am more than okay.” You admit quietly.

*****

Update: I watched the movie, and it is not so bad. Some scenes were obviously inspired by the movie, and those who have watched it will know. If you haven't, it doesn't make any difference. hope you enjoyed reading!

#yandere david griffin #the watcher 2000 #yandere david griffin x reader #keanuverse #yandere david allen griffin #yandere serial killer x reader

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allenkel · 5 months ago

Text

Parker Luck Chapter 1

Parker Luck- Chapter 1

“Drowning”

By: Allen Kelsey

After saying his goodbyes to Ned and MJ, Peter returned to Dr. Strange, his heart pounding. “I’m ready… I’m ready.” He repeated these words like a mantra, trying to convince himself as much as Dr. Strange. Pain radiated from his wounds, cuts, and scrapes, each sting a reminder of the battle he had just endured. The one on his torso felt like fire, a jagged reminder of a lightning strike.

“Good, but this is going to be risky,” Dr. Strange warned, his voice grave. “The invasion of the multiverse is making this world unstable—magic included. Are you sure about this? If this goes wrong…” He let the words hang, the weight of them settling heavily in the air.

Peter nodded, determination blazing in his eyes. He didn’t want to use this spell. Not for the kid who fought beside him in a war that wasn’t his own. Not for the kid who died in Tony’s arms, only to be brought back just to witness Tony’s sacrifice.

“Is… Is it supposed to be green?” Peter’s voice broke through the tension. Dr. Strange snapped back to reality, eyes darting to the spell. No, it shouldn’t be green. A jolt of panic surged through him.

“Oh shit, Parker—”

Before the warning could fully escape his lips, the spell erupted, a blinding flash of chaos. It hurt, a searing light that consumed everything in its path. Peter braced himself, knowing this moment would change everything.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

His body felt like it was on fire. A violent disassembly and reassembly, like tearing paper to shreds and frantically trying to piece it back together. It echoed the sensation he had when dusted, his spider-sense screaming.

DANGER. PAIN. RUN. GET. AWAY.

The noise was deafening, a relentless hammering in his skull.

Wait, his head? Peter realized he was floating. But not in water; it was thicker, like molasses, suffocating his movements. Panic surged as he felt the burning in his lungs. Lack of oxygen clawed at him. He opened his eyes, only to be blinded by a bright, toxic green that seared his vision. He shut them immediately, the pain sharp and overwhelming.

Still trapped, he thrashed his arms, desperate to find something—anything—that would lead him to air. But nothing greeted him. Thoughts grew fuzzy. His limbs turned to lead. He needed air, and he needed it fast.

With one last desperate push, he opened his eyes again. The same sickly green greeted him, swallowing his hope. Just when despair threatened to drown him, he thought he heard footsteps—two figures approaching. Consciousness slipped away as he felt someone lift him.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dick and Jason were investigating a spike in radioactive energy in the dense forest near the Manor. Barbara had tipped them off over an hour ago, but so far, they had turned up empty.

“I’m starting to think Babs did this just to screw with us,” Jason sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was early morning—around 5 am—and he was already feeling the weight of the day. He had spent the previous night stopping Black Mask from launching another drug ring. The guy was obsessed with that stuff, and Jason had managed to get a solid 7-8 hours of sleep, too.

“I don’t think so. The radiation meter keeps going off randomly—oh shit.” Dick paused, catching Jason's attention. “There’s something to the North. A big something. The radiation meter is going nuts, Jay!”

Jason’s expression shifted from fatigue to excitement. “Fucking finally!” he shouted, pumping his fist in the air. Dick shot him a disapproving glance, but they quickly moved toward the source of the radiation signal.

They stopped abruptly at a small cave opening. “How the hell did Bruce miss a cave that’s basically in his backyard?” It took them a while to find it. The radiation meter was all over the place—indicating signals in every direction and then some. It was starting to drive Jason crazy. Each beep felt like a mini rollercoaster, and he was ready to jump off.

But now, here they were, at the mouth of the cave, adrenaline surging. This could be the breakthrough they needed.

Jason pressed his finger to the comm in his ear, feeling the slight buzz of connection. “We found the place. It’s a small cave. We haven’t gone in yet though.”

He caught the faint sound of a mug being placed down. “Just be careful, Hood,” Oracle said, her voice steady. “Whatever’s in there could be dangerous.”

Jason rolled his eyes, annoyance creeping in. Oracle anticipated his reaction and added, “And Nightwing, make sure Hood doesn’t go in guns blazing first and ask questions later.”

A chuckle escaped Oracle as Jason groaned. “Gotcha,” Dick replied lightly, removing his finger from the comm.

They approached the cave’s narrow entrance, Dick leading with purpose. Jason followed closely, three steps behind. The air felt damp, yet the ground was surprisingly dry. A knot formed in Jason’s stomach.

Dick sensed it too. After they had gone only five feet inside, he gripped one of his escrima sticks, eyes scanning the shadows. Jason tightened his hold on his gun, the weight of it reassuring.

They halted at a bend in the cave. The walls here were bone dry, a stark contrast to the entrance. Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, especially with the spike in radiation the meter had detected here.

Dick signaled that it was safe to move forward. But as they turned the corner, they froze.

In front of them was a Lazarus pit, smaller than the one Jason came out of, but the sickly green hue and the putrid smell of decay were unmistakable. Jason could see himself drowning, struggling for air as burning lungs fought against the deathly embrace.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him back to reality. Dick’s worried expression made him look more like a sad puppy than anything else. “You good there, Jay?”

Jason stared for a moment, his thoughts racing to catch up. He nodded, taking a deep breath, though it felt like inhaling poison. “I’m alright, just... didn’t expect this to be here.” He glanced at the pit again, his stomach churning with unease. Why did it have to be here?

“Alright, if you say so,” Dick replied, still concerned. “But if you feel like losing your shit, just let me know, okay?” He squeezed Jason's shoulder gently, offering a reassurance Jason didn’t realize he needed. It helped, dimming the storm inside him, if only slightly. He nodded, and Dick released him, turning back to the glowing pit.

At least they know now what was causing the radiation spike, but an unsettling feeling lodged itself deeper in his gut. They edged closer, tension in the air thick enough to cut. Dick then turned away to report back to Babs on what they’d found.

Against his better judgment, Jason moved tentatively forward. His heart raced. He peered into the pit, drawn by a morbid curiosity. What was that? He inched closer, eyes widening as he realized what it was.

“Oh shit…” Jason barely got the words out before a thick green fog swallowed his vision. He threw off his helmet, panic driving him as he dove into the pit. Behind him, Dick stood frozen, his mind racing.

Jason’s body sank into the viscous, acid-green liquid. It felt unsettlingly familiar, a sensation that twisted his gut. But there was something else—an instinct, a certainty. Someone was down there. He reached into the depths, fingers brushing against a thin, fragile arm.

A child.

With a surge of urgency, Jason pulled the small figure close, wrapping his arms around the kid as his feet touched the pit’s bottom. He bent down and propelled himself upward, breaking the surface with a desperate gasp.

Air flooded his lungs as he emerged, eyes wide with terror. Dick was there, rushing toward him, his expression a mix of shock and fear. The only sounds were Jason’s ragged breaths and the dry heaves that wracked his body.

Dick grunted, straining to pull them both from the pit’s grasp. The acidic stench clung to them as he dragged Jason and the child back to the cave’s dry ground. Dick’s eyes were wide, filled with horror, but the shock quickly faded into determination. He checked the child’s pulse—nothing. Without hesitation, he started chest compressions, urgency coursing through him.

“Why the hell was there a kid in there?!” Dick shouted, his voice rough, a mix of panic and disbelief. His breaths came in heavy gasps, each one feeling like a weight in his chest.

“How the fuck should I know, Dick?! I had a bad feeling. I got closer to that thing, and then—there was a literal child in it! My first instinct? Grab the kid, ask questions later!” Jason’s voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos around them. He could see Dick's eyes, wide with shock, mirroring his own horror. But right now, they didn’t have time to unravel the why or how. The child lay motionless, not breathing.

“Sorry, shit, sorry! I’m freaking out!” Dick stammered, his hands shaky against the small, fragile body.

“Oh shut it! Just keep doing chest compressions on the kid while I get Oracle to have Agent A set up a bed in the med bay!” Jason barked. Dick just nodded, focusing back on the child before him. The stillness was suffocating. He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. If this kid didn’t start breathing soon, he’d have to push harder, risk breaking fragile ribs or worse.

With every compression, Dick felt the dread building. The kid remained lifeless, and despair clawed at his insides. Just as he braced himself to push with more force, he felt it—a slight cough, a tremor beneath his hands. The child’s body lifted slightly, as if fighting back against the darkness.

Holy shit, he’s alive!

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peter’s eyes snapped open. He gasped, his body convulsing as he coughed violently, expelling the green liquid that had filled his lungs. The fit went on until every bitter drop was out.

Exhaustion washed over him, mingled with a deep gratitude for whoever had saved him. His spider-sense was quiet, a rare moment of peace indicating he was safe, at least for now. Panic faded as he focused on the simple joy of breathing again.

Once he steadied his breath, Peter turned his gaze to the two people beside him. One was close, arm around his shoulder in a half hug, a comforting weight he couldn’t muster the energy to resist. The other man knelt before him, lips moving, but Peter struggled to catch his words.

The first man had lightly tanned skin, a patterned mask obscuring his features. His dark brown hair curled just above his ears, giving him a youthful appearance. Batons hung from his back, ready for action. His suit clung to his frame, adorned with a bright blue bird emblazoned on his chest, wings stretching down to his lower arms. A dark utility belt held an array of gadgets, each one hinting at stories of battles fought and won.

Curiosity sparked within Peter, but he pushed it aside for now. He shifted his focus back to the kneeling man.

He was lean but muscular, his physique defined beneath his clothes. His hair mirrored the first guy's, yet a striking white streak set it apart. His skin, slightly tanned, was paler than bluebirds, and his eyes—an unsettling blend of blue and an unnatural green—prompted Peter to jot down questions for later.

The man wore a brown leather jacket, a red helmet tucked against his side. Patches adorned the jacket, one resembling a fierce red bird. Underneath, a black, skin-tight bodysuit clung to him, though the jacket obscured the symbol on it, leaving Peter guessing.

By his upper thighs, bulky objects caught Peter's eye. One thing he never fully got over was his fear of guns after Ben’s death, but with being Spider-man he had to learn to deal with it. The idea that the man infront of him could possibly have guns on hand made him uneasy. He just hoped he was wrong.

They were both talking to each other, with words slowly starting to become audible but not enough for him to understand what the conversation was about. “He’s not—Well I don’t—But the kid-” Their voices kept cutting out, replaced by muffled ones and the slight sound of static that Peter decided to ignore. Peter’s body ached significantly which was why he decided to just let them man-handle him like a toddler but after a minute his vision finally cleared and his first thought was, ‘Oh- those ARE guns..’ Which definitely didn’t make him feel any better either but he decided to ignore it like he does everything else and figure out what happened properly. Dr. Strange's spell went all ‘God's Heavenly Earth’ on his ass and from the amount of pain he was in before he died.. Died? Oh- yeah he definitely died.. Not an unfamiliar feeling but not pleasant either. But hey! He’s alive again.. Somehow so no need to worry about that whole situation at hand!

Then the world felt like it was spinning as the man scooped him up like a toddler. “Wha—” His throat burned from the earlier coughing fit. Coughing again only startled the blue-bird, who flinched and began rubbing circles on his back. It definitely didn’t make him feel any better at all!

As they moved through the cave tunnel, unease crept in. The damp air and echoing footsteps gave him the hibbe-geebeez. Yet, exhaustion weighed on his eyelids. With each step, the darkness felt inviting. He surrendered, closed his eyes, and fell into a deep sleep, like a light switched off.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I FINISHED THE FIRST CHAPTER!

I hope you all like it! I tried to not drag the paragraphs on too long but there's still some big ones in the chapter! ALSO, This was inspired mainly by Dark Matter on Ao3 by mysterycyclone so check them out!

Storyline notes for anything that confused you all!

Peter's vision was wonky mainly because his healing factor was being wonky and his healing factor in my opinion makes his vision clear but when it doesn't do its thing for a while or if Peter-you know- dies his vision AND asthma kind of reappears until his healing factor knocks it back to being all better but! Peter's asthma attacks still appear every now and then but technically he doesn't need an inhaler when it happens because it's more like his mind is tricked into believing that he can't breathe and such!

IMPORTANT!- If the Next button for you to be able to go to the next chapter ISN'T green then it's not out yet and I didn't just forget to link it!

With all of that out of the way, I NEED ANSWERS!

[Next]

[Master post]

[Chapter 1 Sneak Peek]

[Ao3 Version]

#fanfic #update #peter parker #chapter 1 #Spider-man X DC #Tim drake #Duke thomas #Jason Todd #Dick grayson #Nightwing #batman #RedHood #Spider-Man

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thebigsartorialist · 11 months ago

Text

“You're like Paddington without the bear!”

”Oh, I’d say there’s more than a little bear in here”

Suit: Martin Greenfield

Tie: London York

Braces: Trafalgar

Socks: Southern Scholar

Shoes: Allen Edmonds

77 notes · View notes

kckt88 · 9 months ago

Text

Scorched Hearts II

Summary:

'We loved with a love that was more than love - Edgar Allen Poe'

Aemond and Valaena make time for one another before the petition for Driftmark.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Secret Relationship, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Oral Sex, P in V,

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 4232

A.N - Just and excuse for smut!! ;-)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

Valaena sat on the edge of her bed, the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the chamber as she combed her long, dark hair.

The rhythmic strokes of the comb were soothing, the quiet of the room broken only by the gentle creak of shifting wood behind her.

"You know the maids that can help you with that," came Aemond’s familiar voice, low and teasing.

A smile played on Valaena's lips, but she didn’t turn around. "I know," she replied, her tone light, "-but you know that I prefer to attend to my own hair."

Aemond stepped closer, his hand extended toward her. "Come," he said softly, his violet eye gleaming in the dim light. "We shall take the secret passageways to my chambers."

Valaena set the comb aside and placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his touch as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

With a nod, she rose to her feet, and Aemond led her through the darkened passageways, hidden behind the walls of the Red Keep.

The stone corridors were narrow and dim, the silence between them punctuated only by the soft echo of their footsteps.

They paused at an alcove when two guards passed by, their conversation muffled.

Aemond held her hand tightly, and once the guards moved on, they continued, navigating the shadowy passages until they reached a hidden partition.

Aemond pushed against the wall, and a door swung open, revealing his private chambers.

He gestured for Valaena to enter first, and she stepped inside, the scent of parchment and leather filling her senses.

The room was distinctly his—dark wood, the soft flicker of firelight, and bookshelves filled with ancient tomes lined the walls. A weapons cabinet stood proudly in one corner, gleaming steel on display.

Valaena ran a finger over the smooth surface of a large desk, her gaze drifting to the tapestry above Aemond’s bed—a scene depicting Harrenhal, the ruined castle looming ominously in the woven fabric. A soft laugh escaped her lips.

Aemond, standing behind her, asked, “What’s funny?”

Valaena shook her head, her smile widening. “Nothing-just that this space is so you.” She walked over to a chair, where a discarded cloak was draped.

Lifting it, she pressed the material to her nose, inhaling his scent—the comforting mix of leather, smoke, and something uniquely him. She lowered the cloak, her gaze softening. "Everything in this room is you."

Aemond unbuckled his belt and placed it and the dagger on the desk. His eye never left hers as he moved toward her, taking the cloak from her hand and tossing it onto the back of a chair.

Valaena, a playful glint in her eyes, began backing away, a smile tugging at her lips.

Aemond followed, his movements slow and deliberate, his voice low as he said, "I've imagined this moment, hundreds of times, having you here, in my chambers."

Valaena's back met the cool stone wall behind her, and she looked up at him, her breath quickening. "And what did you imagine you would do with me in your chambers?"

Aemond came to a stop just in front of her, his tall frame blocking out the light behind him as he braced his hands on the wall, caging her in.

His lips curved into a sly smile as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin. "Would you like me to show you?" he murmured.

Valaena bit her lip, her heart pounding in her chest as she nodded.

Aemond didn’t hesitate. His lips found hers in a fierce, hungry kiss, his hands sliding down from the wall to her waist. Valaena melted into him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as the kiss deepened.

With a soft growl, Aemond moved her away from the wall and began pulling at the ties of her nightgown.

“Don’t rip it-” urged Valaena as she took a step back and pulled open the cotton material and let it fall to the floor.

Aemond smirked as he gazed her naked body before he eagerly pulled off his own clothes, leaving them both bare.

Aemond circled Valaena slowly, his steps measured and deliberate, his eye tracing every curve of her body like a predator hungrily stalking its prey.

There was an intensity in the way he moved, his gaze devouring her from every angle as if he were committing every inch of her to memory.

With a commanding presence, he stepped back from Valaena, his voice low and authoritative as he spoke.

"Kneel" he ordered, his words cutting through the thick air of the room.

Without hesitation, Valaena obeyed. She sank gracefully to her knees, her eyes never leaving Aemond's as she positioned herself in front of him, her posture submissive yet confident, entirely at his mercy.

Slowly, Aemond reached down and caressed Valaena’s cheek, his touch gentle and reverent despite the raw desire simmering beneath the surface.

His thumb brushed over her soft skin, tracing the line of her jaw before he brought it to her plump lower lip, pressing against it with a possessive tenderness.

“Open your mouth,” he murmured, his tone commanding yet intimate, a whisper meant only for her.

Valaena, always eager to please him, parted her lips without hesitation, her breath warm against his thumb as she obeyed his command.

Aemond smirked and then spat into her mouth.

“Swallow” he ordered.

Valaena closed her mouth and smiled as she swallowed.

“Sȳz riña” muttered Aemond (Good girl).

“Ivestragī nyke kostilus ao ñuha zaldrīzes” whispered Valaena (Let me please you my dragon).

“Skorkydoso?” asked Aemond curiously (How?)

Valaena smiled and rose higher on her knees she placed her hands on Aemond, slowly moving them up his lean body, her fingers tracing the contours of his muscles with delicate but purposeful intent.

She felt the tremble in his body as her nails scraped lightly across his skin, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound primal, raw with desire.

Her touch held him captive, and as her hands continued their slow, torturous path, she whispered to him, her voice soft but commanding.

“Take off your eyepatch, I wish to gaze upon your beauty in its entirety”

Aemond hesitated for only a moment, his lips parting in a quiet whimper, the sound so rare for him, so vulnerable.

She knew what her words, her praise, did to him—how they disarmed him in ways no one else could.

His heart raced in his chest, and the possessiveness in him faltered for just a second, replaced by something deeper, more intimate.

Without a word, Aemond reached up and pulled the eyepatch from his face, the black leather slipping from his fingers to fall carelessly to the floor.

He stood before her, exposed in a way few had ever seen him, the sapphire a mark of his strength, his pain, and his triumph.

Valaena gazed up at him, a soft smile curving her lips as her eyes traced over his face.

The sapphire, so stark and striking, only added to the beauty that was uniquely his.

“Ñuha gevie zaldrīzes” whispered Valaena, her voice laced with adoration (My beautiful dragon).

Aemond’s breath hitched at her words, his body responding to the warmth of her gaze and the tenderness in her voice. She saw all of him—the scars, the vulnerabilities—and still, she called him beautiful.

It was a power she wielded over him that no one else could ever claim.

Valaena leaned forward and pressed a series of tender kisses to his bare stomach, her lips brushing against his pale skin.

Aemond closed his eye and let out a low groan as he felt her teeth grazing against him.

Each kiss sent a ripple of pleasure through Aemond, his body responding to her affection with a barely contained hunger.

Aemond’s hand instinctively moved to her hair, his fingers weaving through the dark strands as he tilted his head back, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths.

His voice, deep and rough with need, cut through the silence like a blade.

“Kostilus” he rasped, his voice a low growl, urging her on (Please).

As Valaena continued her trail of kisses, Aemond’s grip on her hair tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His eye was half-lidded, his focus entirely on the woman kneeling before him.

She grinned as she looked up at Aemond before taking one of his stones into her mouth, her tongue teasing the soft delicate flesh.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does ñuha dārys like that?” asked Valaena (My King).

“Oh. Gods. Yes” whimpered Aemond.

“What was that?” asked Valaena as she moved to the other and caressed it with her tongue.

“Kostilus ñuha jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon ñuha zaldrīzes” replied Valaena (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down Valaena, his mouth hanging open as her warm, wet mouth wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Valaena” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through her hair.

Valaena ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him. Her hand moving over the hard length of him.

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl-” moaned Aemond as Valaena took his cock in her mouth.

Valaena slid her other hand around Aemond’s body and grasped the flesh of his arse, digging her nails into his skin.

“That’s it-FUCK-yes-don’t stop” groaned Aemond, his hips thrusting faster.

Valaena responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of his cock as she could, her head moving back and forth.

“Shit-Valaena I’m going to spill. Oh, fuck, I’m going to-” shouted Aemond his head tipped back as he exploded.

Valaena took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean. When Aemond recovered, he saw her self-satisfied smile.

Aemond as he watched his softened cock slip from Valaena’s mouth and leave a trail of seed dribbling down her chin.

“Such a messy Prince-” muttered Valaena as she put a finger to her chin and wiped away the seed only to put the finger into her mouth.

“Fuck” muttered Aemond, his cock twitching.

“What is it you desire now my love?” asked Valaena.

Aemond offered her his hand and pulled her from the floor, he shuddered when the warmth of her body pressed against his, her hand released his and trailed up his arm, her nails scraping against his skin.

“I want-” whispered Aemond as Valaena coiled her fingers in his long hair and gently tugged at the silver strands.

“-What do you want?”

“I want you to ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond

“Are you sure” asked Valaena.

“Sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond as he moved away from her and laid on the bed.

Valaena climbed onto the bed and hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cunny-" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Valaena’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Valaena her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it ñuha dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Valaena.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Valaena.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Valaena, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Valaena "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Valaena; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond as he pulled Valaena closer.

“N-No A-Aemond you’ll suffocate” exclaimed Valaena.

“When I said sit on my fucking face, I didn’t mean hover. I want your entire cunt on my face. Now do as you are told-” ordered Aemond as he wrapped his hands around her thighs and pulled her further onto his face, his nose rubbing on her pearl.

Valaena was now giving off a slew of whispered swear words, moans, and pleas as she moved her hips.

“Yes-yes, don’t stop” moaned Valaena.

Aemond then rolled her onto the bed, her back colliding with the soft mattress with a dull thud.

“Ohhh Aemond” whined Valaena at the sudden movement.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby,” moaned Aemond, his face pressed between her shaking thighs, his fingers curling inside her.

Finally, he felt Valaena’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Valaena’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

“Hmm” muttered Aemond as he pressed a series of kisses to her inner thighs, his teeth nipping at her skin.

“P-Please A-Aemond. Need you” begged Valaena.

Aemond rose to his knees, his chin shining with her slick, he smirked as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth savouring her delicious taste.

Aemond moved up Valaena’s body pausing to grasp hold of her left breast as he ran his tongue over the rosy nipple, his teeth grazing the stiffened peak.

“Oh-yes“ gasped Valaena, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention.

“Issa jorrāelagon-Issa glaeson-ñuhon” growled Aemond as he seized his wife’s lips in a ferocious kiss, his hard cock throbbing against her thigh (My love-my life-mine).

Aemond wrapped a hand around his cock and slowly ran it over Valaena’s wet entrance, she began squirming impatiently against him as he continued to tease her.

“P-Please, I want you” exclaimed Valaena desperately.

“Hmm” rasped Aemond as he slid inside her with a singular thrust. His hips coming to a stop against hers.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of her squeezing his cock.

"Faster, Aemond" begged Valaena.

"Patience, ñuha dōna" chided Aemond as he ran his nose up her neck (My sweet).

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Valaena.

Her hands ran over his arms, over his shoulders. Her fingernails raking down his back.

“Mark me harder-“ growled Aemond.

Valaena dug her nails into his skin and clawed at his back deep enough to draw blood.

The fire between them was unmistakable, an unrestrained passion that filled the room with heat and tension so thick it was almost suffocating.

“Gods-" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly, revelling in the pain.

"Fuck me, Aemond. Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me”.

Aemond groaned loudly, knew exactly what Valaena was doing, but he couldn’t help himself. She wanted faster, he was going much faster now.

His pace had increased with every filthy word that dropped from her luscious lips. Now he was quickly thrusting in and out, shaking the bed, the headboard banging loudly against the stone wall.

Aemond lifted Valaena’s legs onto his shoulders, and wrapped his arms around her thighs, squeezing them together as he thrust his cock into her soaking wet cunny.

“Aemond! I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Valaena.

“That’s it baby-come for me” exclaimed Aemond as he felt her clenching on his cock.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen, but he didn’t want to spill his seed. Not yet.

Not even waiting for her orgasm to fully subside, Aemond moved Valaena’s legs off his shoulders and quickly manoeuvred her onto all fours, she whimpered as his cock slipped out, but he bent forward to press a series of kisses to her glorious arse, his large hands kneading the soft pale flesh, before he sunk his teeth into her.

“AEMOND” squealed Valaena.

“Hmmm”

“P-Please Aemond” whispered Valaena, her voice slightly muffled as she pressed her face into the mattress.

Aemond stuck his finger in his mouth before he ran it over her puckered hole.

“Is this alight?” breathed Aemond.

“Y-Yes. Put it inside me. I can take it” whimpered Valaena.

“Tell me-Tell me if it’s too much” replied Aemond as he slowly pressed his finger inside her.

“Ooh Aemond, yes. Please. More” babbled Valaena as he moved his finger in and out before adding a second.

“Your doing so well-my darling” moaned Aemond as he moved his fingers inside her, his other hand slowly stroking his cock.

“I want you-please Aemond”

Aemond moved into position and sheathed himself inside Valaena once again, his eye rolling into the back of his head.

“FUCK-” groaned Aemond,

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Valaena, his fingers in her arse and his cock deep in her cunt was so good.

Aemond began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts, his fingers moving in rhythm with his cock.

“Harder-more-please ñuha raqiarzy” wailed Valaena (My beloved).

“Issa vaogenka hāedar” growled Aemond, his fingers moving faster (My dirty girl).

“Aemond-”

“That’s it-take it-take all of me” muttered Aemond as he removed his fingers, and grabbed hold of Valaena’s hips and increased the pace of his thrusts.

Valaena took one of Aemonds hands that was on her hip and brought it to the back of her head.

Knowing what she wanted, Aemond placed his hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the mattress, her back arching.

His cock reaching deep inside her as he moved with such ferocity it could rival an animal, his long silver hair unbound and sticking to his sweaty back.

Aemond then grasped both of Valaena’s arms and held them behind her back as he pounded into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoed around the room.

Valaena’s cries of pleasure were muffled by the mattress, her face buried in the soft fabric.

Her body arched in response to Aemond’s relentless rhythm, each cry escaping her lips in a series of desperate moans that reverberated through the room.

Aemond’s grip on Valaena was fierce, his movements relentless. He drove into her with a force that seemed almost brutal, but Valaena took every thrust with an almost frantic eagerness.

Her body trembled under him, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she surrendered completely to the intensity of their coupling.

“Fuck-that’s it-that’s it-” moaned Aemond.

He released Valaena’s arms and then took hold of her long hair, twisting his fingers into the tousled strands before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

Aemond held her tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

One hand grasped her hip, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. Whilst his other released her hair and moved to her throat, squeezing gently.

“Give it to me please” pleaded Valaena her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder, her arm reaching behind her to tangle in his hair as their lips connected in a messy, passionate kiss.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen again, as he thrust his cock inside Valaena.

“I want you to come on my cock again, but not like this-” muttered Aemond as he once again withdrew from her wet heat and laid across the bed.

“-Aemond” exclaimed Valaena breathlessly.

“Ride me-” replied Aemond as he pulled her on top of him. His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

“Yes-” gasped Valaena as she rolled her hips against Aemonds.

“That’s it, take it. Take all of me”.

Aemond placed his hands on her hips and marvelled at Valaena as she rode him.

Valaena dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his, his cock hitting the sweet spot inside her perfectly.

“A-Aemond” moaned Valaena as he suddenly sat up, moving his hand to her breast again and taking her nipple into his mouth, his teeth biting down on the rosy bud.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention.

“AEMOND” screamed Valaena her vision going white as she came around his cock.

He pulled her closer and then rolled her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her with a series of deep penetrating thrusts, her legs wrapped around his waist, trapping his body against hers as he chased his own end.

Aemond’s grip on Valaena tightened as he neared his own climax, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more forceful.

The noises he made were almost otherworldly, a mix of loud guttural growls and breathless moans.

“I love you-I love you-I love you” groaned Aemond as he exploded.

Aemond’s body tensed against Valaena’s, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he rode out his orgasm. Then, as his pleasure subsided, he collapsed onto her, his chest heaving as he relaxed against her.

Valaena’s body shifted slightly beneath him, her own breath coming in soft, satisfied sighs as she remained still, embracing the weight of him.

She looked up at Aemond with a tender, loving gaze, her hands caressing his back as he rested against her, his breathing gradually slowing.

As Aemond and Valaena lay intertwined in the dim light of his chambers, listening to the wind and rain raging outside.

Aemond’s arm rested protectively around her, his head nestled against her shoulder. The crackling fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows over their bare skin.

Aemond tilted his head, his sapphire eye gleaming softly as he looked at her. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Valaena smiled, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm. "Do you remember that time I fell and scraped my knee in the gardens?"

Aemond chuckled softly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Yes," he said, the memory vivid. "You wouldn't let anyone assist you. I seem to recall you tried to bite a septa who dared take hold of you and force you to your feet." His smile widened as he added, "Hmm, what was it she called you? Ah, yes. A vicious little beast."

Valaena smiled sadly. "She deserved it, the crusty old bag."

Aemond turned, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. "I do remember you had a particular dislike for that septa," he said, his tone more serious now. "But why? You never really told me."

Valaena’s gaze dropped to the sheets, her fingers idly playing with the fabric. After a moment, she sighed. "She wasn't very kind to me. In public, she acted as though she respected me—bowing and addressing me as Princess. But in private-" Her voice trailed off.

Aemond’s brow furrowed in concern. "-What do you mean?" he asked, his tone soft yet insistent.

Valaena hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly. "She used to tell me that my kind shouldn’t exist. That we were creatures born of sin and depravity." She swallowed hard, her voice wavering with the weight of old memories. "-She would whip me with a cane if I answered questions about the Faith of the Seven incorrectly. She never let me forget that my egg didn't hatch. Told me that I wasn’t a true Targaryen because of it-"

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his hold on her instinctively growing firmer as if he could shield her from those old wounds.

He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "I had no idea you went through that."

Valaena smiled weakly, her hand slipping to rest on his chest. "It was a long time ago," she said softly. "But it hurt-to hear those words"

Aemond understood all too well what it meant to be a Targaryen without a dragon. He remembered the sting of feeling less than what others expected, the whispers and the doubts.

It was, in fact, what had drawn them together as children—the shared pain of being dragon less while the others revelled in their bonds.

Back then, the others had their dragons. And they had each other.

Aemond’s voice was a soothing murmur in the quiet. "Well, look at you now," he said, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her skin. "The rider of Silverwing, the dragon who once belonged to Good Queen Alysanne."

Valaena smiled at that, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Yes," she said, her voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. "Luckily, the septa has since passed on. Otherwise, not only would I spit in her smug ugly mug- I’d have Silverwing burn her alive."

Aemond chuckled, the sound low and affectionate as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. "Hmm," he hummed against her skin, his lips brushing her collarbone. "My vicious little dragoness has her claws."

Valaena laughed softly, running her fingers through his silver hair. "You love it," she teased.

Aemond looked up at her, his eye gleaming with a quiet intensity. "I do," he admitted, his voice tender. "Very much." He snuggled closer to her, his face pressed gently against her breasts, his breaths slowing as he began to drift into sleep, content and safe in her arms, unaware of Valaena gently moving his hand to rest upon her stomach.

TBC

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